meeting martha

Meeting Martha Beck was an accident - a glorious freaking accident to which give my sister all the credit.

Two years ago in April 2013 I had the incredible privilege to attend a Wayfinder's Workshop in San Luis Obispo, California that was to be formatted on Martha's book entitled "Finding You Way In A Wild New World". It was the first book I had ever read cover to cover - back to back; The first time my eyes gobbled as if at a Renaissance feast of turkey drumsticks and massive steins of mead, the second time through (dashing Kola's hopes for some frisbee time), way more discerningly,  my inner geek may or may not have adorned the entire book with color coded post-it notes.

expensive & non-refundable

So, it made sense that I suggest this workshop to my sister as a trip we might want to consider to which she agreed with surprising swiftness. I didn't say, "Reallllly?" or "WOW" or "Are you SURE?". To offer even a whiff of doubt would have tipped the scales towards sanity and practical and logic and boring and safe. 

In the process, what I have learned about expensive AND non-refundable workshops is that they have a decisively acute ability to:

1. Sift the wheat from the chaff. 

2. Expedite brief, sharp yet temporary twinges of buyers remorse mainly occurring at 2 a.m.while staring at the shadows on the popcorn ceiling.

3. Make one muster the courage to go it alone after sister calls back to say, "What? It's $umpty ump PER PERSON? 

And...you know what? That was a great thing mostly because if we had gone together the insular quality that is borne in traveling with a friend prevents the courage that must be summoned to step into the great unknown. 

That and I know they would have all liked her better. 

asking for signs

The day after I booked my space, even though it was a non-refundable workshop, I was still desperately looking for clues to determine if I was the wheat. Certainly, there must have been sooommme way that I could have found a replacement? So what else to do than ask the Universe for a sign. 

"Throw me a bone. " I issued. "Should I go?"

I trundled off on my early February morning walking of the dog. A grey and bleak Wednesday morning that leaves nothing up for surprises as the landscape falls flat around every corner. Not more than half way down the hill, only 5 minutes into my walk, there on the side of the road was the jaw bone of a deer. "Oh, that's too easy. Gimme something better Universe!", I brazenly requested.  

As we continued on our way to the bottom of the hill Peder, the domestic refuse god, roared around the bend in his massive white chariot and came to a an abrupt halt before us. He leaned out his window and with his long grey hair pulled neatly back into a pony tail and his pearly white, omniscient smile - just like that - he handed me - or more precisely, handed me to hand to Kola, a shimmering, gravy glazed dog bone - which effectively rendered me as wheat. "I'm going." I whispered to myself and immediately began to giggle and fret.

my bad-ass self

In my former life before children, I used to wear a knife and marlin spike on my belt. I look back on my days as a cook and first mate on board the schooners off the coast of Maine and reminisce about the bad-ass self, lost now in the needs that are conjured within the confines of four walls and a roof.  I used to sculpt in limestone quarries in the South of France and make a point of enrolling abroad for junior year in schools where I'd be a solo agent. I'd travel with a backpack across Europe and sleep in train stations in Budapest. I worked at the Wren Cafe in London, as an Au Pair in Germany and sailed from Maine to South America in open ocean and back. 

Barefoot.

But for the past 15 years I have ridden in the passenger seat eclipsed by my husband's stories of death defying heroism flying through turbulence, wind shear and unruly passengers. Acquaintances sit captivated even at the experiences of  him waiting for late shuttle buses back to the employee parking lot. 

Why doesn't anyone want to hear about the story of how I finally got that stubborn stain out with Oxy-Clean? Or the time I had to MacGuyver school lunches from Mother Hubbard's cupboard with a Swiss Army Knife and a piece of string?

I'll tell you why not. 

Because laundry and school lunches can tame anyone into a corpse.

coming back to life

When one finds themselves nearly dead, I recommend traveling solo to anywhere that offers in-flight snacks. Hence, my strategy to travel to California involved a great deal of holding my breath and peaking periodically through my fingers. 

Not prone to stuttering prior to this adventure, there I stood as any corpse attempting to come back to life would do, trying to speak it messy fits and spurts as though at some point I may have survived blunt trauma to the head. The Delta host stood there motionless as his eyes widened, baffled with amazement and concern. Clarence took one look at my olive green with black monogram L.L. Bean  bag, large enough to carry two, child-sized stow-away's and pointed me towards the line two feet to my left. 

Once airborne I was forced to interact again with a flight attendant who had a similar response as that of Clarence. But to my defense, because corpses don't have great facial muscle control meant that my drink request sounded more like the grunt from a cave dwelling soccer mom. She looked at me and I looked at her and from her tray of assorted snacks she pointed two inches to her right, I nodded and she handed me the peanuts. 

I'm certain that the whole travel aspect may have been part of Martha's diabolical plot to destabilize all the participants.  So, even if I had in fact been selected by the accident-gods as an initiate wheat, the chances that I may die of hyperventilation before I actually arrived were likely. Honestly, this type of  Hero's Journey should have it's own Facebook and Instagram account.

wtf?

Fast forward past car rental and three hours on the I-5 from San Fran to SLO and I skittered into my hotel room to bust a move towards the remedy I knew as the only portable tonic and full facet repair kit. I dug out my yoga mat for a fix of Mindful Movement and all was (nearly) well with the world. 

Afterwards, the out-loud conversation I had with myself went something like this, "WTF Julie? You had better get your shit together or you are going to miss out on the immensity of this expensive and non-refundable workshop!"  

And then the most surprising thing happened. A whisper of a question materialized that sounded gentle and concise. "Why are you here?" And my response was equally clear as though I had been put under a hypnotic trance, "I'm here to learn how to channel my energy in order to silently communicate with horses and therefore improve my non-verbal communication skills with people." It quickly dawned on me that unless I harnessed this energy I might very likely trample everyone right out of the gate. 

The next question that came across with the same clarity was, "If you were a horse, how would you like to be approached?", and this was my very own imaginary bridle and tether with which I was able to regain my bad-ass composure and join the workshop, confident that I wasn't going to betray myself with an egregious load of of irresponsible energy. 

meeting martha

At 4 p.m. the next day 24 other 2 a.m.ceiling-staring Wheats and I sat mesmerized with the opening sequence of  Martha Beck and her CEO Bridgette Boudreau. Just for the record, Martha was much taller than I had envisioned. She kept a calm, intelligent somewhat aloof demeanor that required her new initiate Wayfinders to join up to the flow of content she began to convey. 

I venture to guess that, similar to myself, prior to the workshop initiation, they had done a little energy grooming themselves. What I noticed was that they were decidedly, almost incongruently, nonchalant - the same way my daughter's soccer coach instructs the offense to swallow the exuberance of making the goal as though they had been there before.  And then I realized, in order to make their energies smaller they were wearing their bridles and tethers too the same way that a comedian restrains her energy in delivering a joke; the ultimate gracious and challenging gesture, to allow her audience get 100% of the benefit.

"Heavy as a stone sweaty armpit, light as a feather..."

Right out of the gate Martha's deft observation skills and finely tuned energy perception was in rapid collation mode. As the workshop progressed she taught while also silently compiling information on each one of us, inadvertently inputting data on my ferociously sweaty pits. 

As it so happened, Martha volunteered me to participate in a demonstration to delineate the power of the mind. There I sat in a folding chair surrounded by three other standing Wayfinders with Martha to my left. Two participants placed two fingers under each of my bent knees, Martha and Koelle under each of my sweaty armpits (unprecedented mortification). She then requested that I direct my mind towards joyous experiences. (Oh. MY. God. Really?) Yet, once fully immersed in this head space, the next thing you know, I was raised high above their heads -  my nose nearly embedded in the acoustic tiles above. 

This was the first indication of how meeting Martha was facilitating the meeting of  myself. 

the big picture

Later the next day at Martha's North Star Ranch, with two days of journaling and building our Wayfinderesque knowledge base, we tried out some of our new "technologies of magic" with the horses. Some with terrific success and some without.

I happened to be without.

After lunch all of us congregated at the big arena to join up with The Big Picture; That of silently communicating with each other, humans and horses alike,  in order to accomplish the task of getting three horses into a central pen. The trained Equus coaches made this look like a piece of cake and so I thought to myself, based on the previous day's success - we got this. 

After a brief explanation Abby, Kerry, Lisa and myself stood up to claim our stand and stepped forth into the arena of crazy ass horses.

I used this action as personal symbolism to claim my power and to step into the unfamiliar with courage and conviction. However, within the first 15 minutes I  inadvertently cornered a black stallion to the point that the whites of he and Clarence's souls met; The only place the horse wanted to go was up and OUT. 

Unaccustomed to the ways of all things horse, I was not fluent in reading their body language. After I backed off and gave him space the black stallion made a couple more laps around the arena. Our multiple failed attempts to coral these horses yielded only increased frustration and ineffectiveness. The harder we tried the harder we failed. The harder we failed and more frustrated we became the more the horses stopped listening and went on their merry, wild way, the black stallion rapturously barreling down in my direction. 

My near-trampling was averted by following my inclination to move out of his way but, judging by the gasps from the gallery, my 50/50 choice to move over to the boards of the arena, was not the the correct one. My decision to have moved so close to the boards in connection with the velocity at which the horse was galloping had brought me closer into harms way than I had understood. Only with ensuing explanation were we all made aware how to learn from this mistake.  Little did I know my life flashed before everyone else's eyes as I just stood there and held my breath. 

We eventually achieved moderate success but my individual performance left a lot to be desired. The four of us joined in the center of the arena and embraced more out of bonding through shared adversity than of celebration. 

And once we exited the arena physically unscathed, two of us were given a talkin' to. The big picture was illuminated by Bridgette and Diane Hunter as they explained that with horses, as with people, it's essential to harness your energy and always maintain a loving connection with your heart. If that connection is lost, everything is lost. Horses and people simply don't maintain the silent link of captivation and cooperation once the heart centered space gets consumed by fear, doubt and frustration. But the real issue remained with my big energy and that of another woman in the ring. Our two flustered and frustrated energies, feeding off one another and the horses, rendered the group's energy ineffective. Because our yang energy was so prevalent, horses in the next field responded,(ego smack down), by running away.  It was a prompt delivery of the foreshadowed, otherworldly conversation in my hotel room the first night in SLO; You must be responsible for your energy Julie or you might trample everyone out of the gate. The black stallion and neighboring horses mimicked my exact words of two days prior.

taming or developing the flame?

Just like Vegemite, yang energy is best in infinitesimally small doses. "A little goes a long way." Bridgette explained. Which is kinda like asking a Tsunami if it might want to consider delivering it's intended volume of water in liter sized bottles - desalinated with a twist of lemon, please. This experience was an amazing illustration to hold myself responsible for maintaining a constant connection to my heart-centered space in conjunction with taming my flame. 

In order to be effective personally and professionally making sure to wear my figurative bridle and harness will be essential.  My yang tendencies have the capacity to create tremendous change if I can harness myself in mind, heart, body, voice and soul. Where as for a more yin type personality the challenge is to muster enough fire to build up enough steam to let the surplus energy drive one forward. It's equally challenging to tame or develop the flame but requires different tools and knowledge customized to your default projection.

Adam the grounding wire

Before leaving the ranch Martha shared with us that this was the very first time that her son with Down's Syndrome, Adam, requested to sit among us. Having been born into self-mastery of his own energy his presence in stillness and silence ebbed and flowed between all of us like threads woven in a loom.  As we said our goodbyes that day on the ranch, Martha oversaw the inroads her son had made and the Rock Star status he had achieved. Reflecting on that hug we exchanged reunited me then and continues to even now with that high-heart centered space that only one who is a true grounding wire can facilitate. Adam looked at each one of us with these illuminated eyes as though he was seeing through the lens of God. After that embrace I just wanted one more chance to leap back into that ring to demonstrate the connection I now completely understood. 

the last day

On the last day of the workshop, before I took the red eye back to the dregs of the east coast, we spent a few hours reviewing our intentions that we had set on the first day. What each of us had learned individually and as a group where immeasurable. Martha reflected with concise and constructive feedback tailored for each and every one of us. What she told me I will never forget and am only now, 21 months later, ready to implement. Suffice to say that this year's word, ADVENTURE, will bring me closer to a bigger life than I ever knew I'd wanted.

At the conclusion I collected my belongings, found my book for Martha to sign was getting ready to stand in line when I felt a decisive tap on my right shoulder. 

Martha had made her way to me. 

Trying to keep my cool and harness my emotion, I whipped out a necklace that I had made for her and proceeded to explain the impact of one of her quotes has had on my life. It was this quote that indirectly brought the JewelTree Chakra Series into manifestation.

"Whenever life brings you to a crossroads from the tiniest to the most immense

go towards love and not away from fear."

Without hesitation she fastened her new heart chakra necklace around her neck, signed my book and I floated home feeling complete, adventurous and seen in a way I never have been seen before.  My bad-ass self was back and infused with memories and lessons to last a lifetime.

By meeting Martha I met the best version of myself.

Ask Yourself: 

How can I best harness my energy to be of greater service to the whole?

Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397 

JulieBowes.com

Facebook.com/julieibowes1

Contact Julie

Dalai Lama rehab

It's been over two years since that day I sat in the presence of greatness. And when I say greatness, I mean GREATNESS. It has taken me so long to write about it because I've needed this time to let the experience mellow. That and, for the sheer practical reason being, I couldn't see the screen beyond my tears of immensity and joy. My soul had yet to register it's own worth and being in the presence of greatness seemed to require a vast amount of time to adjust my own groove before I could fathom it's explanation.

to wish or not to wish - that is the question
You see, prior to this experience, there was nothing that I needed or desired except perhaps for a roof that didn't leak. I have abstained from writing wish lists for a while due to their unique position on the horizon as a veritable thorn in my side. I composed my last bucket list as I waited for my sister and her girlfriend to arrive in their private jet at the Danbury Airport. Bathed in jet exhaust, feeling meager and incomplete on the tarmac,  I decided what I needed to fill my bucket of low self esteem were three simple items. Over the course of  a couple years, I had purchased my killer pair of black Lucchese, scalloped edged, angled heel boots, bought myself an epic Canon Rebel gazillion pixel-just-shy-of-an-XRAY camera and decided to dismount the third thing on my list; A classic Mercedes wagon, silver with tan interior,  a sun roof and a dog barrier in the back. Once it became clear that my inner stats would not be elevated with this purchase (and that I'd have to clean the garage),  I opted instead for the hippie chic and understated fully-loaded Suburban Outback.

My bucket list was comprised of stuff that, in the end, held very little weight - easily discarded or dinged to the next bit of stuff that flashes across the dashboard of trends, harbored insufficiency and insatiable ego. The mere thought of a wish list infers a lack-mentality.

subconscious at work
But there my subconscious was, hard at work rummaging through my hard drive and devising invisible flow charts, detours and byways to creating an experience I never even knew I wanted. Never had it occurred to me to dream big. BIG I say. Dare I even put a parameter that might even pair BIG and CONVENIENT in one sentence? Heavens no.

There is a great quote that I keep in my email inbox.  I forwarded it to myself with a different subject heading so that it wouldn't be inadvertently discarded. The note I wrote to myself was, "Read EVERY Day." and it goes like this:

Someone has said, "the Universe has imagined it even better than you have." And we like to add to that: The Universe got all of its information about what you like from you, and it has remembered every piece of it and has put it together in perfect formation. And so, the things that are on their way to you are so much better than you even know that you want. And as you allow them, the essence all of these things that the Universe knows that you are wanting make their way to you and appear in perfect timing for you.                                                                                                                                                --Abraham

The way I know the immensity of this quote's truth because I've lived it. My subconscious delivered my ultimate experience without me even having to ask.

living under a rock
Let me preface by saying I live under a rock (almost). Since we moved into our current home ten years ago we haven't had cable TV. I don't watch the news, read the papers or nor follow any reality crack shows. I figure that if there is important news that I am supposed to know about it will find me. And this is how being in the presence of GREATNESS happened.

in the presence of greatness
It was August when the news found me that the Dalai Lama was scheduled to speak (big) 30 minutes away (convenient) at Western Connecticut State University in October. The tickets were being offered by lottery only. So,  I submitted my name with gusto and waited. Three hundred-twenty seven hours, sixteen minutes and seven seconds after the lottery opened - the day my name was chosen, every particulate in my vicinity localized in extreme focus and clarity with the wattage of a beam of light shooting towards the moon. How could something so epic have also heard my meek necessity for convenience? My humble self, trudging along in the ruts of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, dirty laundry & dust bunnies heard over the din of dinner dishes and sibling rivalry, heard over my own inner dialogue of oppression and obligation (worlds tiniest violin). Never in a million freaking years would I ever have put this type of greatness on a bucket list, let alone have the audacity to write his name on a piece of my recycled scrap paper. Yet my wishes were heard even before I could hear them for myself.

So I went.

All's I can say is thank God my husband went with me. Actually it is more like my husband took me. I was a raw bundle of emotion sobbing in the passenger seat. It required the same amount of energy as what I experienced being driven down to the hospital to deliver my babies. The same amount of energy to focus the contractions as it was to stay solvent and not totally disintegrate into a puddle. There was absolutely nothing that could stop my tears; The closest experience I have ever had to truly coming home - feeling so totally supported that this experience had been provided to me. The combination of gratitude, faith, incredulity, self-worth all grafted together to form a matrix of otherworldly proportions orchestrating this vast symphony in which I was called upon to take part.

As if the greatness couldn't get any better, I sat there in the bleachers all red eyed, clutching my Nana's heirloom hanky, nearly hiccuping for breath when along comes Richard Gere. My hand slithered into my coat pocket in search of  lip gloss. My husband's suggestion to breath into a paper bag circumnavigated by the mere sighting of  R i c h a r d  who was making the introduction for the the 14th Dalai Lama, Tenzin Gyatso.

We sat on the right side of the stage, mid way up on the bleachers listening to the voice of this amazing man. He tugged continuously on his honorary scholar vestments that indicated a type of restraint that I would have been hard pressed to ignore. Just in the way he exhibited his patience with these superfluous additions to the perfect simplicity of his saffron robes gave me pause for admiration the same way I am in awe of  women in labor who don't rip off their own hospital gown at eight centimeters. Yet, despite this wardrobe malfunction, his message of kindness and compassion, periodically facilitated by his translator, were punctuated with riffs of laughter and joviality that elevated the audience into a gleeful hum.

rushing the stage
As the event came to a close the body guards ushered the Dalai Lama to the right of the stage and down behind the royal blue curtains. This was my husband's call to action. Primed and ready, Jeff pierced through the crowd improving on his personal record from seat to stage in 5.7 seconds flat. Jeff's Grateful Dead, special ops, stage rush training - minus the opposition - brought him face to face with the Dalai Lama faster than running on the human conveyor belts in the airport. But when he turned around expecting me to be right by his side, instead he saw me still up in the bleachers stuck behind a granny and her retractable, metal cane.

Jeff had rushed the stage for me and was poised to make introductions by expounding on my countless hours of inconceivable silent sitting, (as if that should be merit in and of itself) and prayer flags that flutter in the wind suspended by the trees in our front lawn and maybe, just maybe ask him if he wants to come over to watch the Bruins and have some pizza.

But I was stuck, and mortified, and too emotionally wobbly to approach at any faster a speed for fear that this affliction of tearful dissolution might just actually happen and I'd collapse into the Dalai Lama's arms, breathing into a paper bag and a medic hauling me into the back of an ambulance or a straight jacket with intentions to never ever shower again. But, I just couldn't be a good wing girl and suffer the humiliation of of what it would look like in public to love someone so much that it hurt to be near him.

Dalai Lama rehab
My overwhelming emotions became such an issue that in order to desensitize myself from the mere thought of him I had to devise some Dalai Lama rehab. The only way I knew how to do this was to print up a gorgeous black and white picture and hung it at the window alcove by my kitchen sink. From there he could (and still can) oversee the Sunday through Thursday peanut butter and jelly production line, dirty dishes and watch the kids jump on the trampoline outside with the same joy his spirit possesses.

hot mess
After six months of Dalai Lama picture therapy I progressed to being able to look at his image without shedding a tear. However, in April on a four-day retreat in San Luis Obispo, I inadvertently revealed my hot mess to a table of eight strangers, one of whom was Martha Beck's CEO, Bridgette Boudreau. The exercise she gave us that expedited this unraveling was the requirement to write two letters; A letter to a person we loved (see picture above) and a letter to a person we despised. (Despised is such a treacherous word I could find no one that I held with that much venom.) Afterwards, we were then instructed to change the name of the person to whom the letter was addressed to the word "I".

Well Just Crap. I might as well deliver a third baby in the back of a taxi.

Because I had been unable to find a nice tidy exit strategy for these unexpressed feelings of my experience with the Dalai Lama I had to endure the vulnerability and extraordinary humiliation of being totally exposed amidst a group strangers as I diverted my love for the Dalai Lama back to myself. It was an effective bait and switch strategy that illuminated our tendencies in general to witness in others exactly the issues prevalent at the forefront of our own consciousness. I was surrounded by eight highly sensitive and compassionate women strangers and as they sat there somewhat wide-eyed while I blithered along in over-sharing laboresque convulsions, I can now fully endorse them as some of highest caliber friends I have had the pleasure of sobbing before, leaving me with the thought that there is something peculiarly refreshing, authentic and terrifying about the experience of vulnerability in general.

progress?
Now, over two years later, I am happy to report that my Dalai Lama rehab is progressing steadily. I can say his name out loud. I can look at his picture for hours and I can write this post which only made me weep once. I can watch videos of him giving talks similar to the one I attended that October, 2012. Yet, just a week ago my husband commanded that I come downstairs and interrupt my bedtime ritual to watch something on the computer. As I harumphed and stomped my way down to the kitchen, toothbrush busy on my lower left molars, I came around the corner to a vision of the Dalai Lama wearing a Boston Bruins hat and shuffling his way through the arena before he made his way to his next speaking engagement. Apparently, I'm not completely cured. In the clip I watched he didn't even say a word and I got all weepy and toothpasty. This is going to be a problem if I am ever asked to be his adviser.

Ask Yourself: 

What rehab will it take to own my own GREATNESS?

Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397 

JulieBowes.com

Facebook.com/julieibowes1

Contact Julie

loose ends

Because I know that you are all sitting on the edge of your seats and wondering how my summer was (too short), if I ever got around to planting my garden (no) and how much $750 worth of dog kibble weighs (800 lbs),  I thought I should tie up some loose ends of my previous blog; bringing conclusion to those small little details that have been keep you awake at night.

The last I mentioned, I had set forth the decree that my daughter had to ante up for her Clash of Clan indiscretion and I, in the same breath, would do the same...both of which involved chests of gems. The rules of engagement where that Tatum could choose the charity of her choice and I had to replace stolen goods with the grown up bling. Both of us shoveled a hefty measure of humility and mortification along this path and were mercifully met with appreciation.

Tethered together, Tatum's misadventures led us to the bank where she could see, touch and smell  $750 worth of hard-earned allowance money destined for a strong armed tithing to the charity of her choice. This was money that she had been saving for over five years...

Next came the family road trip to Costco.

Like Tatum in a public stockade, we brought Tatums' older brother, Trevor, on this pilgrimage as a cautionary tale lest his future decision making skills become wobbly.

Apparently $750 worth of kibble can bring a Suburban to it's knees.

Driving low and slow we made it to Tatum's charity of choice, The New Milford Animal Shelter, with the rear axle intact.

Once all the kibble made it behind closed doors the shelter volunteers were a rapt and grateful audience listening as Tatum recounted the circumstances behind her apparent generosity; Her mortifying penance diminishing with every repeated confession.

For the next two months Tatum spent her time reading, crafting and spending her time like a Amish child. The value of money, as was measured by weight in Kibble, could have been easily measured by how many Indian children's eyesight could have been restored through a simple $300 operation or the number of wells that could have been dug for clean drinking water in Africa or the number meals that could have been provided by a local food pantry, was an eye opener for Tatum as was the experience for me.

If you might remember from my previous blog, busted, I too was a benefactor of Tatum's misdemeanor as it forced me to look more deeply into my own shadows to uncover a piece of gnarly truth in my wayward youth.

The gracious recipient of my recompense from days as a petty thief was eventually tracked down in Arizona. The letter she sent to me in return admitted to her never even remembering the ring. Truly, had this nugget of gold-filled base metal, colored glass & rhinestones not wedged itself so deeply into my soul, I could have established myself in a life of crime. Kim, in her hesitance to accept the replacement ring of such stature, understood the importance of my gesture. As a mother of a five year old, she knew the importance of teaching through example in order to raise children of character.  "I have nothing except fond memories of you as a child and now this just adds to it. Your example of honesty and humility is to be admired.", she wrote. And I sobbed, 38 years of self imposed tears; The loose-ended suffering finally tided up in a pretty bow of silken exoneration.

As we come upon the close of a year I bring to the table the gratitude of my foray with vulnerability. The humility that Tatum and I experienced in righting our wrongs feels as though my roots are growing deeper and allowing me to stand taller/stronger, speak with more confidence and recognize the wisdom hiding behind shame and guilt. I am curious now - the other vestiges of darkness that loom within me, in all of us...how they wait to be implemented and transformed in us all. Sometimes they wait. Sometimes they don't. Sometimes you can choose their neat and tidy exit path. Sometimes it's a complete conflagration. And, rest assured, whichever way you are drawing your circumstances to you is the perfect way in which your soul  is choosing to have this lesson administered. Because no matter how bad the conditions you find yourself in, when you make it through the ring of fire and rise from the pit of despair the most unlikely miracle of gratitude surfaces in ways your imagination cannot begin to comprehend.

Ask Yourself: 

What are my loose end(s) requiring a silken bow? 

Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397 

JulieBowes.com

Facebook.com/julieibowes1

Contact Julie

coon man

Through leafless and frosty airwaves, 9 p.m. howls of impending satisfaction whistle and glide effortlessly over the smooth drifts of snow. Now, as the forests, hay fields and manicured specimen trees waken from their winter slumber, the cacophony has dampened. From way up in them, thar hills exists an anomaly of canine festivities reminiscent of  a frat party gone wild; Mayhem of multiple dogs, frolic in anticipation of their meal.

I am happy I don't live closer.

But the curious sort I am I do set my mind to wondering about, exactly, how many dogs constitutes the word "multiple" and how the owner of these dogs must love dogs perhaps more so than loves people. Someday, I say, I'd like to find out.

"That Day" just happened.

on-duty
At five a.m. on Sunday, the day I had set up for a 7am- slam-dunk-sleep-in, I was awakened by the sentence, "Mom! There are dogs running all over our lawn and they're chasing a fox." My minds' eye furrowed in confusion beneath my cozy eye mask. Barking, barking, barking with delight,  I laid there and listened, hopefully, for the sound of a huntsman's horn signaling the end of the chase. A minute passed and, like a news-breaking story, the details began to usher in with unbridled speed.

It was Sunday.
It was 5a.m.
All the weekend homes were occupied by upper east side doctors and lawyers.
My husband wasn't home. Such a shame, really. He lives for these types of calls to action, like cleaning the gutters in torrential lightning & thunderstorms.

Alas, I was ON DUTY.

I rolled facing the south windows overlooking my lawn and peeked out from beneath my darkened cave in confirmation. Adjusting  from my sleepy dream to refocus on purported dogs and foxes I was launched like a flaming pillow by a trebuchet. Ass over teakettle I jettisoned out of bed and stumbled my way to the most logical priorities one would need to anticipate in the event of finding ones' self at the end of a fox hunt or being joined by my weekend, NYC nephrologist neighbor who has his lawn mowed twice a week.

The pair of six day old pants that were heaped on the floor seemingly rose to action. I brushed my hair. I covered up with a magenta fleece and stuffed my bare feet into my Rescue Hero boots racing to ground zero to lessen the impact of bluster imparted by the incessant hound "speak".

"foxy" 
The fox that was spotted happened to be my grossly overweight orange tabby cat. It was Apricots' first day outside since November. Her station beneath the futon in the basement is where she stays warm and safely nestled far, far away from our chocolate lab, Kola. A luscious spring evening laden heavily with lilac and lightning bugs was her migration call. The warm gentle breeze coaxed she and her sister, Dot, outside. Under the cover of darkness, like two teenage girls looking to sneak a smoke, they disappeared.

On the "fluffy" side, how Apricot tore her way up the closest, gnarly tree was nothing short of a miracle. The dogs where pleased to settle for this full-figured, 15 pound, "foxy" girl.  Bouncing and "speaking" at the base of the tree in gleeful staccato,  Apricot clamped herself onto the limb like a sailor lashed to the mast in a hurricane. Her ears tucked firmly and flush to the side of her head indicated that this was WAY more than she bargained for.

From the deck, Tatum wailed with worry. Her fear for my safety amplified my desire for prompt resolution before the sirens were called in as a third string backup. Praising the dogs for a job well done I approached these smiling faces without concern. They were doing their job and doing it well with the same abandon that Tatum dances or the way I can't help but cry with joy skiing the Skyline Trail overlooking Lake Tahoe. Pure rapture in each of these moments delivered in radically different ways.

I corralled these hounds into my garage.

the plea
The plea for help landed with a 5:45 a.m. email to the one and only woman in Northern Sherman who has her ear to the rail. Marianne knows when something has happened three minutes before hand. She was the line of first responders that came to mind to assist in finding the dogs rightful owner. Had I remembered to take my phone off off vibe I would have checked the chime that delivered her prompt response stating CODE RED. I repeat. CODE RED. Do NOT proceed.

But I'll get back to that.

restoring eden
Restoring Eden would have been rather easy had I been able to simply coax Apricot down from the tree, nudge her inside, and set the dogs on their merry way. However, experienced in the art of feline rescue, I realized that this was going to have to wait. That, and the Universe wasn't finished with me yet.

This was just the beginning.

the wild frontier
Just at that moment as a hush fell over the land. From up yonder wafted the distant howls of canine brethren.
Like a pig on the hot scent of a truffle, this was my call to action.

I mounted my Suburban steed with hounds in my panniers and my daughter still in her fleece, heart-print pajamas, counting ticks in the way, way back. This wasn't a time that warranted seat belts, nor bras. We were heading into: the wild frontier of Sherman.

The wind blew through our hair as we drove the neighborhood loop. At the bottom of the Smoke Ridge cul-de-sac we turned off the ignition to track echo-locate our target. Referencing my winter walks from months prior, I was a few degrees off of my auditory plotting sensors and readjusted the course to head, point five degrees north. We swooped down Anderson's mammoth hill and headed right, eastbound to Rte 55. Just when my psychic radar had lost the scent was precisely when I entered the eye of the storm. There on the side of the road; Sunday morning's epic geocache...a handmade wooden sign that read:

FOR SALE 

Puppies, Hounds, Beagles 

"Are you missing a couple of dogs?", I queried, pleased as punch that someone answered the number posted on the bottom of the sign. 

"Well, I ain't missing them, but they're probably missing me.", he warbled.

"Well, I'm sitting at the base of your driveway with your dogs in the back of my Suburban. May I approach your home?, " I ventured.

"I'm wearing nothin' but my boots, " he cautioned. "Give me a couple minutes and then come on up. Do you have four wheel drive?"

"I sure do!" My eyes wild with adventure I gripped the steering wheel like a game controller and engaged the L1 axle button, bound for the unknown. The deep ruts in the dirt driveway held me close to the mountain as we maneuvered our first switchback. Tires gripped tight like the sticky pads of tree frogs, we cleared the swath past the storage container to the next switchback. Climbing and climbing like Jack in the Beanstalk my mind wandered to the experience that awaited. 

the call

With each turn, the volume of hounds increased. On the final stretch of incline, littered with roadside treasures,  rang the phone. It was Marianne. 

"I'm not sure you want to be going up there by yourself, Julie. This man just had multiple firearms removed from his property and..." The list went on until she began to hear the imminent approach of dogs through the earpiece of her phone. "...Oh...I'm guessing I've called just a little too late?"

"Yep. I'm committed Marianne. I appreciate the wrap sheet and I am sincerely thankful to know what I am about to get myself into but there's no turning back now. If I don't call you back in 30 minutes, send in backup." I smiled

There I was 15 feet from a log cabin. Dogs tied to trees. Dogs tied to dormant generators. Dogs free roaming and eager to greet the new arrivals.

I was in heaven. I had dogs in my car and dogs in every direction my eyes could see. 

Despite the list of violations Marianne relayed I couldn't help myself. There I was behind the wheel of my Suburban, NOT making school lunches, NOT folding laundry, NOT taking out the trash, NOT sweeping the kitchen floor or wiping the kitchen counters of debris. There was something so unique and authentic about this present moment in time.

I was So. Crazy. Happy.  

coon man

Off the front porch stepped a person in his late 60's. A solid-footed & sinewy sprite of a man, he put himself together with an air of a long-term bachelor living solely on rib-eyes and baked potatoes. He wore a black, long sleeve t-shirt and blue dungarees with suspenders, his silver belt buckle captured a dull glint in the morning sunshine. It was the very first time my eyes had met a man that wore his beard in a pony tail. His thinning gray hair was tidy, braided and just tickled the collar of his shirt. His teeth were the color of driftwood and his hands conveyed knowledge beyond my life's experience. 

With his presence I was assured safe passage among his dogs and exited my car; My heart and smile were ablaze with joy. We shook hands and made cursory introductions as the hounds leaped from the back tailgate. And then,  he took a step back as though he had experienced the fringe of a lightning strike.

"You own horses don't you." Bent at the elbows, he held his arm in front of him, fingers straight. "My hands and forearms are tingling. Oh my.This is something else! You are surrounded by the energy of horses." Not a stranger to this description, his energetic assessment of horses was comforting in its familiarity and revealed to me his status as a back-woods, evangelical shaman of sorts. "This is going to be a special meeting.  It's Sunday morning and the good Lord has brought us together.This is Faith."

I restrained my inner schoolmarm and refrained from correcting his choice of words from Faith to Fate. 

backwoods bling

Naturally, captivated by jewelry and it's symbolism, I was drawn by his backwoods bling. A thick, black leather cord hung loosely around his neck. At the valley hung the tip of a deer antler. Symmetrically to either side, wrapped in coils of copper, were two curved three inch bones... and one tie clip. 

"Ohhhh, what are these bones?" I inquired. He motioned me, unsuccessfully, out of earshot of my equally curious daughter and slowly explained, "These are ribs of a raccoon. And look at this!" And in a hushed drawl of reverence, "Now THIS (as he held the tie clip), THIS is real silver!" There between the antler and one of the coon bones was a silver tie clip. "And lookie here on this side. This here?" And he pointed with his wise hands, "THIS is real onyx. I found it in the parking lot of my favorite restaurant." 

Coon Man gave me a short tour of the area within a 20 foot radius of my get-away vehicle. My mind ebbed and flowed back to Marianne's warning and plea to abort. Coon Man shared the best restaurant to buy a steak, the bargain of his new Cutlass Supreme with only 32K miles (how in the heck did he get it up his driveway?) and how they tried to burn him out in 2002 (WHAT?!). He told me of issues with the law and of the toughness of beef that never has a chance to age.  As my daughter recounted later, he was a talker. 

persecuted 

Coon Man recounted stories of ongoing persecution, protecting what he knows as his true and authentic way of life, and thus results in push back from both directions. The neighbors feel threatened and impinged upon by stray dogs and the safety of their house cat out on the midnight beat. Coon Man feels pinched and caged like...um....a wild raccoon. For what one registers as a high degree of "authenticity" registers for others as an personal affront. It's all relative to proximity.

perspective
There isn't a lot of control I have over my day, but the one thing I do have is the ability to choose how I perceive the conditions that surround me. Committing to a positive perspective is a conscious choice based in gratitude for what each new day brings. By sheer surrender to faith in the common good I accepted my fate of this one special morning and how it taught me the beauty of acceptance, the importance of compassion and committing to the call of adventure with an open loving heart. So, from my comfortable distance, I claim my appreciation for Coon Man and the opportunity he presented me to step into adventure.

I committed to this adventure to matriculate into an independent, confident and empowered woman; To know my boundaries, know the full capacity of my heart and be able to share and instill a sense of belonging and compassion to this unique soul others would have deemed a misfit.  Coon Man was correct in his issuance of "Faith". A connection and commitment to a higher source was the orchestrating force behind this experience. Choosing to join up with that full tilt adventure gave my heart something to chew on and Faith is exactly what brought us together; To give me the chance to commit to a deeper sense of purpose, self-reliance and adventure. And for Coon Man to feel, if just for a moment, that he belongs.

Ask yourself:
"When adventure knocks how will I choose to respond?"

Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397 

JulieBowes.com

Facebook.com/julieibowes1

Contact Julie

busted

A week ago my husband marched into my office waving three sheets of paper. You could feel the chill in his veins fresh on the scent of fraud. He perched on the most uncomfortable chair, back erect, drugstore readers at full magnification and on the edge of hyperventilation like we were in the middle of an active home invasion. The numbers one to twenty-four rattled off his lips tallying the sum of a righteous day of "iTunes therapy".

"We have a problem.", he stated. "I think there's fraudulent activity on our credit card!"

We mobilized. My husband Jeff was on the phone to various gatekeepers and I in the fluorescent cubicle of CSI to flesh out fingerprints and the smoking gun. I swept through my iTunes purchase history to the relief of three books and my son's history of two books and five songs.We checked out clean and were free to leave the station.

My daughter, on the other hand, had some 'splainin to do. Her purchase history was littered with a month of of iTunes LOOT. The trojan horse was operating from inside the castle walls! In its full, pixelated form, there, like a deer in headlights, my eyes met with the baffling charge after charge of virtual bling and armaments to build and fortify her online kingdoms.

All tolled she was harboring a $750 secret.

"There must be some mistake.", I thought. "She must have made these charges without realizing that it was REAL money she was using...? No WAY would she would do this."

Moments later she waltzed in from her day at school, set the mail on the counter, hung up her back pack, brought her empty pink lunch sack to the counter and plunked down on the hardwood floor of the kitchen to drape herself over the dog. I appreciated the lean process she followed after years of 4 pm weekday protocol. Her attention to detail and thoughtful manner in which she tended to her homework and chores lent themselves, seamlessly, to what I expected to be a simple misunderstanding.

Having pre-coached ourselves with the priority of keeping cool, Jeff calmly inquired what she knew about a hefty iTunes shopping spree. I watched her reaction; How she walked, how she spoke, how she breathed. Instead, what grew more apparent was how I began to feel the ice in the veins, the shortness of breath, the narrowing of the pupils that overtakes the system the moment they are busted. She held her hands to the sides of her face almost as if she was trying to prevent her head from exploding. No tears where shed yet the genuine remorse was palpable.

In stunned silence, Jeff and I, scratched our heads as we watched the instant replay of the past eleven years in the feverish attempt to comprehend how this egregious breach of processing and decision making skills had jumped the tracks. Was she absent that day we taught Moral Conduct and Values 101? Yes. She skipped that course in favor of auditing the enrichment class entitled, Lock Picking to Gain Access to Your Favorite Candy Store. Yes, I think she did.

She fessed up with total disclosure and stood bravely at the emotional guillotine to receive, what felt like the impending doom of a decapitating punishment. Jeff and I eeked meagerly out on the limb of this previously, uncharted territory. As self proclaimed push-overs and famed for parenting through hypocrisy we looked at each other with a blank stare of "Ok. Now what."

the punishment
The old-fashioned word "punishment" fit as well as high-rise jeans. It's constricting stature didn't leave any room for opportunity, growth or (my personal faves) psychoanalysis, symbolism and the ripple effect of consequence. For this reason, we donned our helmets, shields and galoshes and marched into the cave we feared that held the treasures we sought. Because, what this meant was way bigger than what appeared at the surface. But I'll get back to that.

logical restorative consequences (LRC)
Logical Restorative Consequences (LRC) applied to this incidence of Family Moral Code violation as read in chapter 1, section 2, page 3, line 4 indicate: Bummer, Dude. This is going to be a long, rocky road for everyone. The LRC implemented but not limited to:

1. Removal of iPad for the duration of lapse in judgement.
= 1 Month
2. Restoration of factory settings in iPad
= Pain in the Ass.
3. 1 1/2 hours sitting at the desk with Dad changing all the AutoPay accounts to the new credit card number.
= Boredom teetering on the verge of a coma.
4. The opportunity to explain herself to the ultra-chill Apple employee the faulty logic behind her crime.
= Mortifying.
5. Repay the money to us through added chores and a payment plan the eleven year old's equivalent to the amount of student loans.
= Painful.

the backfire
I'm a proponent of random acts of kindness. However, I'm learning that sometimes that throws a wrench in the plan. The "backfire" was Apple's unexpected refund. "Cool!", we thought at first glance. To Jeff's "classified folder" this was an open and shut case keeping Tatum's payment plan on course. Yet, opacity was at the root of the problem. If we withheld the truth from her we would: 1.)Feed this closed circuit loop of dishonesty and  2.) Miss the opportunity of acknowledgement that the world is a friendly and abundant place as was witnessed at the merciful gesture by the guy in the Apple confessional.  

What would happen with the truth? We all had to risk that outcome. We told Tatum of the Random Act of Kindness that had been extended to us. She leaped for joy. Of course she did; The soul loves the truth. Little did she know...

the puzzle piece
In order for LRC to be effective, we felt the puzzle piece of "Pain" couldn't be left vacant. For Tatum to understand the value of $750 was going to require one more mortifying conversation and "pain". We asked her to 1.) Select a local charity of her choice, 2.) Call them, 3.) Inquire of what they were most in need and 4.) Spend $750 on the requested supplies in combination with a stint on the chain gang.

In keeping with Judge Constantine Harm's sentence, this felt like an experience that Homer and Bart endured in the episode, "The Parent Rap", tethered together in LRC's after Bart stole the town's police cruiser. The theory behind this sentence being that had Homer instilled Bart with good moral conduct from the beginning none of this would have happened. But, really, the question is, did Homer have these skills to teach to his son. The answer was no. "You cannot give what you do not have." So, now they had to learn the basics and forge these skills, somehow, tethered together. Brilliant. But what did this have to say about me? Apparently, I had some learning to do too. But I'll get back to that.

tethered
Where it stood, Jeff and I had grown very accustomed to the iPad as a playdate. We were worn out similar to being pecked to death by ducks, and had just, simply, given up on our desire/ability to monitor the amount of unsupervised time spent in front of a monitor. We like the quiet and the time it affords us to, honestly, watch our own monitor. Now we are forced to be tethered together; To grow and engage with each other and in this circumstance, learn from each others mistakes. The perception as something negative is really loaded with incredible information if you choose to look more closely. And this is where the road got rocky for me. Could I teach Tatum to do what was right if I hadn't come clean myself?

shadows
In a jaunt through the woods the day after this discovery it was raining. The short vlog I captured that day related to the gems hiding beneath the surface of this recent experience. I don't care who you are, we all have shadows - my daughter and myself included. In analyzing her shadows I found myself admitting my own. Just like Homer and Bart, my parenting through hypocrisy was playing out in a long winter's shadow. I brought up a portion of my dirt that, for the last 38 years, had been a slow battery drain of shame and guilt. In the vlog I admitted that I had never gotten "caught". In truth, however, 38 years ago I caught myself in a web of subconscious debris that has followed me ever since. I admitted to my weakness of stealing beautiful jewelry from my friends and family. Just like Tatum, I just couldn't resist.

At eight years old I stole a diamond and aquamarine ring from Kim. At 8 1/2 I stole a tackle box of colorful beads from Tanja (which I returned). At 20 I stole a fake diamond ring from my blind grandmother's jewelry box. The beauty was too difficult for me to resist. Then it dawned on me...look what I am doing now! I make jewelry, own a jewelry company and have the privilege to coach others to mine for their own gems of self-worth, confidence and inspiration. I'm on a hot track, I thought. What are Tatum's shadows revealing about her future joy and prosperity? Will she be a computer programmer, a jeweler, a money counter at the Bureau of Engraving & Printing, a Barbarian Clan King?

In his youth, my father set fires in his basement; He made his fortune selling wood burning stoves. A friend admitted to stealing horses in her young adulthood; She now makes beautiful leather, hand-tooled saddles. Another person fessed up to epic mis-truths; She is now an auditor able to spot a lie from a million decimal points away. Yet another person, aborting her own urge to shoplift music (pre-MP3) was apprehended and nearly thrown in German jail; She now devotes 80% of her discretionary time to live concerts, new music trends and teaching herself how to play the piano.

making friends with the shadow
Most people come to me for coaching and energetic restoration because, somewhere along the line, they lost track of the entire notion of fun. Ironically, the cumulative shadows are in part to play for loosing the connection to joy. Burdened by shame or guilt, without the confidence to look more deeply into the powerful messages they hold, stunts the healthy, productive, thriving purpose of the human soul. Slowly, lives erode into perpetual doubt, confusion and an immutable sense of unyielding doldrums. When asked what they do for fun, a surprising amount of people draw a complete blank. For some, perhaps it is the shadows where one needs to begin.

the march
I marched home after making the video and headed straight for my daughter's Winnie the Pooh jewelry box. Contained within were the chronicles of pre-marriage adornment; Ceramic dove pins, Venetian glass necklaces, mimosa seed bracelets, starfish earrings, rhinestones from what had been in my grandmother's collection of gems she wore on stage performing in the opera.

Still dripping from my walk, I sifted through this box with one question in mind.What had become of the aquamarine and diamond ring that had buried itself so deep into my soul? If I find it, what type of LRC would I have to self-implement? "Crap, I still have it." I whispered as I fished it out from the bottom of the box. "Ok. Now what."

With the ring in hand, I felt squeezed between a rock and a hard place. There was no where to escape except to pass through the "Ring of Fire". My persistent remorse, in it's pesky, nagging, fully engorged way was finally going to receive the attention it had been requiring. I snared myself the moment I lifted the ring and for 38 years accrued the lay-away suffering package. What I can unequivocally tell you is that unveiling 38 years of guilt doesn't look pretty on Facebook. Just like the stomach bug that runs rampant through elementary school, I barfed this secret out faster than I could loose my nerve. And just like the projectile vomit, I felt much better afterwards.

my LRC
My LRC followed much the same format as what my daughter endured. I slogged through 38 years of regret, met the nagging challenge, purchased a beautiful, grown-up version in 14K white gold with diamonds and aquamarine. (I can honestly say, this ring is just as tempting now as it was when I was eight.) Parting with the beautiful replacement ring as I sent it off to the recipient was a relief. But the best part of this experience was sharing with my daughter how I learned from her, how we are all blessed with imperfections, and how we can strive to do better the next time.

the unmistakable message
I thought that that was the end of the story until later that day when I was fishing through a different jewelry box in search of a gold chain. Right there in front of me tumbled a huge aquamarine ring set in 14K gold that had belonged to my grandmother. I had never noticed this ring, until now. It was as though all the forces in charge had rewarded me for having, finally, done the right thing. The Universe responded with this ring as an unmistakable message of approval.

doing what's right
Although doing what's right may at times be uncomfortable, the alternative is emotionally, mentally, physically and spiritually detrimental. When faced with the choice of long-term suffering or a short-term action step in the direction of logical restoration, the benefits far outweigh the squeamish task.

Taking the time to face this shadow has permitted me to accept myself as more fully present, authentic and alive. It has assisted in my ability to judge myself less and help others understand what lies under the surface of their long held secrets and shame. It has helped me be more honest and, in doing so, gives permission for others to ferret out the debris keeping them separate from their true joy-driven life.

Ask Yourself: 

What's my ring-thing? What's one step I can make towards its logical restoration to clear the path to joy?

Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397 

JulieBowes.com

Facebook.com/julieibowes1

Contact Julie

tracks

One of the greatest things about freshly falling snow is the ability to not only track critters but to be able to estimate how long since a track had been made. Today is one of those days.

As we clearly laid fresh tracks of our own, along the trail we also stumbled upon some really interesting footprints that resembled a raccoon but hopped like a rabbit; a rabcoon? I thought about taking a picture to reference upon my return home, yet defaulted to: lazy. Then I saw, and Kola sniffed, the tracks of what appeared to be a dog until the absence of human leash bound tracks did not accompany them. It was at this moment the track turned from dog to coyote. Then, making the further inspection it was missing a key element of nails similar to Kola at which point this track spoke more clearly of a bobcat.

Now, mind you, I am a suburban housewife who dabbles in the metaphysics of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches. I spend a little more time outdoors than most and I feel pretty lucky that I can provide this daily decadence for my chocolate lab.Reaping the benefits as well, I recognize how time in nature feeds me, too. I love the silence, the fresh air, the birds and today, the tracking.

Occasionally, I'll strike up a conversation with a person walking the other direction who is carrying a big stick. What I learn is that this particular neighbor is afraid of barking dogs. Or more precisely the chance that one of these barking dogs are going to maul him or his ankles depending on their size.  Another phobic neighbor urges me to walk with a stick because of the Mountain Lion that her husband had spotted from the safety of his lounge chair. (Their house is now for sale.) Or yet another neighbor who walks with mace, ever vigilant from her days living in Manhattan. Today I recognized my judgement at how I scoffed at their advice.

The amateur sort of tracking I do lends itself nicely to the illusion of safety. The moment the percentage of possibility that these may be the track of a mountain lion or bobcat my first reaction was, "Cool!" Kola's first reaction was, "I gotta pee on that." My second reaction was, "Shit! I better look around for this kitty or, at the very least, for a big friging stick."

It's amazing how the Universe sets you up to live your own judgement.

Thirty minutes later, bearing left to head back up the hill and finally face away from the snow I look down on the lightly dusted pavement to see barefoot, Homo Sapien tracks. Fumbling for my phone, as lazy has just been shed like a big terd, I am lining up this aberration in the sights of my iPhone camera. Yet, the snow plow who roars up from behind, beats us to the fresh prints with this plow and spreader. Alls I can think is," Holy God Almighty...who cares about the Mountain Lion...there is one bat-shit, cra cra dude out here. Where's that stick when you need it!" Backing up 20 feet to their point of origin, the deeper snow reveals a slight tread attached to the individual piggies. This seems to calm me enough so as to loosen the grip on flash fried fear and wishes that I would have in fact chosen a hefty, formidable tree limb. But still. We here in the Northeast are pretty conservative Timberland, Sorel or Muck Boot subscribers. I don't see anyone batting a California eye at this data.

Seconds later, running down the hill in his floppy dreads, prep school athletic fatigues and this gnarly foot apparel comes the happiest dude I've seen since I was doing yoga on the beach in Hawaii. In a fit of laughter and relief, we reflect back to one another the magic of the day. He and I absorbing its beauty each in our unique, outlier fashions. As he trounced back to his base camp, I surrendered my ridiculous assumptions and Mucked back up the hill.

I will die eventually. Will it be by the jaws of a mountain lion? The deafening and incessant barks of dogs? The stray mugger wearing FiveFingers shoes? Doubtful. What I choose, is to stay continually in awe of now, never dulled or deadened by the slow trickle draw of perpetual, paralyzing fear. I choose to smile and wave. I choose to observe. I choose to be kind to myself and others. I choose to live my life one hot track to the next.

Ask Yourself:

How big is your stick?

Julie recommends: Finding Your Way in a Wild New World, by Martha Beck

Julie Bowes - Metalsmith/Spiritual Facilitator/Indentured Hash Slinger
P.O. Box 82
Sherman, CT 06784
203.240.4397 

JewelTree, LLC

Facebook.com/JewelTreeLLC

Contact Julie

rescue

How often when performing a rescue are we, in fact, rescued ourselves? So was the case, for me, over the course of this last week.

It was a Royal Flush of beautiful days, the first one equally as brilliant and sparkly as the day prior. Nearly impossible to stay inside for nary a second longer than to transfer the wet laundry into the dryer. Engaging enough to power wash the deck until the well went dry or cut the grass with scissors. Tempting enough to drag a mattress and sleeping bag outside as day turned to night. Anything to spend more time outside was easily approved, including Kola's frolicking eyes that begged for some together time on the Appalachian Trail.

Out we skipped with wings on our heels and magic in the air. This day felt extra special. A day that you wouldn't bat an eyelash if you got caught for playing hooky. It was day three, the queen of hearts, in this string of days. No through hikers, no slack packers, no day hikers. Just me, my dog and this effervescent day pregnant with momentum of burgeoning leaves and early spring flowers. The bird songs transported us through the Hundred Acre Wood of Camelot. Faster and faster we progressed like a hungry whale gathering krill soaking up nature's essence. The beauty as crisp as an apple fresh off the tree. Each dappled patch of filtered sunlight enticing our hearts to stop, look and listen.

Capturing this clip of majesty in a sensory bite of elation, my feet planted themselves on the forest floor. Kola scampered on ahead. The pierce of the blue bird, the caw of the crow, the song of the finch, the meow of the mocking bird. Daaaamn, I thought. That mocking bird has the cat call dooowwwwwnn. My head swung to the north to get a good look at the Elvis impersonator of the skies. From which tree was that white jump suit and full head of hair singing? Again, another meow. Scanning and scanning I wrapped my eyes around each arm and branch in the emerald glen.

There Elvis was,dressed in apricot fur and looking suspiciously like...a kitty. Forty feet high and 80 degrees slanted, kitty ran up this tree like it was a racetrack to safety. That's all well and good for the first two days which is precisely how long it had been since my previous visit through this corridor. I added approximately 357 pictures to my camera roll afterwards which we sat and chatted as Kola waited patiently for me by the stream. Kola knew that kitty needed some private coaching.

Our session went a little like this:

Meow. Meow. Meoooooow.

I know kitty. I can't be frightened or sad enough for you to make you come down. So, the deal I am going to strike with you today is that I am going to stay happy, centered and playful. With these thoughts comes the courage and support you need to make it down on your own.

Meow. Meoowwww. Meow. Meeeeeeeooooooooowwwwwwwww.

Yes, kitty. I know. But now you need to get your game on and back your stupid ass down the tree. I have faith in your will to survive!

In the past I may have considered a midnight vigil or hiring a tree climber or even going as far as cutting down the tree. But sometimes love means letting go. And with that I flashed a carefree, nonchalant grin, hugged the tree and joined up with Kola.

I posted kitty's pathetic mug on Facebook and texted kitty's picture to my friends who speak fluent cat. Upon returning home I baited my hook. Kitty's plight was gently jigged before my husband and twelve year old son. I let them decide for themselves how entwined they would permit their hearts to become. Bites of compassion were received as far away as Germany - everyone rooting for kitty! Yet where the rubber met the road was the adventure that my husband and I took as a team.

For the first day I took solace in the advice of other friends in high places, "When kitty gets hungry or bored or both, he'll come down." I tried to coax him down with an excruciatingly dramatic and noisy lid peel of Friskee's buffet. If I had a battery operated can opener I would have brought that too. Yet this 7 month old cat wouldn't have had an clue of this former cat magnet just as my children don't understand the allure of a book. The draw of the Friskies Buffet was my surefire Ace. Atop a mossy rock I sat the open can of food. I left with hopes of a vacant tree come morning.

For the second day, kitty still aloft, all hope was lost as busted myths filtered their way through the internet that, "Yes. In fact, cats DO die in trees." The reason you don't ever see a kitty carcass in trees is because their claws are only meant for climbing up. And unlike squirrels they cannot decend. They die, fall out or not and their carrion is consumed by flying or earth bound scavengers of the animal kingdom.

The third day, my king of hearts husband and I struck a deal. I took him to the emerald glen and within .002 seconds past the first meow he said, "I'll help you but we are NOT adopting another cat." Deal. We returned with the kitty rescue kit comprised of:

A square laundry basket lined with a towel, 100 feet of line, two 4ft. lengths of line, fishing rod with 70# fishing filament, 3 oz. lead weight, water, bowl, can of food and kitty crack - catnip stuffed Greenies.

The lead weight tied to the filament made it over the cat sitting on the arm of the tree. Kitty bit feverishly at the filament to fight for her balance. In addition, the circuitous route of the lead weight, careened through several other branches and obscured an easy path up which the basket could travel. Redo. I cut the weight free with my teeth. My husband pulled the line and filament back towards him. Again, he threw the weight up and over a somewhat lower branch where kitty had been sitting the day before. It was a perfect net shot, hitting the branch with just enough momentum to bloop right over the side and straight down. I traipsed through the pricker bushes and retrieved the lead weight to sister the filament and the heavier gauge line together in a fail proof knot. At the end of this line was the basket. Up, up, up it went filled with all the goodies. We waited for ten minutes. Yawn. So, home we went.

That afternoon on day 10 of hearts, I returned alone. I was not greeted with a plea for help. Kitty was fiercely dehydrated and dying a sleepy death. All of it's systems were shutting down. The sun shone on this beautiful animal and I was so sad. How could I reconcile this experience in my conscience? Allowing every soul their rightful path did not leave room to fall a tree on behalf of this foolish cat. And if we had played the chain saw card what would have prevented kitty's embarkation into similar conundrums? Yet how would I be able to pass by this tree on future walks without passing this site in deep remorse?

I asked for help. The memory of this story eased my sadness.

Only a week prior I was told The Story of Jumping Mouse. The deeply condensed version, in which I will not reveal how mouse got its name, goes something like this... The mouse wanted to leave her home to pursue her curiosity of a sound she heard far off in the distance. At first she was lead by raccoon to a great rushing river. This answered her question of the noise she had heard. Yet a greater question then formulated. What is the source of this river. Through the course of her journey she met many different creatures. Each of them taught her and brought her as far as they could. Some of them gave her advice, some of them gave her a ride, some of them asked for her help. To help soothe their woes, she helped both Buffalo and Wolf by giving each of them one of her eyes. She reached her destination blind but content. At the water's edge of the deep blue lake she transcended higher than she ever thought possible, she was eaten by, and could now see, through the eyes of Eagle.

Jumping Mouse translating into Stupid Kitty brought me relief. Jumping mouse got it's wish in a way that was even better than had stayed in the form of a mouse. Similarly, Stupid Kitty, may have been on a likeminded journey? Who's to know. Yet, what I do know is that I could not want more for kitty than it wanted for itself. I went to sleep with a heavy heart, doubting whether what I had done for kitty was enough to keep my regret at bay. If she needed to transcend into Eagle that would have to be okay. Confounded, my husband and I pondered why a cat wouldn't opt save it's own life and choose to die in the crux of a tree. Just before we drifted off to sleep our collective exasperation surfaced through his remark, "This is why cats don't rule the world."

The Jack of Hearts was Day Four. We saw the kids off on the morning bus and dreaded our obligation. As much as we wanted to turn away from the misery of the inevitable and walk the manicured lawns of Crawford Lane we hung a left and walked up and over the saddle of Smoke Ridge. Entering the trail head, lost in sadness, my mind fast forwarded to solutions as to how to set my Facebook post to rest. Entering into the opening of the glen, Kola was by my side. My husband, eager to see whether high doses of catnip had the desired affect, scurried up ahead. If dehydration didn't kill him the overdose of kitty crack very well may have.

Kitty was gone.

No. Correction. Kitty was in the basket, Houston! In silence, my husband held an ecstatic thumbs up high in the air. Neil Armstrong was coming in for his lunar landing. I squelched my inner paparazzi and hung back in the command module to steer the ship. Had I raced forward or let Kola out of my sight our mission would have been sure to fail. Slowly, so as not to rattle kitty back into the tree with a quiver of the basket, my husband nimbly loosened the line. The first three foot rapid decent gave enough margin for kitty to surrender to freedom. The remaining 37' was without commotion or turbulence. Lofting back to earth she made her smooth landing, leaped from the basket and scampered away. My relief expressed itself in heaving shoulders and silent tears of JOY. Minutes went by before I could take a breath as meows of thanks sailed off into the distance.

The Royal Flush of weather came to an end just as the basket lowered down to terra firma. Right there and then the rains came. How wrapped up I had gotten in demise and lack of faith. Regardless of the pictures of successful rescue I had transmitted to kitty, I had abandon my trust of a successful outcome. I had assuaged my sadness through legend of spiritual override. I had given up hope and settled for disappointment. As the forecasts of rain ranted heavy the dreaded outcome seemed to loom in the clouds.

All the fingers crossed on Facebook, texts of encouragement and calls for local assistance and suggestions increased the bandwidth of kitty's courage. Where I succumbed to doubt everyone else stayed strong. It was momentum of hope that brought this outcome around. Not only was kitty rescued, but also my understanding of faith, hope and trust as well.

Ask Yourself:

What needs rescuing?