Empowering quotes from notable women

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Whenever I have a ‘bad’ dream, it’s never about things like being in a car accident, giving a poor presentation, or getting mugged. Strangely, those situations don’t seem to antagonize me (although I’ve experienced the first two and remain vigilant against the third).

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Sleeping through a wake-up call and missing a flight does. During recent travel I heard the 3:30 a.m. Call as if it was part of a dream. At the end of my trip, I was completely exhausted and, having finally adjusted to my new time zone, was in Deep Rest that felt like a coma. I finally woke at the second call, but was so disoriented that I’d confused my shuttle-departure time and barely made it to the hotel’s lobby, where I was literally shoved onto the shuttle by two bellmen.

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Last night I dreamed I was in northern India, traveling with two friends and our guide. When we arrived at our new city I realized that I’d left my travel bag (passport and money), as well as my cell phone, in the previous hotel – a two hour drive behind us.

As a rule, awareness and sensations in my dreams feel visceral:  heightened or exaggerated. Even my physical abilities get amplified. (I used to dream – a lot – about being able to swim and breathe underwater, like a fish. In another dream, I could fly like a bird.) When my dreams are pleasant, they feel like an amazing escape into another world. When they’re fearful, however, the same rule applies and the terror is something that I want to escape from.

Last night’s dream about having forgotten my travel essentials was crystal clear and so real that its intensity woke me with a pounding heart and breathlessness. When faced with the travel-horror of ‘no documents and no money’, my Reptile Brain simply reacts and recoils:  there’s no reason or logic.

I’ve come to recognize (with resistance and resentment) that fear-based dreams are helpful indicators of what still lingers in my subconscious mind. I picture geology lessons from my childhood schooling on volcanoes:  that stream of molten lava, lying horizontal deep in the earth until a seismic event buckles the layers of rock, pushing liquid fire to the surface. Exposed to the air, it eventually rests and cools. But not before causing mayhem. So it is with the fears that still linger deep below, in the most primal regions of my psyche.

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Like many people, I’m engaged (most of the time) with the Personal Work to address and rid myself of my typically-irrational fears. It frustrates me that I continue to review and re-hash themes that echo with vulnerability and powerlessness: they present themselves in such contrast to who I think I am in my waking hours.

The every-once-in-awhile (not often, thankfully),  nighttime-jolt of how my Reptile Brain  really perceives things – despite what my Intellect might be telling me, on the surface of my Life – is a stark reminder. Not to think, but to feel into what I’m still afraid of, and why. It may be that I really don’t want to know, because my fears don’t fit with the Image I have of my Self at this moment in time.

Spiritual teachings remind me that I embody the essence of Light and Dark, the Lion and the Lamb, Yin and Yang. Instead of seeing Fear as an enemy to be vanquished, maybe it’s time I just let it be what it is, and do what it needs to do. Maybe it just wants a seat at the table, inclusion and harmony, as a natural part of Who I Am. Can I be the Gracious Host and allow it?

Being a fledgling writer (is there a rung below that? I’ll put myself there), I appreciate well-crafted writing. Especially poetry. Its economy of words, when strategically joined together, that can make me feel connected to a complete stranger (the poet):  a shared intimacy that sometimes feels deeper and more satisfying than many relationships.

Poems I’ve read return to me at odd times. I hear them in my mind like gentle whispers – not overtaking whatever I’m experiencing at the moment, but adding to my experience by reminding me that human perceptions and emotions can feel amazingly ‘universal’:  across time, across countries and cultures; across all other real or imagined boundaries that might divide us.

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During my recent trip to northern Africa, a poem by Robert Frost came to mind. “Mending Wall” is about Frost’s experience with a farmer-neighbor who insists that each Spring they both walk the waist-high stone wall separating them, re-positioning the boulders. “Good fences make good neighbors”, the farmer says. But Frost is not so sure. He says to the farmer, “Before I built a wall, I’d ask to know – what I was walling in, or walling out, and to whom I was like to give offense.”

Global travel brings me into contact with ‘walls’ of all kinds. The surprising attitudes of my travel companions as they clutch their home culture, its behaviors and its expectations, as opposed to relaxing into the new country. What clearly feels like hostility from Passport Control, in completely unfamiliar surroundings and language. The potential is great, to allow those walls to impact the full experience I’m seeking.

I’m acutely aware that, being viewed as a ‘foreigner’, I’m not always enthusiastically welcomed in my new country. I’ve felt this before, especially while traveling in the middle east. I get it, and I’m not offended by it. But…who built these ‘walls’? And who consistently walks them, re-positioning the boulders? It doesn’t really matter at this point; the barriers travelers encounter are as real and as palpable as actual stone.

As poet Robert Frost writes in “Mending Wall”, “Spring is the mischief in me”:   he gently prods his neighbor about why the stone fence is so important to him. After all, Frost says, “You have no cows.” To that, the farmer has no response other than to say that his father before him always maintained the wall. Frost muses about this, but says nothing.

We can choose not to travel, to accept the walls between us; or, we can decide to playfully disregard our role in re-positioning the boulders that dislodge over time. I accept that barriers provide some comfort and security, but, as Frost writes in the opening and closing of his poem, “Something there is, that doesn’t love a wall.” I don’t want to tear it down…just continue to look for openings where I can see, know, experience and feel what’s on the other side.

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For awhile, after I’ve traveled abroad and through multiple time zones, my sleep patterns are way out of whack. I wake in the middle of the night, feeling like it must be morning (“It is,” says my body, “somewhere…”) More than this, when I wake it takes me a minute to clock my surroundings:  Where am I? I listen for sounds to orient myself. I become oh-so-present, feeling the need to get my bearings in the moment. Darkness sharpens my senses, but my brain doesn’t quite grasp the input it’s getting.

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My emotions also shift during and after a trip. I tend to immerse myself so totally in new travel experiences that, when I come back home, everything inside of me feels as though it’s been re-set to different coordinates. I feel a little ‘out of body’ at first; sleep deprived for sure. But also deprived of things I’ve become used to in my new country:  a different slant of sun; a bluer sky; a haze of burnt-orange, or blinding-white buildings perched on a hillside. Aromas that’ve awakened my senses: the bitter-orange blossoms that are totally distinct from the orange trees in my home state. (How is it that the air in the entire city of Marrakech, no matter where you go, smells like cedarwood?)

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Coming home, I can fall prey to what I call the Traveler’s Blues. Thankfully, the symptoms don’t last long and are eased somewhat by cat-naps. But I’ve also learned to be gentle with myself when a trip ends. It’s ‘ok’ to suddenly long for every aspect of my new country(ies), while at the same time feeling ecstatic about being back home in my own space. The push-pull of relief, and longing – a sweet melancholy. Right then is when I try to bring my mind and heart together by entering a different kind of ‘time zone’.

In his book “The Power of Now” (1997), Eckhart Tolle calls it The Gap:  the space of no mind, no thinking; just being and feeling wholly present where you are, in every way. Of course, Ram Dass’s book “Be Here Now”, written in 1971, should be credited with introducing the mental oasis known as Being Present. Regardless of who nudged us into this practice first, I feel deep gratitude for this resource.

As I return to my own country, back to my own complex life, I feel that I’m returning from a deep-dive: not only into another culture, but into my Self. Imagining myself a scuba diver, ready to make for the glittering sunlight on the surface of the ocean, I swim slowly and calmly. I focus on my breathing. My heartbeat is a meditation. The dark mystery is below, the sunlight shimmers on my eyelids. This perfect moment is a balance of Who I Was, joined by Who I Am Now; of remembering, and anticipating my next travel adventure.

Mosque,Marrakech

I’m not sure when I first noticed it. It started out as a feeling or subtle awareness:  a déjà vu sensation. As I’ve traveled more and more over the years, this awareness expanded in both depth and intensity. I began to think, in my mind, about what was going on.

Travel leads me ‘out’ of myself and into the world (most recently, Morocco). The more unfamiliar the environment, it seems, the faster I seem to want to go. Morocco, or ‘Maroc’ as the locals refer to it, felt like one enormous Souk:  a dazzle of sensory experience that was a kind of non-stop seduction further and deeper into the ‘heart’ of whatever city I was in at the time. Most larger cities in Maroc have multiple souks (narrow, maze-like caverns of goods for sale), and medinas (more like a city square).

A Medina, Marakech

Following a souk is exactly like the story of Alice, in her Wonderland:  your curiousity propels you in your very first step forward, to see what further delights might lie ahead. There’s no point in looking for markers or street signs – there aren’t any; and the scenery changes constantly, so it’s impossible to get your bearings. Spices, leather goods, clothing, fabrics, jewelry, food, shoes, crockery, rugs, metal crafts…just a partial list of ‘sections’ within each souk. New wares are constantly being delivered, by donkey or scooter, throughout the day; so walking a souk means paying attention to shouts of “Aihtaras!” (Move! Now!). For Moroccans, this is Life:  vital commerce that extends from about 9 in the morning until midnight. It’s very possible to become disoriented in a large souk:  there are so many people, so many things that draw your attention, moving your feet forward, trancelike. Deeper in wonderment you go.

At some point in my life, travel began leading me ‘into’ myself as I explored the world. Just like in a souk, I abandon any worry of becoming lost, and give in wholeheartedly to the experience. I trust that, when I need to ‘exit’ that exploration for a minute, to process and integrate what I’ve learned, I’ll find the right resting spot.

With this trip, I soon realized that Maroc has been a part of my inner-self exploration even before the trip was planned. Returning to the States, as soon as I walked through the front door to my home, I saw with fresh eyes – and astonishment – that my décor is actually very Moroccan. It has been, since as far back as my first apartment. But I needed to go to Morocco, to wander souks with total abandonment and trust, to be reminded of what was already in my heart and a part of who I am. “Shukran, Maroc.” I will return; and in the meantime, continue to carry you in my heart.

The Blue City, Rabat

Since my arrival in Morocco I’ve given serious thought to Blogging-out the amazing experiences and inspirations that this country and it’s people have shared with me. But — I think I’d rather just continue absorbing and ‘digesting’ for now. Will be back to full Posts soon! Michele