Notes that Wind Chimes Play

My brother has always been in love with wind chimes. He's managed to start quite the collection over the years. My mom's main backyard patio is covered with them - from the left to the right corner there's not a hook that isn't occupied. It's because he's in love with the music that plays when the wind makes them dance.

There's a theory that individuals with autism have a sort of sensitivity to music and are able to learn better through its "communication." I like to think that just because the notes do not speak in words doesn't mean that they aren't saying something. Perhaps those of us with fully developed left brains have forgotten how to "listen."

One of my neighbors has a few wind chimes hanging out in her courtyard. I can't always see those wind chimes over the white picket fence that gives each of us privacy, but when the wind blows I can always hear them. The other night a storm pushed its way through and those chimes could be heard all the way in my back bedroom.

It was one of those windy nights that almost reminded me of living in Florida. The last few days were filled with 80 degree temperatures. The front moving in was cold and rainy. It made no secret that its intent was to push its way in, however violently it needed to. Winds, especially those that are turbulent sounding, often signal the struggle of change.

Wind is the result of taking an invisible state of reality and transforming it into something new. The old way of thinking fights to hang on while the "something different" struggles to establish a stronghold and a solid presence. Despite the feelings of fear that arise from those violent sounds of a force that has the power to destroy, the music of wind chimes still manages to play.

It's a calm voice; a beautiful voice; a voice of distraction that subtly entices you to "listen." The mysterious random notes of that music almost make you forget that there's danger in the air at all. It's a source of comfort that the chaos going on outside isn't really anything to worry about. A wind chime's notes are the only gentle, constant whispers during a storm and they only play when there's change.

We fight change and we struggle internally with it. It takes some force and some time to push out what we know and let the unfamiliar in. "Destruction creates and creation destroys," as one of my favorite high school teachers, "Mr. L" reiterated in a poem he wrote before he got sick. He used to tell me that I "had talent" and had a strong distaste for Ivy League schools, as well as other prominent societal displays of value. He enjoyed life for each moment that it was and could always be seen walking around with a smile. His smile seemed to say "I'm alive and that's all that matters." I should have listened to him a little better.

Change may be turbulent and we may fight it. But it doesn't carry the violent sounds that we think it does. Its intent isn't to bring harm; its intent is to wipe harm away. The real sound of change just might be spoken through the music of a wind chime. A little sprinkle of magic, a little sprinkle of miracles, and a strong push into a transformed reality that we didn't realize we needed.

Ok So Far

I would be lying if I said that this first month as a self-employed writer was easy. The first two weeks were more about getting a routine down and having my body readjust to less physical exhaustion, stress, junk food, and irregular sleeping patterns. I've freaked out about my identity, my school loans, not being an "employee," health insurance, and whether I should be making all these changes at once.

I've debated whether I should collect another degree, sell or rent my house, stay home and find another sales/service job, etc., etc. I've spent too many hours doing a lot of worrying and watching a bunch of old demons come back to life. I've woken up in the middle of the night to a random religious sermon on television about how your value is not what you have but who you are. This somewhat feisty female minister was preaching to her audience about America's identity crisis epidemic and how we should learn to value our spirits rather than appearances, degrees, titles, and the work we do. The gist of the message is that our identity is separate from what we are attached to or what we were once associated with. We are still valuable and worthwhile.

It was 4 in the morning. I was suddenly awake and willing to listen to the words of a Christian minister. I found myself comforted and smiling back in agreement. It was certainly not a coincidence.

Some of the things that I wanted to get accomplished in the past month haven't been done. I haven't gotten around to getting my dishwasher replaced, my stock options cashed out, my garage cleaned out, my outside bulbs changed out, sorting through my entire house, making it to the gym five times a week, or getting serious about searching for a job. It's mostly because I've been busy writing to keep the same amount of money coming in.

Old demons. Old habits. Old thought patterns that aren't helpful.

Last night I started to laugh because after I convert my 401(k) to yet another Roth IRA account, I'll have enough to live off of for two years. Not that this is a license to get lazy, but I realized that I should stop putting so much pressure on myself. Maybe it's not a coincidence that the money is there. Just perhaps I really am supposed to focus on writing for the next two years.

I've applied for a few jobs in the past few weeks, but not many. The few that I have applied to I'm overqualified for. Positions that require a bachelor's degree are paying $12 or $13 dollars an hour. It doesn't help that I have an MBA, five years of sales experience, seventeen years of customer service experience, and so on. Eventually I'll find a match, but right now I'm not driving to Denver for $12 an hour when I can write at home and earn anywhere from $20 to $30.

This morning I drove across town to drop off a job application and resume to an organization that makes a difference. My brother actually takes some of his life skills classes there. The position doesn't pay more than $13 an hour, they prefer someone who can speak Spanish, and it is only 36 hours a week. Still, I figured I'd give it a shot because being involved with an organization that makes a difference is something I'm drawn to.

Of course it wasn't any coincidence either that I saw a car parked in the parking lot with a certain license plate attached to it; right next to another one with a set of numbers that seemed to whisper "don't give up."

I think that's one of the dark sides of humanity. We try to sabotage our own happiness sometimes. We can't quite accept who we are outside of a certain fish bowl or two.

So I drove out of that parking lot, Kesha cd blaring through my side door speakers. And I started to laugh again. Obviously the universe thinks I still need to be reminded of what I should be focused on.

Yes, the plane tickets are still reserved with a certain destination. This new life-I haven't had it long. But it gives me what I need and I'm happy. It's only been a month. Why not give it a chance?

The other night I dreamt I was in an airport. It wasn't just any airport. It had movie theaters and banquet halls full of the most incredible gourmet breakfast dishes. Blueberry pancakes, oranges, strawberries, coffee, good china, and fancy servers. But I wouldn't eat. I just wanted to get on a plane that I couldn't find. No matter which line or gate I went to, I still couldn't reach the one that would take me to the destination printed on my ticket. None of the lines really led anywhere. You just had to keep going. Even though you couldn't see the end, you had to trust that you would eventually get there. You had to believe.

I woke up before I could see the end or find my plane. Sometimes even when you have a ticket, you never reach your intended destination. So what if I never reach my plane? So what if this ticket turns out to be useless or a waste of time or a false illusion? I'll still end up somewhere.

And like the tag said on that blue van that passed me on the bypass this morning, I'm "ok so far."

Truth

One of the things that I have a hard time understanding is how some of us can get so adamant about religious beliefs. A few think that what they choose to believe in holds some sort of "absolute truth" over what someone else chooses. Personally, I think it's all nonsense. Not the idea of believing in a higher power or the spiritual realm. It's the idea that there are any differences between those beliefs at all.

There are people on this planet who feel justified in harboring negative feelings about the doctrines of Christianity, Hinduism, Islam, Buddhism, Paganism, and so on. Perhaps they had a bad experience with someone who claimed to practice that faith. Maybe it was a series of hurtful actions committed against them that were "done in accordance with" some sort of doctrine. Or it might just be an intense desire to be different and break away from the person they once were.

I'm not going to deny that "religious" people do bad things. Some use the "scriptures" to justify horrendous acts against humanity. There are certainly enough interpretations of "holy teachings" to make your head spin. Not all of it makes sense. Some of it resonates. A lot of it makes you question the meaning of existence.

But what I've noticed from my own spiritual experiences and the readings I've done from different religious "scriptures" is that they're really all the same. We humans are more than what we see in our individual mirrors each morning. We're all connected to something that is unseen and yet very alive and real at the same time.

The death of Jesus is as much a symbol of transformation as is the Buddhist teaching of enlightenment. Perhaps I'm oversimplifying. However, to me the idea that we can be changed and released from the negative thoughts and labels that aren't who we really are deserves to be celebrated. There's hope in that message. Some interpret one doctrine as someone else doing it for us. The other doctrine is often interpreted as a self-journey; something self-initiated and done for one's own self.

I say there's another way to look at both of those interpretations. Yes, Jesus made a sacrifice. But that sacrifice was an example of what can be. The believer still has work to do; their own work and self-journey that brings them to that same point of spiritual resurrection and transformation. They are not "rescued" unless they choose to be.

I think the second set of believers are right about transformation being a choice and something that must be accomplished within one's own "spirit," if you will. But that transformation doesn't happen alone. How could it? For no one exists as a single person. Everyone is each other and a part of something that doesn't have an end and doesn't have a beginning.

Life; Consciousness; God; Jesus; Allah; Buddha; The Source; Mother Earth. Whichever name you choose, it is all Truth.

The Bright Side of Disappointments

Each day I become more convinced that there are no accidents. We stumble onto books, films, art, jobs, companies, and situations that teach us something about ourselves. The hardest lesson, I think, is when we stumble onto another person who gets us to reexamine a piece of ourselves we'd rather leave hidden in the shadows.

They may come in the form of an overbearing parent who doesn't understand us, an unlikely friendship that causes us to awaken to a parallel choice and consequential loss, or a mentoring source of support that pushes us because they know we're limiting our own capabilities. The most difficult ones are those that end up disappointing us.

We have our hopes high. We take a chance. We think this might lead to something good and beneficial. There's possibility and the idea that we might just finally find what we've been yearning for.

In middle school there was this boy. He lived around the corner and he was of course one of the popular ones; a preppy jock type. This is the type that I'm still ridiculously drawn to today, even though I know that self-absorbed, superficial jerks and compassionate, absent-minded, random, self-contained creatives tend to not mix.

Anyway, we were friends for the most part. We talked and joked around in class. We helped each other with the parts of our schoolwork we didn't understand. We liked each other. He used to follow me to the nearby park, trying to appear somewhat nonchalant as he made his brothers tag along. Sometimes he would hide up in the tree in his backyard and tease me as I walked past his street on my way home. We even held hands once on the field at school.

But our would-be romantic montage was suddenly interrupted by the blonde. Her parents allowed her to wear heavy makeup and tons of hair spray. It was the late 80s and Aqua Net, teased hair, and pore clogging base were still in. She didn't have much substance as I recall and their "middle school crush" was more of a display for his father who didn't approve of his "all-star athlete" son liking the "smart girl," with the "reading glasses." Not to mention, I never caught on to the "teased hair, heavy makeup" look. In short, the blonde was a "better" trophy.

Good thing young hearts are so resilient. Five months later I was completely over him and when I ran into him in high school and later in college, I couldn't quite figure out what I ever saw in his 7th and 8th grade self. The only regret I had was that my younger self didn't think she was as worthy as his "blonde trophy" at the time.

Despite his obvious lack of good judgment, that boy still managed to do me a favor. Besides the fact that I might have ended up in a miserable, unfulfilling teenage romance, I discovered that I was ok with being me. I knew that I didn't want to change my outward appearance or my inward one either just so I could be someone else's arm candy.

Disappointments aren't meant to hurt us. So much of life is a process of trial and error that it doesn't really matter if someone decides that we aren't going to "suit" them. It usually means that they're there to help us figure out what it is that will eventually fit us.