Posts Tagged ‘inspiration’
Cindy on April 14th, 2011
The eye is meant to see things. The soul is here for its own joy.” –Rumi
For collectors of inspirational quotes, the ecstatic poems of the Persian mystic Rumi are pure gold. I find most of my favorites in one of the finest anthologies of Rumi’s work, The Soul of Rumi, translated by the incredible Coleman Barks. “The Soul is here for its own joy” is such a powerful line that I just had to use it in a collage earlier this year.
Click on the images for a detailed view. You’ll note that the dress was assembled from magazine ads and scraps of wrapping paper. The word “ops” appears on the elbow of the figure. This was totally unintentional; I didn’t notice it until after I layered another coat of glaze on the piece. Talk about a message for a recovering perfectionist! 
Cindy on August 13th, 2008
Retirement has been a discovery of beauty for me. I never had the time before to notice the beauty of my grandkids, my wife, the tree outside my very own front door. And, the beauty of time itself.” ~Hartman Jule
Not long ago, Jamie Lee Curtis — a terrific role model for 50-something women — told reporters she was no longer accepting movie roles. She would focus, instead, on spending more time with her family and writing children’s books — so, of course, this didn’t mean she was “retiring.” Curtis has another life — a richly textured life. Regardless, when most of us walk away from major careers, we typically think of ourselves as “retired,” and we have to craft a whole new self image, not to mention a reason to justify our very existence.
Ours is a workaholic culture. While Baby Boomers give lip service to the theory that leisure is good for us, we’re not very good at practicing it. Few of us like to use the words “retired” or “retirement.” Retirement wears the dubious sheen of laziness, suggesting too many hours spent dangling in a hammock or schlepping around a golf course. And if you’re still unable to think outside the old corporate box, you might assume that being retired means you’ve shed your usefulness.
I had this same conversation with a “semi-retired” neighbor I spotted yesterday on my morning bike ride. My neighbor was walking his dog, looking unusually relaxed and happy. Now in his late fifties, my neighbor found himself in “early retirement” when his company downsized two years ago. This year, he’s been working at a part-time job, just two days a week. He spends the rest of his time focusing on interests he’d postponed for years — fly fishing, reading, spending more time with his wife. Of course, he’s had to readjust his budget (like most retirees) but his youngest kid just finished college and his family can manage, he said. His wish list always included studying the major literary classics — and for the first time in ages, he’s making progress. Life is good now, he said, but it took a while for him to adjust to a new rhythm — and a different view of himself. I know exactly what he meant.
I’m thinking of the time, back in the 1990s, when I lost a magazine editorship I’d held for nearly six years. (The magazine had won awards and was respected by its industry and its readers, but, as the old story goes, advertisers weren’t keeping it afloat.) Until the magazine folded, I hadn’t realized how tightly my self image had been tied to my illustrious title of “Editor in Chief.” Even though I was a devoted wife, mother, and homemaker, I listed my editorship at the top of my resume and mentioned it first when people at cocktail parties would ask, “What do you do?”
As my semi-retired friend and I agreed, if we are people of any depth, we are not what we do. Call it what you will — job loss or retirement — career change shakes up our way of being and forces us to re-examine who we are without our labels. Career change invites us to reinvent ourselves, make new discoveries, and even to become three-dimensional at last. Scary? Yes, but also very exciting. — Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on August 12th, 2008
For me, the highlight of vacationing on Lake Michigan is the rare chance to collect my wits and a few beach stones. More adventurous souls will dive into its frigid waves or race motor boats and jet skis. Others might charter a boat and fish its waters for the evening’s dinner. But I’d rather mine the shore for treasures.
Early morning is the best time to hunt for beach stones. The water is usually calm, your outlook is refreshed, and, if you’re really lucky, fellow beachcombers are still asleep. Rising with the sun, you’ll get first pick of the gems that rolled in with the tide.
It’s always a thrill to uncover exceptional Petoskey stones, which seem to be rare these days. But don’t overlook the subtle beauty of milky quartz, and keep an eye out for perfect skipping stones that were tumbled smooth by the waves. Look closely, and you’ll find beach stones imprinted with fossils, some bearing an uncanny resemblance to ancient tablets carved with runes or hieroglyphics. Others are miniature works of art — and you’d swear they’d been painted by an Asian calligrapher. As many Northern Michigan jewelers have already discovered, some of these beauties are worthy of stringing on a necklace.
During a visit to the Sleeping Bear National Lakeshore, where I celebrated my fiftieth birthday, it occurred to me that collecting beach stones is a bit like crafting a life. You have to remain grounded and focused, yet always open to new possibilities.
For starters, you need deep pockets to collect your bounty. And you must begin your quest believing that you’ll be rewarded with more than you bargained for. If you focus solely on the obvious — Petoskey stones, for instance — you might miss the other jewels of the lake. In my search for something rare or perfect, I’ve nearly overlooked other stones of great beauty and character.
And as every seasoned beachcomber knows, the rippling water teases like a mirage, making it hard to see things as they really are. I’ve rescued many stones that looked tempting under water, but were lackluster when they dried in the sun. Some were merely pieces of beach glass — seductive in their own right, but still inauthentic.
Selecting beach stones, in fact, is a bit like choosing what’s essential in life: friends, partners, an education, satisfying work, a spiritual path, and a place to call home. It’s wise to make these choices slowly and carefully; to consider what feels right, lasting, and true.
As the cliché goes, it’s possible to have too much of a good thing, and beach stones are no exception. I always end up with too many, and have to edit my finds down to an exemplary few. Otherwise, I’d need a gravel truck to haul them back to Detroit. This is a lesson I need to apply at home, too.
I tend to hang on to some things longer than I should — outdated clothes, shoes, grudges, bad ideas, hairstyles, broken tools, receipts, and stale opinions. Over the years I’ve tolerated things I should have protested — dumb TV shows, junk food, unfair wages, exploitative advertising, and degrading articles in women’s magazines.
Wandering the shore, I ask myself: What is essential now? How much of what I buy do I really need? Whose script am I living? How can I make better use of my time and the blessings I’ve been given? Collecting beach stones, I’m reminded that the second half of life offers the freedom to choose again — to polish, edit, refine and reconsider.
A lone gull takes flight overhead as I re-examine the cool handful of stones I’ve gathered. And once again, I empty my pockets before returning home. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on July 16th, 2008
The sad reality always hits around the middle of July: Summer is at the halfway mark. Taking inventory of what we’ve accomplished since June, we realize how precious little time we’ve spent puttering around the house. Or getting tangled in a daydream while we water the geraniums. Or frittering the better part of an afternoon at a sidewalk café in our own hometown. Wasn’t there a corny old tune about âthe lazy, hazy daysâ of summer?
The first half of June always explodes like a bottle rocket into thin air. Graduation parties, baby showers, outdoor concerts, major-league ball games, and weddings â the season virtually booms with special events and ceremonies. Meanwhile, piles of work await on the desk back at the office.
A friend from Paris tells me that many Europeans use the entire month of July or August as vacation time. While such a long holiday isn’t usually possible for industrious Americans, I’d like to borrow a shorter page from my Parisian friend. Joie de vivre isn’t complicated, she says, but you have to make time for it. And so, before summer packs up its beach bag and clears out for a new school term, I’d like to indulge in a few non-eventful pleasures. Here’s my plan:
–With or without a hammock, I’ll watch more sunsets, spot fireflies, nap with my cats, and contemplate my world by moonlight. I’ll brush up on the names of wild birds and constellations.
–Instead of pulling weeds, or fussing over mildew on my rose bushes, I’ll sit back and admire what I’ve already planted.
–With or without company coming, I’ll cut fresh flowers for the dinner table. At least once, I’ll steam corn on the grill and make lemonade from scratch.
–Once I hit the beach, I’ll hunt for Petoskey stones, skipping stones, beach glass, and perfect pieces of driftwood. I’ll organize a group to float downriver in tubes. Later, if I can stay awake, I’ll go for a midnight swim.
–I’ll rent videos of movie classics I haven’t watched in ages.
–Just for one afternoon, I’ll read a beach-worthy novel that has no redeeming social value while I sunbathe without worrying about skin cancer.
–I’ll ride my bike for an entire morning without checking my watch. Maybe I’ll leave the watch at home.
Even while traveling for pleasure, most of us “schedule” our fun. We make lists of what we’ll accomplish — how much ground we’ll cover — on vacation. Always en route to another big attraction, we snap photographs of beautiful places — but rarely pause to fully appreciate the view. Which is a shame, really, since loafing actually enhances productivity.
âSome of the best thinking we do happens when the conscious mind is on a sabbatical,â Vienne notes in The Art of Doing Nothing (Clarkston Potter). She reminds us that Thomas Edison discovered the light bulb filament âwhile idly rolling kerosene residue between his fingers.â Likewise, Einstein pondered the mysteries of the universe with a cat in his lap. âSo don’t get up yet,â Vienne advises. âContribute to science. Stay prone as long as you can.â
It’s always fun to anticipate and celebrate the major milestones of our lives. But we need a break from âspecialâ events, not to mention a reprieve from all those pithy graduation speeches about beginnings and endings. We need ordinary time. Come August, I want to say good-bye to summer knowing that I’ve squeezed every last drop of its sweetness and savored it all. – Cindy La Ferle
Cindy on July 9th, 2008
In Florida this spring, I finally made my pilgrimage to the tiny island of Captiva, where Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote Gift from the Sea during a brief ocean-side sabbatical. With our only child away at college, it was the first time in years that my husband and I had flown to the Sunshine State by ourselves. And with no plans to tour Disney World. To commemorate the visit, I bought the 50th anniversary edition of Mrs. Lindbergh’s book and a few souvenir shells from the island.
Over the years I’ve collected at least five different editions of Gift from the Sea, and I can’t think of a friend who hasn’t received a copy from me.
First published in 1955, this slim little book spoke volumes to women on the brink of social change â women who were primarily responsible for raising families and conflicted by the “new career opportunities” opening up to them. Using seashells to describe the various stages of a woman’s life, from early marriage to the empty nest, Mrs. Lindbergh gave voice to the ache of the feminine spirit.
Years ahead of its time, Gift from the Sea became a classic among inspirational best-sellers, yet its success always baffled its author. âThe original astonishment remains ⦠that a book of essays, written to work out my own problems, should have spoken to so many other women,â Mrs. Lindbergh admitted twenty years later.
A thoughtful friend suggested the book when I was in my early thirties — when everything in my small universe was spinning faster than I could keep up. I was raising a preschooler. Working as a travel magazine editor and community activist. Learning how to be a wife. And all the while attempting to make a home out of a 1940s handyman special. As much as I’d welcomed so many options and opportunities, I was always too exhausted to understand why I felt something was missing.
Mrs. Lindbergh knew how to explain my dilemma.
âThere are so few empty pages in my engagement calendar,” she wrote. “Too many worthy activities, valuable things, and interesting people. For it is not merely the trivial which clutters our lives but the important as well. We can have a surfeit of treasures â an excess of shells, where one or two would be significant.â
Reading those words again nearly 20 years later, I recall the tremendous sense of relief — the real epiphany — that struck when I first read them. Like most young mothers I knew, I wanted to have it all, but didn’t realize the price I’d pay until I actually got it all. It’s not that I was ungrateful for the life I’d crafted. I loved my husband, my child, my home, my writing career. But I desperately needed balance. Spiritual balance.
Up until then, I’d assumed the contemplative life was the sole province of nuns, monks, or religious hermits. Thanks to Mrs. Lindbergh, I learned that finding time to feed my spirit was a necessity, not a luxury. And it wasn’t simply a matter of reordering my priorities in a day planner. I had to teach myself how to be still in the midst of suburban chaos — if only for a few moments between meeting deadlines and driving my carpool shift.
As Mrs. Lindbergh wrote, my real challenge was âhow to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life….It is the spirit of woman that is going dry, not the mechanics that are wanting; certainly our lives are easier, freer, more open to opportunities. But these hard-won prizes are insufficient because we have not yet learned how to use them.â
On Captiva Island, I had time to revisit these issues from a different perspective. Even now, settled in midlife, I tend to overbook myself with work or social obligations. I often neglect the call of my inner spirit, and make the mistake of confusing my self-worth with my achievements. I need to be reminded, all over again, to slow down long enough to savor what I have.
Fifty years after Gift from the Sea was published, women are still overwhelmed by the banquet of choices available to us. Anne Morrow Lindbergh asserted that we must be the âpioneersâ in the movement toward re-creating lives of grace and harmony. I’m grateful to her for illuminating the trail ahead of us, and for her Gift from the Sea. — Cindy La Ferle
—This essay originally appeared on ReadTheSpirit.com—
For collectors of inspirational quotes, the ecstatic poems of the Persian mystic Rumi are pure gold. I find most of my favorites in one of the finest anthologies of Rumi’s work, The Soul of Rumi, translated by the incredible Coleman Barks. “The Soul is here for its own joy” is such a powerful line that I just had to use it in a collage earlier this year.
