We only had fifteen minutes.  “I think we can do this,” I said as we parked our car in the bus station parking lot.  My husband and I hopped out and headed for a lone boulder in the overgrown grass, with comb and scissors in hand.  Alex needed a haircut before returning to San Francisco from Tahoe.  I’ve been cutting his hair for years.

As I worked diligently to finish before the bus arrived a woman approached us, “I don’t know who you are, where you are from, or what you are doing, but would you please give me a haircut?” 

She went on to explain in a shaky voice that she had lost her house and her husband to cancer ten months ago.  Carmelle was living in her van and was about to collect survivor benefits the next day. 

“I just want bangs like I used to have and this weight off of my shoulders.”

How could I say no? 
 
So she took her place on the rock.  I warned her, “You know I’m not formally trained and the wind is blowing pretty hard.”

“Just do it. Please.  I trust you.”  

Each time I asked her for guidance she replied, “I trust you. Do what you think is right.”

In between the silence and her sharing her story of their loving marriage and her hard knocks, she would break into tears, “I can’t believe you are doing this for me.”

I took a big gulp as I cut four inches away from her eyes. 

“You know I used to have dishwater blond hair.  Can you see my roots?”  

I could see her roots, the hardship of the years in her lined face, and the weight she was carrying being lifted with each inch I took off. 

I gave her a final hug and a wish for a lighter new chapter that matched her hair.  She crossed the parking lot, hopped back into her van, and took a peek into her rear view mirror.  I held my breath.  

Carmelle's wide smile and a big thumbs up are still clear in my mind. 

So is the weight of her desperate request. 

We all carry weight. Most of it is hidden from others; we feel it’s ours alone to bear. That impromptu haircut on the boulder showed me that we all can lift the weight of another. We both needed courage: she needed to step out of the van and ask; I needed to say yes and try.

Then came ease . . . connection . . . support . . . relief and an opening to new possibilities.  How can you lift the weight of another?  How can others support you?

I took my daughter down to City Hall on Valentine's Day for One Billion Rising.  As we rode the crowded Muni I looked at her patient innocent face.  She knew I wanted to dance with a bunch of other women I didn't even know.  She knew she had to come with me.  She knew it was about ending violence against women around the world.  

I felt such gratitude that she didn't know the extent of abuse, violence, and oppression that some girls her age experience here in our own city and throughout every country on this planet.

I danced to add my own energy to the collective movement of women rising all over the globe.  And when it was over, walking back to the Muni, holding hands, she said, "Good job, Mom."

I thanked her for the compliment, but then realized I needed to make sure she understood why it really was a good job.  How could I explain how my dancing reduced violence? 

I tried, "In life there is a lot we see that we want to change. It can feel overwhelming and futile.  But when we join together in a collective voice, we are louder, we are seen, we are heard."  She got it.

Dancing with hundreds of others made me want to take a stand more often to help shift the world.  I want my daughters to learn how to act on their desires for change too. 

On March 8 there will be one more Flash Mob in San Francisco.  If you would like to participate, I am teaching the routine next Thursday night, February 21. It's designed for everyone ~ you don't have to be a dancer.  If you just want to dance on that night, please do!  And if you have a daughter, bring her too!

Blessings,
Amy      

What is your relationship with disappointment?  I've had a ring of disappointments enter my radar this month; of my friends, my family, my own.  They each have a familiar beginning and middle: hope, effort, anticipation, disappointment.

The end to these stories tends to be very private. After disappointment, there is a final chapter of processing and healing required to close the loop.

The Olympics was an amazing example of intense disappointment mixed with storybook victory.  I watched with such respect for these athletes.  I would love to read their last chapters to learn more about their relationship with disappointment. I know it's different from mine.

Athletes like gymnast Jordan Jovtchev from Bulgaria in his 6th Olympic games, train their whole life to “succeed” or to “fail”, staring disappointment squarely and publicly in the face, over and over.

I’m in a different camp.  I seem to work around potential life disappointments, living safely and predictably. Whenever I attempt to avoid disappointments, I ultimately create them, in the form of regret.  

So how do we create a healthy relationship with disappointment?

Buddhism has a basic belief that disappointment is caused by attachment to expectations - the root of human suffering.  

But how do we manifest a full life and detach ourselves from it at the same time?

How do we find the motivation to fuel our hard work without having expectations about the outcome?

Is life supposed to be just a wait-and-see exercise with pleasant surprises sprinkled in?

How do we let go of expectations without feeling stagnant or unfocused?

Maybe a healthy relationship with life and its disappointments means facing this emotion directly, regularly, and consciously.

• Loosening the grip of our dreams and desires without losing sight of them, so we can better appreciate the journey while still steering our life.
   
• Being more comfortable putting ourselves out there and then letting go, trusting the unfolding of life.

If we want to go for a medal in any area of our lives, we need to practice being vulnerable and strengthening our core sense of “wholeness” regardless of the outcome.

The spirit of Sunday's Closing Ceremonies embodied the Last Chapter we all want to write. It's about celebrating our best efforts, embracing those who land "ahead" and "behind" us, having mutual respect for our collective journey and honoring all of our courage along the way.

Let my life become ~

The unfolding of me.

A winding path to my inner content.

A daily blessing that I recognize.

An inner wisdom from my own life lessons.

A redefinition of achievement.

A full experience of love.

An unexpected garden of inspiration.

A freedom in knowing myself.

A refined focus on balance.

A constant wave of kindness that carries others.

A contributing part of the greater journey for all.

A beautiful becoming.

Blessings,
Amy

ps. This unexpected vertical garden is on the side of Drew High School in San Francisco.

It was a full moon last night.  My eight-year-old daughter religiously put her shoes by the front door for the Full Moon Fairy to deliver money by morning.  I’m not sure where she was introduced to this tradition, but it doesn’t much matter.  It is about hope and magic - two beautiful elements of childhood that get diluted as we grow.

Hope is important.  It can hold you up, center you, move you forward, or calm you down.  Hope is desire.  It can be as light as a breath blowing out a birthday candle or from your deepest place inside. Hope is a yearning with a bright light in the middle; it’s a steady glow that brings us energy.

Magic is all about being open. Open to the unknown, to the unseen, to what feels bigger than our intellect can grasp. It is about the unexplained, the mysterious, the serendipitous.  You can’t control it.  In fact, there’s a greater chance for it to show up in your life if you let go, close your eyes and let it happen.

Hope and magic are about trusting the unseen.  

I caught a glimpse of the beautifully round illuminating moon last night.  I saw it in its fullness and its softness.  I felt its glow.  

I invite you to peek at the moon tonight.  Breathe energy into your own place of hope.  And receive the moon’s invitation to trust.  You may even want to leave your shoes at the door.