Leana Delle

A friend of mine gave me a book this week. “The Untethered Soul” by Michael A. Singer. I’m only a few chapters in, but it already resonates with me. In it he talks about our inner voice. You know, the one that never shuts up? The narrator of everything we’re looking at, feeling, and trying to make sense of? Everyone’s got one that seems to continually judge and criticize ourselves and others.

“How would you feel if someone outside really started talking to you the way your inner voice does?” the author asks. “How would you relate to a person who opened their mouth to say everything your mental voice says?”

Hmm. Interesting question. I knew right away that such a person would be intolerable, which led to an experiment. Today, while driving around doing errands, I decided to audibly speak what my inner voice was saying. My God, there wasn’t a moment’s rest! I mean, not one second went by when the car wasn’t filled with chatter. I literally wanted to slap myself. Just imagine that scene.

It may seem silly, but I’m glad I did it. I mean, I wouldn’t spend ten minutes with someone who never shut up and threw negative what ifs at me with every new idea or concept that crossed my mind. Why in hell do we allow ourselves to spend a lifetime putting up with that crap?

I also had a big AHA moment today related to this. I realized that when I’m writing the inner voice shuts up. Amazing, don’t you think? Is that the true definition of passion then? Is that what signifies a life purpose? The thing that stops the incessant narrator? I’m beginning to believe it is. This would also explain why – as a society – we do everything in our power to distract ourselves; often in extremely unhealthy ways.

Start paying attention to the messages your inner voice is sending and, more specifically, if there are any activities that make it disappear. You’re not that voice. You’re everything good that’s beyond it.

 

Photo credit: Roma Assaff

Well, I did it. Eighteen years without a dog, and this weekend I brought one home. Toby is a Lhasa Apso/Pomeranian mix, and he’s three years old.

 

What possessed me to make such a huge decision all of a sudden? Well, I’d been missing my ex’s Lhasa something awful, and every place I looked there seemed to be signs – like the flyer in my apartment building lobby offering walking/babysitting services in-house. Not to mention the continuous nagging from my friend Jason to bite the bullet and bring home the love (this is ultimately his fault). But, he was right.

Remember the trip to Haiti? The one that I went on to kickstart my compassion? It worked, and my heart’s been opening up in weird and wonderful ways since. This is just part of that journey. Admittedly, the reason I’ve not gotten a dog before this is because I feared the eventual loss. Is that any way to live? For a risk taker, no less? No, it most certainly is not.

So, here I sit on the sofa writing alongside my new partner. We’re both adjusting. He’s feeling blue, because he misses his previous home. I’m feeling melancholy, because he reminds me of my ex’s dog. In the midst of our personal angsts, we’re ironing out the details of our new committed relationship and becoming increasingly more attached. Soon he’ll figure out that I’m never going anywhere, and soon we’ll be inseparable.

A new chapter (writers love new chapters), and he’ll get to hear a lot of those while I read out loud to him during edits. Now if you’ll excuse us, it’s time for our W-A-L-K.

Is it really the end of October? Seriously? Yike!

Okay, so I’m not a huge fan of Halloween. It all feels like a consumer based marketing scheme to me, and it’s just plain unhealthy. Loved it as a kid; why wouldn’t I? Candy? Costumes? Pumpkins? It rocked, and I still have fond memories of knocking on doors while my dad kept a protective eye from the sidewalk. Still, I don’t look forward to the 31st of October. Not in the least.

Yesterday I found out that we had to dress up for work today. Just imagine my excitement. I tried prepping last night, but my heart wasn’t in it, so I scrambled this morning to pull together a costume. Odd how so much of my wardrobe resembles a gypsy, or maybe not so much. Regardless, that’s what I ended up as.

It struck me when I got home tonight how we don costumes every day. I’m forever going through my closet to express my feelings du jour, or to find the appropriate ensemble to satisfy social expectations. It’s all costume. It’s all Halloween. It’s all about being the thing that gets you candy.

What if there wasn’t any candy to be had? What if we just walked out the door in the morning with no paycheck to bring home, no doors to knock on, no him or her to impress, no acceptance to garner? What if we just showed up as us?

Today, while I was dressed up as someone else at work, I thought a lot about authenticity. Tonight, while I was working at my keyboard and feeling authentic, I thought a lot about costumes. I live for those moments now when I’m completely unaware of what I’m projecting. When I’m in the writing zone, time is non-existent, and I’m completely unaware of my physical self. This is why writers write, painters paint, singers sing, and golfers golf. It’s why we pursue the thing that haunts us. If you haven’t had this experience for yourself, I strongly suggest that you knock on a few doors until you find it. The treats can be obtained with tricks – trust me on this.

 

Goodness – this one took forever to write. I’m sure that my experiences in Haiti will be popping up in future blogs, but right now I feel the need for an extended absorption phase. I need to keep my memories close and protected; cradle them in a sense, like I wanted to do with each child I saw there.

What I would like to share is how it feels to leave Haiti. Not that you ever really leave Haiti – God knows it never leaves you. And, I will be going back there at some point; there’s no question in my mind. Before our flight took off a few days ago, however, I wasn’t the least bit ready to board. Ironically, somewhere around the third day, I couldn’t imagine lasting the remainder of the week in that place. But by the end of it all, packing to head home pained me.

If you’ve read my last few posts, you’ll know that one of my many reasons for going was to give myself a much needed boost in compassion. I wanted to feel the reality of the suffering there. I wanted to be open to it instead of keeping people at arms length. Well, I got that boost – and then some. When the tears threatened, I gave them full license to fall, and I asked for hugs instead of hoping someone might notice my need for one.

At the end of it all, I slid into my window seat on our scheduled flight and watched as the coastline faded out of view. Eventually all I could see were clouds that looked just like the ones floating above North American privilege.

I thought about the soulful eyes that had searched deep into mine throughout the week; eyes that had seen too much and expected so little.

I yearned for a hot shower and a familiar bed and felt guilty knowing I’d soon have both. And I prayed for the girl who has panic attacks each night since the earthquake, and the woman whose breasts ache under the pressure of tumors that are too far advanced for treatment. So many stories, so much suffering, and yet – so much love.

Without celebration or fanfare, a graduation took place on that flight home. Graduation from an accelerated personal growth program. My classmates were made up of a phenomenal team of professionals who were all there for a common good. Also mentioned in previous posts is the fact that I’ve never had a real passion for nursing. This past week, however, was the proudest I’ve ever been to wear a stethoscope around my neck. Ironically, I experienced this pride without anyone paying me for my time. I, in fact, paid out of pocket to participate. How’s that for a life lesson?

We’re now wrapping up our travels on the outer banks of NC, and will be hitting the road back to Canada this morning. It’s been a phenomenal trip; one that will stay with me always. Now it’s back to creativity with a renewed spirit.

 

 

Getting to Haiti proved to be an effort. While visiting friends in Nashville, I sprained an ankle. Then our initial transfer flight out of Miami got cancelled entirely, which turned into an entire day at the airport, a three hour sleep in a casino, and our second 2:30 a.m. wake-up call in two days, but…

…we did eventually arrive on Friday morning and were whisked off to a scheduled visit at an orphanage. “Whisked” meaning the men were put into the back of a pick-up truck, while the women sat in a caged version of the same. There was a lot of chatter and anticipation on our way there, so I didn’t really absorb much of Port-Au-Prince.

Once on site, the team’s orchestration of setting up unfolded like a page in a pop-up book. In no time at all, we had a fully functioning dental office, doctor’s office, pharmacy, lab, and eye exam station where school rooms and empty corridors had been moments before. Impressive to say the least, and all-in-all we saw 108 children that day, each of whom graced us with the gift of themselves. Despite the atrocious living conditions these kids endure, love and gratitude spilled out of them in the absence of tears.

I suppose I suffered from a bit of shock that first day, because it took a while for it to all sink in. I did what I had to do at the orphanage in an almost euphoric state. The trip had been planned for a long time, and I’d made it here. I was helping. Oh, look at me. It wasn’t until the ride back to the hotel that it really hit.

Poverty has taken on a whole new meaning since my arrival here, and – as a result – so has excess (not that I had much use for it before). The roads are in disrepair and resemble plaque filled arteries awaiting an infarct. Cars, trucks, motorcycles, people, dogs, chickens, goats… and honking. My God, the honking – which seems to be as much about saying “Go ahead,” and “Thank-you,” as it is about annoyance. Then there’s the dust from all of this mayhem. It coats the leaves on the trees as high up as ten or twelve feet, and each Haitian wears it like a second skin.

Tent cities – like the one we visited this morning – seem to appear out of nowhere, and the stench of human waste can be overwhelming in the oppressive heat. These makeshift communities are nestled in amongst graffiti covered buildings. Most of those look like they’re on the verge of collapse. The actual “tents” remind me of all that these people have been through: earthquakes, floods, starvation, disease. The fact that we can globally go about our business of consumerism, while allowing human beings around the world to suffer like this, is what brought me to tears that day. Until you see it for yourself, the magnitude is incomprehensible.

I am forever changed by this experience. Not only by the fact that the lives of these people are so destitute, but because the smiles continue. Amidst the suffering, their graffiti professes God’s love, and their eyes light up in the face of kindness. Dust may cover this nation’s people, but it does not coat their spirit in any way.