Finding Fortune

My father has been dead for many years, but if I were to glance up and find him sitting on my couch, legs propped on my coffee table, swearing at a Lakers game, I would not be shocked.

He might be physically absent from my world, but he still lives with me, like all the other members of my family.  He occupies a space within.  A space reserved just for him.  And from that space he looks at me with love.  Brings me a glass of water in the middle of the night.  Marvels at the humour and the height of the grandson he never met. Smiles at the wisdom of the granddaughter who keeps a photograph of him on her desk. And tells me, in that way he had of telling me, all the words he still wants me to hear.

His voice is clear. Deep. A Philly drawl sprinkled with twenty years in London. He says things like:
"Did you get a load of that kid?" (usually referring to a forty-five year old man)
"The sun is shining, it's a beautiful day - what more could I want?" (this after he left London)
"Jesus Christ!" ( loudly under his breath, not worshipping, but condemning any unsuspecting fellow diner who dared sneeze too close to him in a restaurant).

And the one that stays with me the most, like the surprising slip of a fortune that you carry home from dinner in your pocket and tape optimistically to your mirror, "The worst thing that ever happened to me turned out to be the best..."

I loved those words.  I still do.

My father repeated those words when I was forced to wear an embarrassing patch over the left lens of my glasses.  When I didn't get elected for middle school student body president (and he had designed all of the campaign posters). When the short waiter with the limited vocabulary stamped on my heart.  When I was rejected from my first choice university. He didn't live long beyond my university years, but his words continue to resonate.

For him that tenant was tried and true. His greatest professional failure led him to escape across the Atlantic, where he reinvented himself, fell in love with my mother, and had the family he never imagined he would at the age of fifty - the best.

When a promising opportunity I felt certain would materialise, disintegrated painfully at the end of last year, my father's words floated into my head.  There he was, comfortable on my couch, chin propped on his hand, reassuring me.  Life doesn't always take you where you want it to.  Destinies have a way of swerving and revealing views you never imagined encountering.  Stay open.  Stay receptive.  "The worst thing that ever happened to me turned out to be the best, kid".  I know those words inevitably won't always ring true; life is infinitely complicated and often brutal. But I'm still listening. Still hopeful. I still want to believe for all of us that shadows can shape shift, letting in light where you least expect it.

Do my father's words hold any meaning for you?

What is written on your crumpled fortune cooke slips?  Whose words stay with you when you really need to hear them, and how have they reverberated in your life?

Be brave and share your stories - they are the fragments that make you whole. Write down whatever arrives and welcome in the person who passed them on.

In Need of a Get Together

I remember when I first heard the term 'inner child', I pictured a pouting toddler, curled forward, arms hugging her knees. She was crouched somewhere deep inside of me, behind my ribs, peeking through the gaps like they were slatted window blinds.  I felt unnerved by her presence.  Did she need a snack?  A cuddle? Someone to play with?  It was hard enough meeting the needs of my own two children and suddenly I had a third small person to worry about.  One who didn't speak much but had the whole of my history wrapped quietly around her tongue.

When I was training to be a therapist we were encouraged to have a dialogue with our inner child. Good luck.  Mine was uncooperative. She hid her face. Gazed at me with pleading eyes. Begged me silently to put her to bed and concentrate instead on being the 'outer grown-up' I was supposed to be. I soon realized she wasn't alone in there. She was hanging out with my 'inner control freak', my 'inner debbie downer', my 'inner hopeless romantic', my 'inner moody adolescent' and my 'inner catastrophist'. They were all having a fine old time.

Trying to get the attention of my tenants was a bit like attempting to recite poetry at rave. My inner child might have been monosyllabic, but the rest of them were a raucous crowd - constantly jostling to be heard.

We all have busy interiors. Different psychological paradigms assign this phenomenon varying labels  (ego states and sub personalities to name a few). Whatever you wish to call them, our chaotic internal get togethers are often a result of neglected aspects of ourselves battling for the limelight.

Start to listen to the voices. Establish firm guidelines. I learnt not to let Debbie Downer and Hopeless Romantic meet for breakfast on Valentines Day, no matter how much they petitioned - it was never pretty. Catastrophist was banned from reading the newspapers for a little while and Control Freak was surprisingly calm when I instructed her to keep typing and stop tidying. I started dragging Adolescent to gigs with me and she stopped sulking about all the endless Saturday nights spent watching 'The Love Boat'. I bought Child the dog she had been longing for, and we took a daily walk through the wooded trees in the park. Gradually she began to chat. She whispered a few secrets to me about connecting with my own children as well; secrets I had very nearly forgotten.

Ignoring the needy parts of ourselves will always have a consequence. Start tuning in to the voices in your head. Use your writing to help you hear what they have to say. Take a roll call. Write a dialogue between them all - is it a comical farce or a tension fuelled drama? Notice who's mssing. Is there an aspect of yourself that you need to make more space for?  Write them an entrance.

Share your findings!  Post snippets of your dialogue in the comments section or simply let me know your thoughts about your own internal meet ups.  Be playful - create an imaginary Facebook page for your various aspects or write about what they might Tweet to each other.  Don't over think this.  Just write... and report back!

PS. Hopeless Romantic would like to wish you a "Very Happy Valentines Day!"
PPS. Debbie Downer and her new friend Sarcastic Susan would like to add (rolling their eyes in unison) "Whatever!"

Goldilocks and the Three Apples

Goldilocks bolted down her block, her heart beating rapidly.  She was on her way to the mall with a fist full of crumpled money and a head full of chocolate brown Ugg Boots.  So what if her mother was expecting her to return home with five rotisserie chickens for her granny's book club?  She had alternate plans and a vast imagination. She'd simply explain to her mother that a lone dark wolf, also apparently hosting a book club that afternoon, had unexpectedly apprehended her, grabbing the chickens and fleeing with such speed that he'd flown right out of his boots.

Chocolate brown UGG boots to be precise.  Delicious!

Talking of, she was a little hungry. She'd rushed out this morning neglecting to eat breakfast.  Not surprisingly, Golidilocks skidded to a cartoon halt as she passed a neighbour's house and was arrested by a comforting, oaty smell wafting from under their front door.  Her mother liked to call this 'getting distracted' but Goldiocks preferred to think of it as 'staying curious'.

She knew the house belonged to The Bears.  She had often seen them sitting in their minivan programming their sat nav.

Goldilocks decided to stop for a moment. Just a wee moment. Her stomach was leading the way. She pressed her nose to the window mesmerised. All three Bears were at the breakfast table.  Daddy Bear on his MacBook Air, Mummy Bear on her iPad and Baby Bear on his iPod Touch.

They were so engrossed, they didn't notice Goldilocks in the window, her face like a flattened pancake.
They were so engrossed, they had left three untouched, tasty, nourishing bowls of porridge growing lonely and cold in front of them.
They were so engrossed, that they paid no attention when Goldilocks ever so quietly opened the front door and silently slid into the house and under the table.

First, she coiled her arm up like a snake and snuck a smidgen of porridge from Daddy Bear's bowl  (he was scrolling through pictures on Facebook and feeling mildly envious of Larry's new young wife.)

Goldilocks spat it out! Yuck!  There was nothing that irked her more than lukewarm, lumpy porridge!

She scooched over to Mummy Bear to try her luck.  Mummy Bear was busy tweeting a picture of her porridge to her 9,781 followers.

Goldilocks gagged. Another mouthful of disgusting tepid goo.

Lastly, Goldilocks crawled towards Baby Bear, who was playing Angry Birds and looking just as furious.  She reached up her hand and dipped in the spoon.  When the porridge arrived on her tongue - it was perfect.  Just the right temperature.  Creamy and delicious.  She rescued the bowl and gobbled the remains, savouring the milky warmth.

When Goldilocks finished, she tugged at Baby Bear's shoelace. Perhaps the Wolf with the chicken fetish and the chocolate brown Uggs could wait for another hour or so? Baby Bear slammed down his iPod and grunted, but when he saw Goldilocks under the table clutching the empty bowl, he smiled mischievously. At last, a real person to play with who didn't have an annoying squawk and a constantly furrowed brow. He hadn't wanted to eat his porridge anyway.  The only thing he'd asked for that morning was - an Apple.

THE END

The moral of this story? Keep your imagination limber. Stay Curious.  Seek out human connection.  And most importantly - DON'T LET YOUR PORRIDGE GROW COLD AND LUMPY!

Writing Prompt for today: Recreate a mini fairytale.  Be adventurous - let the story lead you. And /or write about curiosity.  Do you have enough of it?  Are you curious about the world around you?  Other people?  What would you like to find out more about? Curiosity fuels both our writing and our sense of self.

I'm loving your stories and responses in the comments section, and I've no doubt that each one spurs on the next.  Keep them coming! Everything you send is received with gratitude and interest.