Leisa A. Hammett

Where Am I?

 

Image: DeeLeisaOus Travels, Second Spring on the Sea, Blanchisseuse, Trinidad 

Four-thirty. Still dark. Eyes open. Where am I? What country am I in? What room and whose bed am I tucked into? Ah, yes. I am home. Again. At last. Back from 14 days in Trinidad. But still on Trini time. It's four-thirty here. Sixty-thirty there. Bummer.

Actually, it's my third day back now. The third morning to wake up in my own abode, sans the annoyingly ubiquitous mosquito net. Slowly,I'm merging back from the Zombie woman who slugged through three airports to arrive home Tuesday night. Gratefully, I'm regaining sleep missed due to 3 a.m. village Carnival festivities and anti-histamines and decongestants -- the only, last resort local drugs I could snare to treat my ugly, swelling, screamingly itchy allergic reaction to the feast the local sandflies had on my poor, already unsightly white legs. I've unpacked, done the laundry and like rabbits it's multiplied again, of course. The snail mail is still stacked. I spent six hours, the last two days, attacking the beast of emails and am not done yet. And projects. My ambitious art-autism-community volunteer and work projects are screaming for me to attend to them.

Monday I must attend to my real life and BE caught up from my state of behind-ness. And so this takes me to my wonderful but poorly executed idea of our travel blog, DeeLeisaOus Travels. I blogged daily about our adventure. I took pictures. But now I must hassle with ordering it all, formatting it and posting it for all to see. My live blogging attempt kinda flopped, mostly due to lack of wireless access in the jungle and beach-side villages where we resided the last two weeks. I found the photo upload deathly slow and all my vacation zen evaporated into the jungle the one day I plastered my -- as the Trini say -- "bumper" to the veranda of Asa Wright trying desperately to put some stuff up online. Ordering my blog, splicing in pictures, was just not doable offline. I am totally unimpressed with the performance of Blogger and am toying with starting a new Typepad account for this virgin travel blog. So, bear with me dear readers. Many of you have said you are anxious to read of our journey. Dee likes what I've written and it's infused with his bizarre humor. Good feedback's come from a few others who've peeked. And, I'm kinda partial to it all, too.

So, I'm taking down most of what I posted on DeeLeisaOus Travels and I will be sure to notify my readers here when I pull all factors together and am truly ready to share our cultural immersion experience with you. Back in Music City, the gray curtain that was less than welcoming upon our return, is now projecting wet stuff -- and not the romantic misty jungle-y kind. I find myself with a terrible hankering for an afternoon fresh-picked papaya, pineapple and watermelon smoothie. And, not the kind from a bottle I can get here. Sigh.

Meantime, I'm hankering to post about other things that I can at least get out without additional formatting hassles. So, here I go. Thank you for your patience, support and reading.

Namaste...and whether you travel vicariously through our blog or on your own -- Happy Trails!

"Ell-lo!" Blogging Live From Paradise

 

DeeLeisaous Travels: Maracas Bay 

Finally! @$%*#! At last! I'm blogging live from Trinidad: DeeLeisaous Travels. I'll be away from Journey with Grace until my return stateside. Meanwhile, I'll be blogging at the above site. Maybe. Tally-ho!

Trinidad Or Bust

    Photo: barrowladjohn

Leaving tomorrow. Two Baby Boomers named Dee and Leisa (the latter would be me) will "attempt" to blog about their island adventures at http://www.deeleisaous.blogspot.com/

See the World as Yourself

Photo: kasinka_16

 

"See the world as yourself.

Have faith in the way things are,

Love the world as your self;

Then you can care for all things."  --Tao Te Ching

 

What a meditation to awaken to one recent morning! I confess I've only read paraphrased versions, like Wayne Dyer's of the Tao.  The context of this quote is that it preceded the February 4 meditation from Peaceful Living, Daily Meditations for Living with Love, Healing and Compassion by Mary Mackenzie. 

Last year, I was a member of a Nonviolent Communication group. Launching one of our bi-weekly practice sessions, a member read from this book. Since ordering it, each morning I am refreshed with the wisdom of Nonviolent Communication's creator, therapist Marshall Rosenberg's model. I'm still a newbie, so I paraphrase here. Every human has feelings and needs. These are universal. And, sometimes what we label as feelings and needs are not really such and might even be tools to attempt to manipulate or blame. Once we get in touch with what we are feeling about a particular moment/incident, then identify our need, we can make a request.

So, the author, Mackenzie, has chosen wisely this quote from the Tao. Remembering that we each have value and to remember, even in conflict, it is another human being with whom we are dealing. Another human sharing the same set of feelings and needs. Another person in this world, just like ourselves.

We ARE All One.

Namaste.

*Non-Violent Communication, the book: Nonviolent Communication: A Language of Life

Making Peace Within

I didn't expect to feel REALLY PISSED when I attended the 2nd annual Blissdom, a women's blogging conference, this weekend. What became of my approximately two-hour flash of anger was some deep reflection.

It started with a couple of comments by a woman who authors one of the best written blogs I've discovered on the web: Velveteen Mind. I am a proverbial cyber puppy dog at this woman's feet. Me, normally a woman of confidence and nearly zero introversion, I shy away from even trying to really engage her in conversation face-to-face because...I dunno. I hold her so holy in my small view of the blog world. Because...I think myself not worthy? Ha!? 

Her comments of amazement about the number of people who raised their hands indicating they didn't have custom-designed blog banners got in my crawl. Now, I'm the clear, cognizant owner of my crawl. I'm not blaming Megan for my anger. Inflamed, I yelled out into the crowd: "TIME!" "MONEY!" And as the comment was reiterated toward the end of morning's session I let out a rather profane expletive, turning the heads of those around me. Moments later, I apologized and attempted to tell the women around me  where I was coming from. I proceeded to join Tori at lunch and tell her. And the women I stood before in the lunch line. And, the cheery faced woman at the registration table I passed as I waited to fill my plate with pasta. Then I told myself to SHUT UP! because it was going to sound like I was criticizing Megan and that was not my intent. I knew. I KNEW this was about me. I told all of them this was about me. And then, I got over it. For about oh, 15 to 30 minutes.

And then I thought about what one of the women in line said and I got mad again. She said we need to respect the variety of reasons we are blogging: for fun, a hobby, for profit, etc. Some of us are going to give a damn about blog banners and some of us aren't and those that aren't need to be sprinkled and blessed with acceptance juice.

Me? I want a blog banner. I picked out a designer after the last Blissdom. (Found another one cheaper at this conference, however: domesticchicky.) Don't worry. I'm not going polka-dotted on my readers. Her portfolio boasts the clean design I'm seeking. I started this blog to attract a publisher for my book: The Journey with Grace: A Mother's Reflections on Raising a Child with Autism and to have a paypal site for my daughter's art work, also at www.GraceGoad.com. But life happens. Like: I am living this life about which I write. A single mother. A child with autism. A moderately severe form. I have a life. I exercise. Do yoga. Meditate. Get eight hours of sleep. (This does not make me better, it is just my personal alignment of priorities.) I have clients who pay me. This blog doesn't. And I really don't want to prostitute myself by hosting J.C.Penney ads for polyester elastic-waist pants to earn $2.00 a month profit. This is intended to be a contemplative writing blog. And I'm doing good to just write contemplatively on it. Period. I'm a Baby Boomer. I left the workplace with a word processor in 1991. I missed the revolution. I don't have time to learn techy things that do not come naturally to me and when I have clients -- didn't I mention that? -- that are paying me for print work. Okay. So, I still have a chip on my shoulder here!

As the afternoon launched into another seminar, I realized I felt badly about my visual product here. About my lack of tech finesse. And it comes out in obsessive talk about it and it spurted out yesterday in the form of an expletive and a rant. It. Is. About. Me. The Four Agreements: Take Nothing Personal. 

Then, open to the universe I am to learn from my little outburst of emotion and what was the root of it, my delicious morning meditations book: Peaceful Living, had further clarification for me.  I am a newbie to Nonviolent Communication, or I would have jumped to this sooner. (And not have uttered that cuss word when and how I did.) There is a need unmet in me surrounding the issue of my anger. Anger was the feeling. My unmet need is acceptance, compassion and understanding of what I am experiencing in my life and the challenges it presents to me in my merge into the blogosphere. Just getting in touch with the reality of those very needs I am clear now. I don't have to make a request for acceptance, compassion or understanding from anyone in this case. Except myself. Just realizing the source of my frustration met my needs. I am back to peace. Within. And knowing that I am doing, as Blissdom09 closing speaker, author Jen Lancaster challenged, my very best....I am doing my very best right now. It is not someone else's best. It is mine.

And likewise, kudos to Megan for her role in helping women learn to blog with credibility. I think that is her need: that we all want acceptance within a very -- in my words -- bizarre and crowded, emerging blogosphere.

Namaste. 

Blissful Blogging

Friday and Saturday...

 

blog conference

Winter's Black-tie Wardrobe

 

Photo: mountaingirl4u

Driving west down the scenic highway leading to home, I cross over the Harpeth River. The heater's vigorous exhalations zap the moisture inside the insulated cabin of my car. Only a sheet of metal and glass separate my vulnerable bones and flesh from the gasp-inducing chill of an Elvis-hair black winter night. I am lost yet zooming into this desolate dark save for a seductive sliver of a month's-end moon and my headlights, which illuminate the path leading to my hearth. As I approach my suburban haven, area commercial business lights reveal the sky is actually streaked with brushstrokes of smoky gray clouds. Only winter produces nights this clear. This concoction of pitch dark with an occasional gray.  It's as if the chemistry of the cold produces a deeper black. A color so peaceful and pure, I could keep on driving forever into its depths, guided by that moon and her tiny slip of virgin white flesh.

Flashback

As he left our room, proceeding to another -- with his ever-gentle, zen-like presence -- Dr. Smith looked at me in the eye, smiled and said: "This wouldn't have happened five years ago."  The what would not have happened was my daughter doing as well as she did as he removed two stitches from my her hand while I and two nurses attempted to hold her still. Gary Smith is our dream doctor. Chosen while Grace, now high-school bound, was still in my emerging belly. Chosen for his background in family practice and studies in medical ethics. Didn't hurt he was a good ol' Texas Baylor boy. He's been with us through infancy, the preschool diagnosis of autism, elementary and and now as we wrap up middle school. Always, always indulging me with truckloads of patience as I inevitably cover superfluous topics, dog him with infinite questions, hogging his precious time.

The stitches....We spent the afternoon of our MLK holiday in the ER because of Grace's latest autistic OCD manifestation. She doesn't like that I bend in the lids of the bean cans I open and dump the contents from in our weekly winter concoction of soup.  This time she reached into the trash to straighten out a bent-in lid. And the rest is history.  The gash healed despite of her attempts to pick and pull at the black strings that stitched her small finger together. (Grace is a string addict.) Daily we replaced the bandage and sterilized the wound that wasn't supposed to get wet. For two weeks, we avoided the pool, gave Chinese spit baths and washed her hair at the sink with the spray hose.

Photo:  Musse_

Today, mission accomplished, we left the doctor's office and I took advantage of being in the commercial district of my burb and ran to the office supply warehouse, the post office, the beauty supply and the alterations lady. Yeah, bad mommy confession here. I held her up from going directly to school while I shopped for my convenience that I excuse as mild panic because I'm leaving the country in one week and the to-do list is pregnant and expecting octuplets.

So, running two and fro with my sweet teen (autism, luckily, has a sweet affect on my offspring,) my heart was warmed with fond memories as I saw mothers and their "littles." Mothers bracing February's brutal cold, bending over unbuckling car seats; clutching minuscule hands of little girls dressed in pink; speaking firmly and holding ground with a toddler staging a screaming power play.  A touch of envy, I felt. No, I don't want a baby. No regrets of just one. I just remember so fondly these special times, challenging though they are in many respects. It is a childhood lost. A time gone by that I will never have again.  Listen. Pssst... They grow up so fast. Cherish. If this is you...please cherish the blessings of this small fragment in time. 

A Super Sunday, Potato Chips & The Baptists

"Ding Dong," went the door bell as I was finishing up writing thank you notes to those kind souls who expressed sympathy over my mother's death two months ago.  I was certain the door bell pusher was a Girl Scout. So, as I licked an envelope on the way to the door, I mentally scouted the contents of my wallet to see if I'd have money to make a donation because I don't do cookies. Not in my house. Instead, it was this cool-looking, sunglass bespeckled mother sporting a football jersey and a cute little girl beside her. Both held little white, over-stuffed plastic bags.  A neighbor (mental eyeball roll) wanting me to support her child's private school by buying something I don't need, I thought. Nope. It was the nearby Baptist church delivering a "Super Bowl Sunday snack bag." Clever. The Baptists are really getting the contemporary marketing thing down. I thanked them, closed the door and then immediately dissected the bag: a trivia sheet on the game, a pamphlet telling me how to get to heaven, a New Testament, a package of microwave popcorn ready to pop, peanuts, two fruit-flavored bubble pop suckers and a small bag of Lay's Potato Chips. 

Illustration by: maaralovesyou

These folks did have an impact on me.  Maybe not the one they wanted. Certainly not what I needed...I just entered 4 points into my daily Weight Watchers points log. The chip bag is in the trash. Empty. This. Is. Why. I. Do. Not. Keep. Junk. Food. In. My. House.

From Dark Comes Light

Photo: GlynM

 

"Blessings are often illuminated in darkness." -- Lori Shaw-Cohen

*********************************************************

Lori Shaw-Cohen is a local writer whom I've never met personally. But, we've a bit of a writer mutual appreciation society thing going on. Or, really, I should say I've admired her work so much in Her Nashville that I've written her not one but two fan emails in the magazine's first eight months of publication. Last I wrote, she looked me up and commented, (excerpt above,) on my story in the magazine. I couldn't let a quote like this go unshared here.