Freedom. Love. Change.

“I just want more freedom.”

This is coming from my seven-year old son. He may be talking about permission to play video games ad nauseam, but I can still relate to his plea.

I’m thinking, “Welcome to life as a human.

But instead I tell him that he can have more freedom by showing me he can make appropriate choices. That the more responsible he is, the more freedom he gets. This is a concept for Jeb and the only way he’ll get it is by living the experience. So I try to give him chances to be responsible and feel more freedom.

Houdini
Houdini

In my own world – in my own head and heart – it’s not as simple as the power switch on a hand-held video game device (or is it?). No, my trappings seem far more elusive and complex. How do I break free?

Yesterday morning, just before waking I was gifted this cryptic dreamy scene. I’m opening a book with the word Ho’oponopono on the cover. Inside are listed some simple sentences that comprise the premise of this practice of healing and forgiveness. I don’t remember all of the sentences but I do remember one constant affirmation that was printed repeatedly, as a mantra.

“Things change.”

After waking I was curious, and found a video of an interview with Dr. Hew Len, a man known for his work with Ho’oponopono in a psychiatric ward. The story goes that he simply meditated on the files of the patients in his office and slowly, one by one, they got well and were released.

His perspective is that we are all living on ‘data’ that is memory from the past in our sub-conscious, which is playing out in the present. This information shows up as a kind of out picturing in our external world, which reveals to us the places within ourselves that are not clear.

He asks, “Have you ever noticed that whenever there’s a problem, there you are?”

His perspective is that peace begins with each of us and this can occur by taking 100% responsibility for everything that happens in our reality.

There are four phrases involved:

I love you
I’m sorry
Please forgive me
Thank you

I’m not well-versed in the principles of Ho’oponopono or on Dr. Hew Len, himself. But I do know that in my dream book the other morning, one of my sentences was “I love you”. Followed by “Things change.” Was it a hybrid of a Hawaiian healing technique and the Buddhist teachings of impermanence emerging in my REM state?

Whatever it is, I do know that I don’t know much about any of this. But I don’t really sense that these realms involve a lot of intellectual understanding.

This all seems to be based in the heart. Sourced in an exalted form of love. Lived with a surrender, knowing that nothing stays the same. An acceptance that all is constantly changing.

Was Houdini really magic or was he just an expert at stashing keys? I don’t think it matters how he unlocked himself from all those shackles, he still did it with amazing skill. I’ll take the keys to freedom and won’t consider it cheating if they work to unlock anything that’s trapping me.

As for Jeb, he gets opportunities for responsibility in doses that match his developmental stage.

Me, I’d like to think I’m mature enough for 100% responsibility. Yet, it’s so easy to think that some heavy, rusty chain is keeping me stuck. That I simply don’t have the tools to free myself. But maybe that’s just not true.

Maybe it starts with knowing I have the power to choose. That any problem that arises can become a friend, if I use it as a way to clear more of the old away. Let it forge a path that opens to the new.

What would life be like if we could say “I love you” to every fear that gripped us? What if every irritant, every problem, was a guidepost on the path to infinite freedom?

What if we believed the truth of transformation?  The possibility of that one constant:  all things change.

Card Games, Prophesies and Sunday Afternoons

Before 9am, Jeb has taken me to a beach I’ve never been to in all of my 15 years on the island. Nothing like letting the next generation lead the way.Jessica Dofflemyer - all rights reserved

It’s an interesting Sunday. We pass through manicured lawns to remote coves. Talk about the Mayan prophesies of 2012 (kids at school are telling Jeb he’ll die in 3 months from a great flood).

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reservedTake recycling to the transfer station.

Get home by 10:30 in time to go through a restore process on my iPhone while Jeb deals a game of Uno. It seems the magic carpet has now become host to family card games.

I’ve got a load of laundry in the washer and some dishes in the sink.

Jeb’s playing with our neighbor’s cat on the balcony, who has been dubbed “Agent 5” (a partner in some spy mission I am not privy to). Apparently, Agent 5 made a run for it, as Jeb describes some sort of typical, cat-like leap from great heights that landed Agent 5 deftly, but distant, from Jeb’s grasp.

iPhone says “sync is in progress” as Uno calls. Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved

To be honest, I’m taking a look at that bottle of Patron and wondering if a weekend cocktail may be in my future.

It’s Sunday, 2011. Jeb’s seven, going on eight. We’re home with no big plan.

I try to soak in this day at 11:22am. Sync is complete. Daily Chronicle, chronicled.

Time, space and Mayan calendars. Laundry, Uno and Agent 5. These days will never come again.

Love, love, love it.

Magic Carpet

Throughout history humans have desired to elevate their gravity-weighted frames. Transport themselves across spaces. Be like birds.

Long before airplanes and hot air balloons, the magic carpet provided a comfy seat in which legendary nomads could glide the skies.

art by Viktor Vasnetsov

What was that essence of the rug that made it able to defy the laws of physics? Was it about the intricate weave in which the artisan painstakingly looped for days, weeks, years? Was there a power in the patterned story told by thousands of threads? Did that tale give life to an otherwise inanimate object? Give a force so great, through a tradition so long-held, that it simply carried those adventurers via magical flight?

I definitely believe in magic. Though in my case, my grandmother’s carpet traveled thousands of miles through the traditional route – I think…

Boxed, taped and stamped with Delivery Confirmation, it drove as cargo via the US Postal Service to a dock in California where it was to be put on a boat to sail to my little island. With the assistance of modern technology, it was supposed to be able to be tracked along its journey via the internet, trailing each outpost where it stopped, until it finally moved out to sea.

Somewhere in transit it fell off the radar. No tracking information was available and the carpet seemed to have simply vanished. Maybe it was as rebellious as some of my family members. Perhaps it just gave Big Brother the slip. Weeks and weeks went by with no trace of its whereabouts.

And then yesterday it materialized. It now graces the space by my writing desk.

Since my grandmother has passed, the story of this carpet I found in her basement eludes me. There’s something about this rug that compels me to want to know its story. An energy that swirls from within its intricate design that beckons me to know more. Radiating through spun yarn are threads of woven history, unknown. Like the DNA that spirals in my very being, there is ancestral knowledge that lives and breathes through me, yet I know not its story.

Without any known past, I suppose the tale begins now. How this rug traveled over 3000 miles across the sea to me. How it slipped from any cyber-trappings that tried to track its trajectory. And now, how its presence completes the space where I write with welcomed perfection. I guess the story starts here.

That every time I look at this rug I feel happiness. That every time I step upon its softness I sense beauty.

The journey begins here.  And so far, I love this ride.

Jessica Dofflemyer ~ all rights reserved