ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In my experience, an author never stands alone. Her book isn't birthed in isolation; it has many midwives to help it into the world. The Wisdom Chronicles and I are no exception. To all of those marvelous beings who lovingly gave a part of themselves to these pages, I want to say thank you.
Thank you, from my heart and soul, to all of my teachers in this world and beyond. To my wonderful woman friends, Dr. Cheryl, Bonnie, Linda, Marilyn, Kay, Jennifer, Donna, Joyce, and Christy, just to name a few, for putting up with reading and rereading as I wrote and rewrote, and for all of your valuable feedback. To my mother, Beverly, for being the perfect Everywoman and understanding what I have written. To my father, Bill, for loving me enough to actually read the manuscript.
I also want to thank these Denver area bookstore owners for recognizing the value in the first incarnation of The Wisdom Chronicles and for helping me get the word out: Debbie Hart of Metamorphosis, Cathy Washburn of Full Moon Books, and Debbie Guinther of Cornerstone Books.
And, to my two greatest gifts, without whom The Wisdom Chronicles would just be a pile of crumpled paper, thank you isn't enough. Susan Ray, my editor, you are an angel sent from heaven. I salute you. Thank you for believing in me, this book, and its message, and mostly for going beyond the call of duty to make sure that it became a reality. Alfredo Saa, my husband, without you this experience would not have been possible. You are my inspiration. Thank you for being Michael and so very much more.
Teri Harris Saa is a conscious creation mentor and speaker, and
cofounder, with her husband Alfredo Saa, of
The An of Conscious Creation center. She is the mother
of one grown son and lives in the Denver area.
For more information about starting your own
Conscious Creators group, please email Teri at
TheWisdomChronicles@MomentPoint.com. Visit her
web site at www.ArtofConsciousCreation.com.
For information about discounted book rates for
reading groups, please email Moment Point Press at
ReadingGroups@MomentPoint.com,
or call (800) 556–1828.
1
Breaking Down—and Out
THAT MORNING IT HAPPENED AGAIN. I COULD FEEL IT CREEPING UP LIKE a shadow, a foreboding, dense and dark. My doctor had said that it was simply stress, but there was nothing simple about it. With a sense of panic, I wanted to race forward into my responsibilities and run from them at the same time—kids, work, maintaining a household, social engagements, the whole daily living routine. Up at five, shower, hair, make-up, get my husband going, the kids ready for school, make breakfast, pack lunches, cajole the family into helping clean up the dishes—it was a race just to get each day started. And in between all the frantic activity lurked the nagging question: Who am I and what's the purpose of my life?
I could hear the school bus pulling up outside. Frantic that the driver wouldn't stop unless he saw the boys waiting at their comer, I yelled at my sons to get going. They made it, just barely, and I watched them disappear into the bus. When, I wondered, had they gotten so big? I didn't ponder the question long; I could hear my husband in the kitchen fumbling for his keys and went to help him in his search. Irritated and swearing, mumbling that he was already late for his morning meeting, Michael finally found his keys under the pile of mail on the counter. He flew out the door yelling goodbye as he went. I was soon rushing out the door myself when I remembered that I needed to leave payment for Susan, my every-other-week cleaning woman, the one so-called luxury I allowed myself. I wrote her a check—with a thank-you to the Great Spirit of the Working Woman—put it on the counter, then stood for a moment listening to the silence in the house. I wished I could settle into the quiet, sit down with a cup of coffee for awhile. Instead, I realized I was going to be late and hurried to my car to begin the one-hour-through-dense-traffic trek to work
Why do I do this? I asked myself as I drove out the driveway: Why do I rush around like this every day, always feeling harried and late and unsatisfied. The answer seemed obvious—because modem life is complicated and expensive.
I had managed to keep this level of activity up for a long time. I have a good job, I told myself. I'm important to my boss and my clients. My family needs me. “Push, push, push,” my inner voices whispered. “People are depending on you.”
I drove the route to work struggling to make sense of it all, feeling the familiar sense of panic building. I turned on the radio and found some soft music. But before I had a moment to relax, I was interrupted. The car in front of me slammed on its brakes and at the flash of red lights I unconsciously reacted by slamming too hard on my own. The traffic around me screeched to a halt. My heart beat wildly and I gasped for breath, trying to control myself. The world was closing in on me.
I managed to inch my way through the traffic, horns blaring all around, and pulled off the next exit. Driving almost blindly for several blocks, I spotted a parking lot and pulled in. Sitting there alone in my car, I began to sob, my body shaking uncontrollably It was all too much. And to make matters worse, my compulsively active mind reacted by shouting questions—Is this what life is all about? Is this why I was born? Am I meant to sit crying, alone in my car in a deserted parking lot on a dismal, unfamiliar street? Is this the purpose of my life?! I wanted to scream.
I sat like this for twenty minutes or more until, gradually, I calmed down enough to drive home.
Susan glanced up from cleaning the stove as I walked in the kitchen. Before she could form the word, “Hi,” she saw my expression and stopped. I smiled, hoping to avert her attention from my tear-stained eyes. “Rough morning,” I said as I made my way past her toward my bedroom. I felt numb. My emotional, mental, and physical energies were completely spent. God, I was tired! Body and soul.
I stopped in front of the bed, turned, and fell onto the mattress like a dead weight. I closed my eyes and, for one awful moment, wondered what it would be like to die. Would death fill me with a sense of peace and quiet? I yearned to feel an inner calm. I wanted out—out of noise—out of chaos—out of responsibility—out of pain.
“What pain?” I almost said it out loud. “My life isn't painful. My life is normal, basically good.” I have only one problem and the doctor diagnosed it as “stress.”
I was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
“Are you all right?” Susan asked quietly. “Is there anything I can do?”
Susan had been cleaning my house for the past five years. She was a gentle, caring woman, about my age. She often shared with me how fortunate she felt to be in her line of work. She was her own boss, she said, and the work gave her the space to be alone, with all of the thinking time she needed. She once joked that she pondered the mysteries of the universe while meticulously polishing toilet bowls. She got a little lonely at times, she confessed, but the solitude gave her peace. And most important, the work allowed her to become an intimate, valued part of many families.
I forced my eyes open and looked at her. “I certainly value you,” I thought to myself. “You've become a trusted friend, someone I can count on—at least one day every other week!—to eliminate part of the chaos in my life.”
Susan moved closer to the bed and reached out to me. Clumsily, I propped myself up on one elbow.
“It's nothing really,” I told her. “The doctor says that I have too many things on my plate. I hate that term, don't you?” Susan's eyes urged me to continue. “It's like saying life is a smorgasbord and we can choose what or what not to put on our plate. That might be true, if we all lived in a cafeteria, but there's not one thing in my daily routine that I can give up. I can't put fewer items on my plate. I can't even get a smaller plate. It's impossible. So here I am with an enormous plate, piled high with activity and responsibility—” I could see Susan register the touch of hysteria in my voice.
“Everything I do is important to someone,” I went on more slowly, “my husband, my kids, relatives, boss, co-workers, friends, society in general. If I let go of even one thing, it'll impact someone. I have no choice, there's nothing I can take off of my plate. If my husband and I are to achieve the American dream, and then maintain it, I have to keep going. I have no choice.” I paused, exhausted.
“I'm all right. Really. I'm just a little tired.” I attempted a show of strength, but ended up slumping back onto the bed. “Rough morning,” I said again. Susan sat silently holding my hand. She hadn't interrupted my outpouring of frustration. She hadn't tried to solve my problems or coax me out of my despair. When she did finally speak, there was a quiet sympathy in her voice. “Rest,” she said simply and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
I lay there for a long while feeling dazed and spent. Eventually the oppressive constriction in my chest began to subside and in due time I sat up. Thinking about my life and its out-of-control level of activity, I began considering the doctor's diagnosis and his suggestion that I give myself a break. I relived sitting in his office and hearing him say, “Your symptoms aren't acute yet, but before they get any worse, take some time for yourself. Take care of yourself just as you would any other member of your family in the same situation. When was the last time you did something quiet and nurturing for yourself?” he asked. I couldn't think of anything offhand.
“Think about what you enjoy doing,” he went on, “especially what you've done in the past that has helped you feel peaceful and calm. Then, go do it,” he ordered. “It's time for you to take a sabbatical from life.”
“Sabbatical!” my inner voice screamed. “Aren't they supposed to last a year? Ridiculous! How would my family function without me for even a day?”
Suddenly, remembering that I was supposed to be at work, I quickly reached for the phone and dialed my office. Nancy, the office manager, answered. “I'm not feeling well,” I told her honestly. “I won't be in today.”
In her ever-cheerful way, Nancy told me not to worry and after a quick check of my schedule reported that there was nothing that couldn't be postponed for a day or two. “Just relax,” she said, “and get better.”
I hung up the phone feeling both relieved and surprised—That had been easy. Leaning back against the pillows, I continued pondering the concept of a sabbatical. I can't take a year off, I argued with myself, or a month, or even a week. A weekend retreat would be nice, though—but we're right in the middle of soccer season and the kids each play on different teams. I certainly can't retreat from the boys' activities. Still, I knew I needed to rest, somehow. Then a thought came to me, one which, though I didn't realize it at the time, would change my life—I have today. A whole day. And if I remembered the weatherman correctly, it was going to be a beautiful, warm, early-autumn day.
I sat up and looked out the window. The sky was blue, crystalline and clear. I watched the tops of the trees, just barely swaying with the morning breeze. Yes, I decided, it was going to be a beautiful day and for once my proverbial plate was empty.
I mulled over the doctor's words again. He had said to nurture myself and had asked what I enjoyed doing, what in the past I had done that brought me a state of inner peace and calm. I let his question drift through my mind. Images ebbed and flowed, gently circling memories and drifting past potential answers. Watching the idea of “peace and calm” meander through my mind was like observing a quiet stream gently flowing past rocks and branches, ignoring all obstructions and simply continuing on its journey. I noticed that just by letting my mind wander in this day-dreamy fashion, I was beginning to feel better, more relaxed. Lying on my bed half-asleep felt good and I knew that I could choose to stay there like that all day. Or, I could do something else, like go for a walk.
As if on cue, I remembered many past pleasures found in an exceptional place at the end of a peaceful walk, a walk in the forest on a day just like this one; a walk down a certain secluded path along a river that led to a large flat rock on which I could soak in the wonders of nature while bathing in the warm sunlight. The memory of this magical place was so clear in my mind, I knew instantly that I had to go there.
In hindsight, I wonder whether this memory was spontaneous or if it was somehow planted in my thoughts. The image was so clear and yet it had been years since I had been to that special place. As a teenager, it had been my secret refuge, the place to which I retreated when life became too confusing, when I needed a break from my problems. In fact, it occurred to me that maybe I hadn't changed all that much from the confused adolescent I had been way back when. I still seemed to have a lot of problems from which I wanted to escape.
All those years ago, I had sat quietly, for hours, watching the gentle stream below me. Peace had filled my being as I lay back on the rock, soaking in the sun's rays as they filtered through the canopy of trees above. Yes! The decision was made. I would spend this day at my old special spot.
As I quickly shed my business clothes, I couldn't help becoming aware of the sudden energy I felt. Just thinking of going back to my spot in the forest was invigorating. Changing into my jeans, sweater, and hiking boots I could feel a smile forming.
“Susan?” I called, entering the hallway. She appeared from one of the boy's rooms. “I'm taking the day off,” I said confidently. “Doctor's orders. The house is all yours.” I turned away, ready to embark on my quest for peace. But something made me stop. “Susan?” I looked back at her. “Thank you,” I said out loud what I had been previously thinking to myself. “You're a blessing to me.”
She waved me off, telling me to get going, not to waste another moment of this magnificent day.
Feeling better than I had in ages, I walked through the kitchen and out the front door. Unaware of how this simple decision to spend a day quietly by myself was going to rewrite my future—in fact my entire existence—I shut the door behind me.
Awakenings
This book is about life—your life. At the end of each chapter you'll find a few questions to ponder (and, perhaps, to discuss with friends and family). As you think about these questions, try to see beyond your preconceived notions of yourself, who you are, what you see as your role in life. After all, the process of awakening begins with honest self-observation and seeing with new eyes.
You might consider recording your responses in a notebook or journal, so that you can refer back to them. This will be particularly helpful when you come to the Awakenings in later chapters.
1. Have you ever felt that you're on the edge of breaking down? How often has it occurred? On a regular basis? What triggers this moment? How do you feel as it's happening? How do you feel after? What thoughts cross your mind?
2. Would everyone and everything depending on you in your life be able to survive without you for a day? A week? A month? A year? If not, why not? And how would it make you feel if they could survive without you?
3. Make a list of the activities that fill your days. Beside each item, describe the returns, both positive and negative, that you receive from each particular activity—what purpose it serves in your life. For example, suppose you list “daily exercise” as an activity. Your list of purposes might look like this: It helps me maintain a slim and healthy body; I enjoy the social aspect of it, etc. Or, it may look more like this: I feel ugly if I don't; My husband wants me to lose weight, etc. Your list may also be a combination of both positive and negative.
When you're finished, review your list and consider whether or not you want to continue each activity. Are there activities that you'd like to add to your list?