You've just got to see this.

Six-Word Memoir

Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was challenged, in a bar, of course, to write a six-word short story. Here it is, reportedly written on a cocktail napkin. He called it his best story.

For Sale
Baby Shoes
Never Worn

Smith Magazine collected six-word memoirs from writers, famous and not-so. Here's one my sister told me that makes us both laugh. I don't know its origin.

Eight years old,
hair brushed twice.

Probably makes me laugh because it describes my sons perfectly. Except that by eight years old they probably had had their hair brushed never. Combed, yes - only during haircuts.

And here are a couple from her third-grade class:

One mom, Dad.
Sadly, a sister.

And

Cannot live without wild rambunctious friends.

Here's mine for today:

Dog shakes groundhog.
Grateful for vultures.

How about you? What's your six-word memoir? Post it here in the comments section!
(One rule: six words. That's it.)

Do it Together at Least Once a Week

I am so very lucky. Several years ago, my friend Susan and I practiced Team Gardening. We scheduled time every week to work together in each other's gardens. We alternated homes each time, doing our best to give a similar amount of time to each other. It was an unkempt schedule, and it worked.

It was a little unnerving for me. Susan is something of a Zen gardener. Lots of perennials and evergreens, beautifully, restfully choreographed in elegant spaces. My garden is, shall we say exuberant. I used to call it wildly disorganized until she helped me find a nicer word. Lots of perennials, lots of annuals, crazily bumping into one another and finding their own favorite places to grow.

This year the Rue moved across Brendan's walk to a new spot that it likes much better; the False Indigo jumped across the Fountain Grass to fill in where the Rue had been. I love it that they can work out their differences without me. And the Datura just grows everywhere. Talk about exuberant. (Want some?) Susan's plants stay where they belong, with a sense of deep serenity. I felt a little embarrassed, a little sheepish, and occasionally totally mortified by our exuberance until I got over that nonsense.

Susan and I were shocked at how much we accomplished when we gardened together. WAY more than we could have done in twice the time alone. It must be some exponential synergistic woo-woo thing, but it worked that way every time.

And that wasn't the best part. We learned about receiving. This is a radical concept. We allowed someone to just give to us. And it was scary for both of us. We each had many moments of "oh, but my garden looks so bad", or "we need to haul mulch this time -- is that okay???" Yes, we understand completely the woman who says she has to lose weight before she can go to the gym. And even though we were trading gardens every time, a real live quid pro quo, we were each scared of receiving help - that vulnerable place of I need you. And Here's a wart I have; I'm pretty sure you didn't know about it before now because I kept it hidden pretty well, I'm pretty sure.

So, we talked about all of it. We talked about our difficulty in letting a friend (a friend, mind you - someone who loves us) see our messy garden and help us. And it got easier throughout the season. We talked about our lives. We laughed hysterically. We rejoiced when we got a really big f****r of a weed out of the ground, holding it aloft like a trophy. We got to be better and better friends. And sometimes we cried about our lives. And it got easier to let our friend see our messy life and our dirty, teary face and help. Susan and I have fallen out of the team gardening practice, and yet we're still really good at letting each other see our messy lives and teary faces, and we let each other help.

This year I'm team gardening with Anne. I'm so lucky - again! We have a regular weekly schedule, which gets messed up pretty often because of all of the traveling we both do. And when we get together on our Friday afternoon at 12:30 we catch up on the soap operas of each other's lives while we pull weeds and move mulch. We talk about our fears, our rages and our griefs while we transplant the Japanese Painted Fern. We talk about our poor little less-than/would-rather-be-invisible-thank-you-very-much selves while exclaiming over the abundance of really fat worms; about learning to forgive ourselves for what rotten mothers we were, while we dig up the weed which is the bane of my existence and may truly push me right over the brink; and about how to define miracles while we carefully dig up some errant Passionflower that she is tired of and I can't get enough of.

So do it together - bake, garden, whatever works for you, something that gets your hands in the elements and your heart in beauty and giving - at least once a week. Who knows, you might wind up with some Passionflower and a friendship with even deeper roots that blossoms year round under such loving care.

Cool Stuff

Yikes, I thought this blogging stuff would be easy and fun. That I'd be witty and clever, and always have something useful to say. Or that maybe I'd be wise and therefore useful.

And then those gremlin voices crept in and said, "who, you???" I've read Havi, and Lisa, and many others who are really cool. Who do really cool stuff and describe it so that it sounds absolutely fascinating. They're quirky and fun and of course, younger than I am.

And I'm just, you know, gardening while it's still cool enough for me to stand being in the garden, meditating, going to therapy, growing my coaching practice, doing my best not to be annoyed that my neck still hurts, and letting the dogs out, then in, then out...

And now it's been 3 - no actually 4 - months since I've written anything.

So here's what I want to say after all this time: It's time to do something. And not just blog things. (Though that, too) Lots of people in the world need lots of stuff. I have lots of stuff.

I'm pledging to donate 20% of my coaching income (not profit, gross income) to my two current favorite charities: Women for Women International and Chipembele Wildlife Education Trust. Check out their websites and send them some money. Or send me some clients so I can send the money. Then we'll all be doing cool stuff.

Will's 20th Birthday

I can't believe it. My oldest son is celebrating his 20th birthday. He came home this weekend to visit with us and some friends who are in town.

Having children certainly is a safari life. I had no idea when I adopted this beautiful baby in Peru that he would bring such extremes of joy and pain, heartache and celebration. And I had no idea how deep a love could be.

On this occasion, I take time to reflect on these years, with all of their gifts. You know, some of them weren't beautifully wrapped or gracefully presented. And yet they all brought us to where we are now, a lively, quirky family of teasing and laughter, annoyance and exasperation, gathered around the dinner table for a special meal, celebrating this wonderful young man. My boy.

Tiny Little Facebook Rant

Doesn't anyone ever post that they're miserable? You know that 'What are you doing right now?' space? Is there a rule that in the space that follows, 'Laura is', I have to put down something cheerful? Or am I the only one with almost exclusively good-mood friends doing loads of fun things?

The Journey of Suffering

Doesn't sound very cheerful, does it?

I’ve been a life coach for a while, now. And in that time, I’ve had dozens of clients, all of whom were suffering, in their own unique ways. In all of that time, I’ve been suffering, too.

I believe the truth is that we're all suffering.

Suffering comes in many forms. In the past two years, I’ve suffered the loss of both parents and two dear friends. Each one brought its own special hell of grief.

There is the suffering of watching someone we love suffer. That's another unique brand of pain, whether we can assuage the suffering or not. I know that agony as a mother and as a person who can sometimes bear to listen to NPR news.

There is biochemical suffering, too. When depression grabs us by the heart and throat and whole body, we feel powerless to rise above and find our "old self". That was me, from around September through December.

And there is self-imposed suffering. Beliefs we hold which cause us pain. Wanting what we don't have. Wishing we were someone we're not. Not loving ourselves and our lives enough. Not believing we are enough, just as we are. Believing we are stuck in whatever uncomfortable position we find ourselves in. That's pretty much me, too - year 'round, sometimes more, sometimes less.

I'm sure you can think of other ways we suffer. Or other ways that you suffer.

In the past couple of years, I've learned a lot about grief and suffering. I believe grief and suffering are very different things. For me, grief is the inescapable deep pain of loss. It can be agonizing in its intensity, allowing very little, if any, respite. And yet, over time, this agony diminishes, and is held differently in the heart.

Suffering has a different quality, more subtle, and yet is no less debilitating for its subtlety. In its subtlety, it can slip inside of me without my even noticing. I can hold it for eternity, allowing it to always have a hold on me, power over me. And at other times, my suffering is an obvious enemy - brutal, savage and refusing to be ignored.

As all living things do, we seek pleasure and strive to avoid pain. And sometimes when we strive to avoid pain, we only ensure more pain. Pain brought by limiting our lives, by accepting the lies we tell ourselves, or by burying the pain and thinking it will go away if we ignore it long enough.

My coaching business is called Safari Life Coaching because I really believe that life is like a safari. We travel through our lives, never knowing what is around the next bend, and every turn offers new learning, surprise and adventure. I've come to believe that the purpose of life, at least my life, is to learn, to be surprised, and to love the adventure of the journey.

Suffering provides so much fertile ground for learning.

Hermann Hesse said, "You know quite well, deep within you, that there is only a single magic, a single power, a single salvation...and that is called loving. Well, then, love your suffering. Do not resist it, do not flee from it. It is your aversion that hurts, nothing else."

My invitation to us all is to embrace, yes, to love the suffering, for it holds so much promise for growth, change, and joy. As I screw up my courage to explore the depths of my own suffering, I'm pretty sure I just might find that the path leads to a life of authenticity and deep peace. Damn, I hope I'm right.