Lessons From Life

I stumbled upon these Ten Rules for Being Human by Cherie Carter-Scott and thought they are worth sharing. The bold is my own.

1. You will receive a body. You may like it or hate it, but it's yours to keep for the entire period.

2. You will learn lessons. You are enrolled in a full-time informal school called, "life."

3. There are no mistakes, only lessons. Growth is a process of trial, error, and experimentation. The "failed" experiments are as much a part of the process as the experiments that ultimately "work."

4. Lessons are repeated until they are learned. A lesson will be presented to you in various forms until you have learned it. When you have learned it, you can go on to the next lesson.

5. Learning lessons does not end. There's no part of life that doesn't contain its lessons. If you're alive, that means there are still lessons to be learned.

6. "There" is no better a place than "here." When your "there" has become a "here", you will simply obtain another "there" that will again look better than "here."

7. Other people are merely mirrors of you. You cannot love or hate something about another person unless it reflects to you something you love or hate about yourself.

8. What you make of your life is up to you. You have all the tools and resources you need. What you do with them is up to you. The choice is yours.

9. Your answers lie within you. The answers to life's questions lie within you. All you need to do is look, listen, and trust.

10. You will forget all this.

Just a few days after my latest post "In Passing" this came to me from The Universe:

Talk about two ships silently passing in the night...

Even your own path crossing with a complete stranger, on a sidewalk, down the hall, or at Starbucks, on this holiest of adventures, amongst the billions now alive and the zillions who could have been, means so much more than most can even comprehend. Suffice it to say, however, that in such moments, these fellow adventurers are closer to you than a brother or a sister, no matter who they are.

You are the "King" of the world
- The Universe

When the universe starts introducing themes in my life, I pay attention. Daily I select at random a little paper card with a quality on it, like "Abundance", "Peace" or "Understanding". It's a precious way to remind myself to hold a positive focus in my heart throughout the day. I also watch for recurring lessons that appear in other forms. Sometimes a theme eeks in quietly, subtly, but with this recent note from The Universe it's coming in loud and clear. Ships passing in the night: the sacred intimacy of simply being human with my brothers and sisters.

His name was Dennis. About 55, with mostly white hair, a round face, and dressed down business attire that told me he wanted to be comfortable while he traveled. He sat there in his window seat, and looked up with a “hi” full of sunshine as I settled into the seat next to him.

For the next three hours, we were compadres on this journey across the skies. By the time I’d finished asking him whether he was from Los Angeles or Dallas, I knew by his accent and mannerisms he was LA through and through.

Dennis knew a lot about airplanes. He was a consultant for several major airlines, including the one we were flying on. Once on one of his business trips, he could hear that something was wrong with the right engine of the plane well before the pilot caught the problem on an instrument. The flight attendant was in awe when the information checked out. The plane went in for maintenance on its next landing. As he told me this story, I listened and quietly reflected on how this was probably one of so many times he has been of service. The Light-bearer in me saw the Light-bearer in him.

He was thinking about taking a better paying job in Georgia, where he could have a much bigger house, pay off all his debt, and live in a small town away from the LA traffic and commute. He was torn because it was many miles to move away from his two college-aged kids, a son and daughter.

Looking into his eyes from such a close distance was a striking experience, twofold. It was almost too intimate for our acquaintance of only a few minutes, and at the same time he made me feel incredibly comfortable and safe. He was father-like.

The time passed quickly over conversation hopes, dreams, and turbulence. When we started saying our goodbyes, he said, “I hope you have a great seminar” referring to the event I was traveling to. But then he added quickly, “And you know, I really hope you have a great life too, and a lot of success. I think you will. You’re off to a great start, and I wish you a successful and happy career.”

Easy words to say, but something about the sincerity with which he said it went straight into my heart. He unnerved me. It was the kind of rich, warm, vital human contact that I expect to indulge in at Christmas time, or around the family table. Lately I’ve noticed more of this tremendous intimacy showing up in my life with perfect strangers. There is a recognition of our spiritual connection that takes place. It’s been showing up in my life more and more. Or is it that I am showing up for it? Making myself available to it?

From my experience with personal growth work, I hardly bat an eye when groups of people from diverse backgrounds develop support in short spans of time. But nonetheless, people like Dennis do take me by surprise, and inspire me.

What would it be like if I had been the one to say hello with that much friendliness, welcoming someone not only into the seat next to me, but into my very own life?

We finally deplaned at Dallas Forth Worth, my final destination, but not for Dennis. I looked back over my shoulder to see him coming up the ramp. He smiled; I smiled. As I turned back to head for my baggage claim, a twang of sadness hit my heart. I will never see him again in my life. I gently reminded myself there was that choice point when we could have exchanged contact information if we had wanted to. But really, there was no need or reason to. No business relationship to explore, no grounds for friendship. There really was no need for us to ever speak again, and yet I felt that same old sadness from letting go of a dear friend who came into and went out of my life just a few hours later. Today marks the one-year anniversary of the passing of my beloved nephew James Peake. I am reminded that two Souls in connection have no requirements about how much time they spend together, and what kinds of interactions they share. The Soul connection transcends those worldly concerns.




Thank you, Dennis, for reminding me of the most fleeting and precious connections in life. Thank you, James, for lessons about love that are much too huge to contain in any physical form, any length of time.

I am not a morning person.

Some people are morning people. Take my dad for instance, up at five A.M. every day singing and chipper as can be. Some people are morning people. But I am not a morning person.

At least, that's been my story.

Once as a teenager my father came tip-toeing into my room to wake me up early in the morning. He gently shook me, and called my name - BAM! The next thing he new he'd been hit in the face and I was still fast asleep. Now that's a funny little story between me and him, and we can laugh about it. But it is a funny little story. It's the kind of thing that sticks with you in your mind, which I suppose is what makes any decent story.

The tradition of storytelling is rooted all throughout my family. My mother is an elementary school teacher who has read and told stories all her life. She's also the keeper of our family history, talking about covered wagons and my great aunt Margaret who was the first woman lawyer in Texas. Then there's my father, who is also a teacher and educator, and at heart a writer and a fisherman. His fishing stories are as big as the fish he pulls up out of the waves of the Ventura shoreline, and just as long. His timeless voice pervades in his imaginative children's novels. Then there is my older brother, the accomplished poet. Poetry, writing and reading his well crafted lines, is undoubtedly one form of storytelling.

Storytelling is an ancient and powerful tradition. The interesting thing about stories is that they can take on a life of their own. Just about anything can be a story if it has staying power, even if it's a private story in one person's mind. Over the past two years I've been reflecting on the power and dangers of telling stories.

You see the trouble with stories is that people change, and sometimes the stories that we tell ourselves stick around. They linger, like a little bit of indigestion after a good meal.


The story I would like to tell you now is about how I have changed over the years, and how I am changing the stories I tell myself.

When I was a little girl growing up in El Centro, California, a small farming community near the Mexican border, I loved animals. I had more than thirty pets at any given time. Pets of all varieties- rabbits, horses, iguanas, finches, dogs, cockatiels. Granted, when I say more than thirty pets, I'll admit that was because I counted every minnow, every tadpole, every bullfrog netted out of a canal. I loved them all equally, I counted them all. Looking back, I realize there was a story I was telling myself even at the age of nine. It seemed to me that animals had it together better than people. They didn't have wars, they didn't pick on each other, and their love was endless. I made up my mind to become either a zoologist or a veterinarian.

When I was 12 years old my family and I moved to Thousand Oaks. Imagine! Living in place called "Thousand Oaks" after growing up in a completely flat, dry, hot desert with 120 degree summers every year. But I digress into the story of how hard it is to live in the desert... When we moved I was transported to the world of malls, makeup, and suburbia. Only a year later, we decided to move to Ojai. I say "we decided" because my family is special in that we listen to each other, even the little ones. So together we chose this small town nestled in a beautiful valley.

I can't quite pinpoint the exact moment, but I think it was some time during my socially-awkward junior high years that my story shifted significantly. My story about how animals had it together better than people was blown apart when I discovered that my absolute favorite animal is the human being. So I turned to psychology. I continued my northbound migration to UC Santa Cruz, where I studied psychology for three years until I graduated.

My time in Santa Cruz was a precious time in my life. I loved being around the constant flow of new ideas and creativity churning out of the University. I was so enamored with every area of psychology, from counseling to cognitive research, to cultural anthropology, that I knew I was going to have a challenge narrowing down my discipline. There was a bigger problem, too. I observed how a lot of the psychology around me was about slicing and dicing the mind, the body, and the emotions. That just didn't cut it for me.

So I followed my heart back to Ojai, right around the time my brother and his wife moved there also. I enrolled at the University of Santa Monica where I am now studying to get a Master's in Spiritual Psychology.

Yes, that's right. Spiritual Psychology. I get one of two reactions when I tell people what I study. It's either "Huh?!" or "Wow!"

To share with you very briefly why I am of the "wow" variety, I can't tell you how refreshing it is to be at a school that teaches that we are all divine beings having a human experience.

We are all divine beings, having a human experience.

To me this statement, so wholly embedded in everything taught at USM, conveys the importance of acknowledging the human heart, which underlies and transcends all other levels. I found what I was looking for in an academic program. This is a school that acknowledges the unspoken part I longed to explore more fully - the heart, the soul, the spirit, whatever you want to call it, it is part of the curriculum!

Just imagine as a counselor-in-training the immense value of remembering that statement while the client sitting across from you is broken down in tears. This simple perspective teaches us to honor the wisdom in each person, while simultaneously brining forth compassion for the suffering that shows up in human life.

There is another principle taught at USM that is extremely dear to my heart. Counselors need to do their own inner work in order to be effective. Part of working with oneself means letting go of stories. Old stories, tired stories, stories which no longer fit our current realities.


Take a moment right now and ask yourself -

• What stories am I telling myself about my job?
  
• What stories am I telling myself about my relationships?
  
• What stories am I telling myself about who I am?

Take a moment to reflect on these questions. See if perhaps you intuitively know where your stories show up.


I recently had to give up a story that went something like this: "Other people, the people around me in this amazing spiritually-focused community I live in, other people have incredible access to intuition, remarkable connections with the divine. Not me. Mine is broken."

I swiftly sacrificed that story on the altar of truth when I came to see that the thing I love most in life is tuning in to speak from my heart. This is my dream of dreams: to share with people that which comes from the heart. To be a teacher, a coach and a facilitator. So I gently invite my ego to step aside, and say, now I am speaking from the heart. In this moment of atunement, the real magic shows up in my life.

This morning I come to you with the express purpose of peeling off my story that "I am not a morning person." Even my old story, like an old friend who has hung around my whole life, could not possibly stand up to my heart calling me forward to share myself with you.

It is rarely other people who stop us from living a magnificent life. Sometimes it is us, armed with old stories, who stand in the way. I invite you now to take a small leap of faith by tapping into your heart.


"It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are." - e.e. cummings



(Note: This story was first given as a speech to the Ojai Valley Toastmasters Club.)