The Courage to Create

Manifestation: Intention and Desire Will Become Reality

It began in October of 2010. My Heritage Mandala students and I committed to following the migration journey of our maternal ancestors out of East Africa. Nineteen months later, altered in ways we continue to discover, we completed our ancestral journeys.

Our journey together was launched with blank sheets of paper. Pristine paper is beautiful. Without a doubt, once we touched it with our brush, we would scar and deface it. How dare we mar its surface?  It takes bravery and daring to transform a white sheet of paper. Each paper had the same penciled-in structure for the painting we would create, a structure that would serve as the vehicle to carry us on our adventure.

Adventurers of ages past set their canoes into uncharted waterways. Just so, we faced the unknown. None of us had any idea what colors or forms would fill the structure. We had no idea what inner experiences would be evoked by this exploration into the origins of our unique existence.

It took 584 days for the un-manifest to become manifest, for our intentions and desires to blossom into three unique Heritage Mandalas.

Overflowing Gratitude

Each woman’s commitment to uncover her heritage required that she do a DNA test to discern the migratory path of her maternal ancestors, determined by tracing our mitochondrial DNA. As our tests arrived and we swabbed our cheeks, we found ourselves overwhelmed with gratitude: gratitude that women had passed messages to us down through the centuries, gratitude to scientist Rebecca Cahn for discovering these messages in mitochondrial DNA, gratitude to the scientists who continue this research. We waited somewhat impatiently as our tests were processed so the results could be sent to us.

Embracing Uncertainty

Beginning a mandala inspired by Tibaetan Buddhism is a bit like anticipating the birth of a child. After months of development, the infant will appear. Expectant parents have no clue what the infant will be or will become. They watch as the child unfolds. They have no prior assurance that it will survive illnesses and challenges to become a contributing part of society. In trust, they care for the infant, the child, the adolescent, and the young adult until a unique individual appears. 

Likewise, it takes a peculiar sort of detachment to face the uncertainty of this unique way of painting in which you cannot pre-determine the outcome but must paint one stroke at a time. It mimics the way our ancestors migrated from East Africa to every corner of the planet, one step at a time, or one oar stroke at a time. It requires trust that through meditation colors and images will emerge.

Practicing Awareness

This Buddhist way of painting demands that the artist practice awareness, focusing 100% attention at the point where the tip of the brush meets the paper. Each artist has the intention to do beautiful work and the desire to paint with integrity. Each plants these intentions and desires in every stroke, not knowing where the entire painting is going but content to let it emerge.

Once our DNA results were in, each woman studied the information about her ancestral migrations and determined the major steppingstones along the journey. The number of steppingstones determined the number of segments there would be in her narrative ring, the second major concentric circle of the mandala. One woman discerned eight. Another found twelve. I discovered eleven.

Karma

So, one stroke and one step at a time something began to happen; manifestation had begun. Each decision that is made affects all that has gone before and everything that will come later. That is karma – decisions have consequences. For example, when one meditates and finds a base color for the fire ring, the color that is applied sets a tone and an energy that will have ramifications not only for the fire ring, but also for each subsequent concentric circle and for the center of the mandala.

Painting with Purpose

Each woman sought to use her artistic gifts to benefit her family and society as a whole. One will share the discovery that her family has Jewish heritage, something that was rumored and has now been validated. I discovered that my maternal ancestors spent a fairly long time in the Near East before moving up into the Caucasus area. The people of Egypt, Syria, and Turkey are my people.

Another learned that she is indigenous on both her maternal and paternal sides. Both sides made the entire journey out of East Africa, up into the Near East, up into Central Asia, crossed over the arctic circle and made their way down the west coast of North and South America, and then back up into Mexico and the United States. She has a very real and solid foundation from which to teach the 13 Feminine Truths garnered from her indigenous heritage.

Acceptance Takes Time

Each woman had repeated incidents of having to accept what was given rather than reject or fight against it. Personally, I had an ongoing struggle with my fire ring. Because of my preconceptions about how fire should look, I was tempted over and over to scrub it all out and begin again. Time and again, I had to let go of my ideas about what it should be. Another scrubbed out one area five times before she could let it go and let it be what it was. The third kept finding that she had to get out of the way and let what came to her be expressed without judgment.

Together we confirmed that the people of planet earth are one global family, a rainbow people.

It is what it is. Let it be.

Will you share something about your heritage quest? What have you done? How has it surprised, baffled, or invigorated you?

Garden of the Soul

I stopped in amazement when I spotted a white blossom on the dogwood tree beside my patio. The tree is one of two that I received as seedlings five years ago. The seedlings grew slowly as I have nurtured them along, transferring them into pots of escalating size. They were nearly three years old before I put them into the ground. Here for the first time was a blossom!

I rushed over to the second tree, but it had no blossoms as yet, likely because it doesn’t get the morning sun the way the other one does.  The two trees are like siblings; the one by the back fence is growing tall and slender, while the one by the patio is short and full.

I watched that first blossom like a hawk; it  represented pure potentiality and brought me unimaginable joy. I examined the tree’s branches and thought there were signs of other blossoms to come. But alas, the would-be blossoms became leaves instead. Then along came a heavy rainstorm and washed away my delicate white flower. But not to despair, a couple of days later, the tree by the fence produced a single white blossom, also halfway up the tree and on its right side.

Every morning and evening I greeted that single blossom as though it were the queen of nature herself. No mother was more attentive and appreciative. I marveled at its four perfect petals with curled edges the way a first-time dad counts the fingers and toes of a newborn infant. I wondered at the biological clock of these two young trees. What growth threshold had they crossed that allowed them to produce a flower? Why only one? How many blossoms might they have next year if all goes well?

Gradually, my attention was drawn elsewhere in the garden. I replaced broken and tired pots and especially delighted in a lime green one that is the very personification of spring. After weeks of rain the sun came out and everything seemed to perk up. The strawberry runners I’d transplanted last fall not only made it through the winter, pink and white blossoms began to appear. How marvelous!

Then last Wednesday tragedy struck. As I approached my front door, I was brought up short. All the leaves on my eight-year-old jasmine plant were brown and many had dropped to the ground. Only the night before it was green and healthy. Now it appeared to be dying.

I was in shock. Searching for a cause/effect reason for this state of affairs, I thought maybe I’d neglected it when the sun came out. So I drowned it in water, but there was no miraculous recovery. Maybe the yardmen accidently put weed killer on it? No, I don’t think so. The plant looked so sad and terrible, I thought maybe I should move it so I didn’t have to watch it struggling. Then I realized, “This plant likes this space. Moving it would be about my feelings, not about what this plant needs. Let it be.”

Next morning, I googled “brown leaves on jasmine” and learned that this was not the first time a jasmine plant got brown leaves. One article said it was frost. Well, we had had several really cold nights. But then, it had made it through several winter frosts, why would a spring frost get to it? Another article said it was drought. Well, I had been so enamored with my dogwood blossom and a week of sunshine that I had failed to watch and water this plant that had dazzled me with its fragrance for so many summers.  A third person wrote that it was lack of nutrients. I don’t do much fertilizing, so that was also possible. Another just said, “don’t expect blossoms this year.”

I went outside and stared at the second set of leaves that had fallen to the ground. Now more than half were gone. However, the plant’s barrenness revealed something I had missed earlier. Looking closely at some of the branches, I discovered fresh green growth at the ends. In examining the plant, I saw that almost all of the branches had a tiny bit of fresh growth. I thought, “This plant will live!”

I pruned away dead branches, sprinkled Osmocote around the roots, and put fresh soil into the container. All the while I talked to the jasmine, expressing my desire for its return to health. I spoke of how very special it is and how much I appreciate the pleasure it has brought to me. I promised to care for it as best I can by continuing to ask, “How can I help?”

By now 98% of the jasmine’s leaves are gone. It is a bit like one’s hairless head after going through chemotherapy. Nonetheless, I have resolved to appreciate the sculpture of the branches and stop bemoaning the missing leaves. If I allow it, this plant will teach me to stay in the present rather than look to the past or long for the future.

My precious jasmine has taught me Depak Chopra’s Seven Spiritual Laws of Success:

• Pure Potentiality, think Ongoing Manifestation 
• Giving, think Gratitude for Abundance
• Cause and Effect, think Karma 
• Least Effort, think Acceptance of What Is
• Intention and Desire, think Practicing Awareness
• Detachment, think Openness to Uncertainty 
• Purpose, think Talent Given in Service

I would love to hear from you about how your garden (or nature in general) nurtures your spirit.

ON THE ROAD AGAIN

In late February and mid-March, I did six book signing events, one in Oregon and five in Washington. Each location offered something special. Four were on dark and stormy nights, one was during an afternoon snowstorm, and one was on a sunny afternoon.

Bloomsbury Books in Ashland gave me an opportunity to do an interview on Jefferson Public Radio and to refine my talk from the November presentation at the Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art in Eugene. A snowstorm prevented my agent, Nadine Cobb, from joining me, so I had to fly solo. It was fun to connect with a former student and a long-ago colleague who introduced me to some of her current friends.

Third Place Books in Lake Forest Park brought out nearby Seattle friends. A big ‘thankyou’ to Roxanna Harper; she recruited a passel of my former colleagues.  A couple of friends took photos and made a video of the event. Nadine and I began to get into the swing of being “on the road again.”

Village Books in Bellingham was the largest event outside of Eugene, perhaps because it was on a sunny Sunday afternoon. Friends from Canada and a couple from Bellingham attended, but the audience was primarily persons new to me. The bookstore staff was so impressed by the engagement of the audience that they invited me back!

Snow Goose Bookstore in Stanwood had a small but very engaged audience, including one long-time colleague and a woman who heard about the event at Third Place Books after it was over. She was so curious that she looked up my website, found the connection to my blog, saw there was an event coming up in Stanwood and drove from Everett in the midst of a rain storm. I was very touched by her and by the hospitality of the storeowner.

The Bookie at Washington State University in Pullman was the only event where I did a book signing but did not give a presentation. Nadine and I arrived in the midst of a snowstorm and learned that University of Oregon had closed because of having seven inches of snow. The store’s marketing manager was a Russian immigrant and I had an opportunity to meet students from Japan and Somalia.

Auntie’s in Spokane brought down two of Nadine’s friends from near the Canadian border and the event was attended by the store’s owner and the events person. The store had a photographer on hand to capture the moment and the owner promised to sell, sell, sell my book.

A Cultural Encounter

The shift from western Washington into eastern Washington was dramatic. Nadine and I got up at 5:00 in the morning in East Arlington because we had to be in Pullman by 2:00 in the afternoon. We left at 5:30 am and we had to go through the Snoqualmie Pass. It was the day of the snow dump in the Willamette valley. We were very anxious. The snow was not that bad going through the pass, but the pass seemed to go on forever. Five hours later, when we finally got through, we were giddy. We knew we could make it to Pullman in time.

We went into a local restaurant and headed for an empty booth laughing and in a good mood. A man in the next booth, poked his head into our space and said to me, “Are you laughing at the president?”

I’m like, “what?’ I think, “Obama can be funny … is he on TV.” There was no TV. I looked back at the man and said, “What?”

He said again, “Are you laughing at the president?” I said, “Of course not, I love the president.”

That should have been the end of it. But in the booth with the man was a little girl, about nine years old. She kept flashing me huge smiles. As I returned from the restroom, she gave me another big smile. So I stopped at her seat and said, “You have the most wonderful smile, is this your birthday?”

Before she could answer, the man said “No, it’s spring break.” I kept the smile on my face and said, “Of course, I forgot.” and tried to get to my seat.

The man said, “Obama doesn’t want kids in school.” I responded, “Excuse me, but education is one of Obama’s big priorities.” I kept moving toward my seat.

He went into a tirade. “Obama left Kenya, Obama left Hawaii. Obama left Chicago. Obama should leave the White House.”

By then I was standing in front of him and having this revelation that I spoke out loud in wonderment. “You’re a racist.” It did not even faze him. He just kept going on.

Then he said, “I bet you voted for Obama.” I said, “Yes, I did.”

At this point a man in the booth on the other side of Nadine and me, said in a surly voice, “I bet you’re going to vote for him again.”

I replied, “Of course, I am. He’s done so much good for our country.”

One of them shouted, “Name one thing.”

That’s when I realized, “LiDoña, things are escalating here.” So I raised my arms and said, “Guys, I don’t need to listen to this.” I sat down.

Silence descended in the dining area. No restaurant staff approached to see if I was all right after this surly verbal assault.

Gradually the normal hum of conversation picked up until the man in the next booth was getting ready to leave. The little girl asked him something, and he shouted in a loud voice, “I have to go back to work so those other people can get their food stamps.”

I kept my attention on my omelet. I couldn’t help wondering how much the government gives this man for not planting wheat. Why is a government subsidy viewed as a farmer’s entitlement but food stamps to help those who can’t make ends meet during a recession is seen as a handout?

Your Turn

I’d love to hear your take on the book tour and this cultural encounter. What was going on? Why did this occur? What's the take-away?

Upcoming Author Tour

PILGRIMAGE Wonder Encounter Witness made its debut on amazon.com this fall. Now I would appreciate your help with promoting sales.

1. Can you post a review of the book on amazon.com? It does not have to be long. Just a couple of sentences would be wonderful.
2. Please encourage, cajole and/or coerce friends into attending one of my author events. Below is the upcoming schedule to date. In Washington state, there are a couple near Seattle, one in Bellingham, and two way over on the eastern border of the state. 
3. I will be making up postcards and flyers for these events. Let me know if you would like postcards to mail or a flyer to post. I will by happy to send the postcards already stamped.

Mon Feb 27 Ashland, OR	Bloomsbury Books Reading & book signing 7:00 pm
Sat, March 17 Lake Forest Park, WA	Third Place Books Reading & book signing  6:30 pm
Sun, March 18 Bellingham, WA	Village Books Reading & book signing 2:00 pm
Mon, 3/19/12	Open
Tues, March 20 Stanwood, WA	Snow Goose Bookstore Reading & book signing 7:00 pm
Wed, March 21 Pullman, WA	WSU Bookstore Book Signing Table 3:00-4:30
Thurs, 3/22/12	Open
Fri, March 23 Spokane, WA	Auntie's Bookstore Reading & book signing  7:oo pm

Coming Home to My Self

At the 2011 Winter Solstice, I made the decision to do 12 Days of Coming Home to My Self. This 12 Days would be different than others I have done because the days would not all be sequential. I set aside four days around Christmas, five days around New Year's, and three days around a lecture and workshop on Calling Our Primordial Ancestors.

The focus on Coming Home to Myself was chosen because in actuality my home was being restored following a flood on November 28. Home restoration symbolized to me a desire to come back to center after many years of overextending myself. Three threads were woven through the 12 days: Physical Care, Studio Time, and Spiritual Practices.

Physical Care meant caring for my body and my home. I began with a facial on the first of the 12 days, a massage on the first day of the second time segment, restorative Yoga on the last day of 2011, and getting back into walking as the torn tendon in my right ankle has begun to heal.

  

Caring for my home began on Christmas Day with washing the front sidewalks of sawdust, plaster, and mud from all the workmen coming and going for the previous month; unpacking all that was stored during demolition and restoration and putting it back into place; getting the washer and dryer serviced; smudging my home of all foreign energies brought in by strangers; and having the carpet cleaned throughout the entire house. Moving and replacing everything for the carpet cleaning was quite a physical workout, so it was both body and home care.

I knew that Studio Time would involve working on completing the narrative cycle of my Heritage Mandala. A mandala is composed of several concentric circles around a central square. The narrative cycle is the fourth circle from the edge. Based on each of us having had a DNA analysis, this is where we have painted the journey of our maternal ancestors out of the Rift Valley in East Africa to some place in the globe.

Because we paint one segment at a time, the completed narrative circle is not always a balanced art form. Mine was really out of balance, like me over the past year. It had dark and light segments that needed to be integrated. Although it took far longer than I had anticipated, mandala work is very meditative, and I found it restful and healing. It seemed somehow important to complete the narrative cycle in 2011 and to begin the Sea of Human Life in the New Year, which I did.

The big surprise was my decision to create a Who I Am Becoming sketchbook. The concept for the sketchbook was a marriage of two ideas. I had committed in my Career Shaping group to do a sketchbook to record my explorations. Then I met a woman who wants to curate a self-portrait show of paintings/artwork based not on who we are but who we are becoming. The moment she used that phrase, I knew that was what my sketchbook needed to be.

I began it on the second of my 12 Days by doing the front and back covers. When I began working on the interior pages, I was amazed by how their execution and my understanding of them morphed and changed. Two collaged pages show how deep my struggle with this process is. I thought it was a simple matter of merging artist and writer, but I discovered that something deeper wants to happen.

The holiday season has always been an opportunity for me to do a variety of Spiritual Practices. Every day I played the Dalai Lama chanting the Maha Mkiiyunjava Manika. The healing force of this chanted mantra sends forth ripples from body to psyche and from psyche to soul. I would often stop whatever I was doing, sit, and allow the vibrations to wash over me.

Other spiritual practices included dreamwork, editing a friend’s book of poetry, divination readings, and attending a lecture and workshop on the Primordial Psyche. My divination readings were the I Ching, Sacred Path Peace Tree spread, and Medicine Cards to expand on the Peace Tree reading. The immediate take away from these readings is the awareness that I need a fallow period during which to replenish my self. If I do, like the dried Hydranga blossom above, roots will grow and the old stem will send forth fresh shoots.

The lecture and workshop on the Primordial Psyche took me back to a big dream I had in 1991, shortly after I arrived in Victoria, B.C., and to my travel around the continent of Africa many years before that. As more work is done with tapping into this deep layer of the unconscious, insights will feed into my Children of Eve series.

Like the Dalai Lama’s chanting, these practices set something in motion. Dream images, ideas and thoughts are tumbling around like seeds shaken in a jar. It will take patience to sort the seeds, nurture them, and allow them to sprout. As I was talking with my poet friend, the issue of patience arose. I mentioned that on the counter in the newly reconstructed downstairs bathroom I have a small rock with the word “patience” on it. She said, “The Mystery really picked up that rock and threw it at you recently.” Although we both laughed, it is not a laughing matter.

I hope for the patience to continue the healing begun in my 12 Days of Coming Home to My Self. For I know what has been set in motion may take months or years to manifest.  

Winter Solstice! Rejoice!

Winter Solstice, the time when the hours of darkness have reached their peak and the imperceptible increase of light begins once again. I rejoice in the painstaking snail's pace with which resurrection builds its energy all through the winter months and suddenly erupts in spring with crocus and daffodils. I delight in Winter Solstice because this is the time of year when I reaffirm my uniqueness.

The December holidays underwent a major change for me several years ago while I was living in Brussels. My daughter wrote to say, "I have good news and bad news. Bad news first: I'm not coming this December. The good news is, I've fallen in love." I was delighted with this wonderful turn of events in her life. Yet, at the same time, I was devastated. Through the best of times and the worst of times, before my divorce from her father and after the divorce, the holiday season had always been the time we were together and caught up on each other's lives.

As I walked the parks, seeking solace in nature, I worried about how to care for myself during what I felt would be a very difficult couple of weeks. I asked myself what this season was about if it were stripped of the family framework in which I'd always celebrated it. Having tuned into the rhythms of nature, I knew it was about the rise of light after the descent into darkness, the ascendance of hope after the plunge into despair.

My world travels had taught me that cultures the world over celebrate this annual beginning of a new cycle. Whether it’s the Festival of Lights in India or the elaborate astronomical observations and seasonal festivals from Ireland to Cambodia, all cultures celebrate the infinitesimal return of the light as if it were the birth of a child, a divine child. Steeped in this global awareness, I brooded over Carl Jung's image of the Self as a divine child within the psyche of each of us. That meant the divine child was within me.

 "What would it mean," I wondered, "for me to celebrate my own birth, my own worth as an individual?" I thought back to my actual birth and to the onerous situation this was for my parents. Expecting a boy, they had no name for a girl. Disappointed in the gift I was to them, they asked the nurse to name me.

"Well, maybe my parents were unable to rejoice in my birth,” I reasoned, “but that is no excuse for my not doing so?" Enchanted with the image of celebrating my own birth and the center of being within me, I  turned my attention away from sadness over my daughter's not coming. Returning home, I heard one of the season’s popular songs, The Twelve Days of Christmas playing on the radio. "That's it. I'll celebrate my own birth for twelve straight days!"

Deciding to give myself twelve gifts, one each day beginning with Winter Solstice, I made a list of things that give me pleasure. It included chocolates, a new teapot, getting a set of Motherpeace Tarot cards, and going to the ballet. On December twenty-first, I bought Belgian chocolates and a small ceramic nativity scene made in Peru. That evening, after wrapping gifts for friends in the area, I created a ritual with candles, music, and, yes, chocolates. Each day as I awoke, I would spontaneously decide what my gift that day would be. When going to the ballet presented itself, I hesitated; afraid it might make me despondent because my daughter and I had always seen the Nutcracker Suite together. Remembering one of my Latina friends who was also alone, I invited her to go with me for dinner and the ballet. We had a fabulous time.

Twelve days passed swiftly. I spent many delightful evenings reading Vicki Noble's book MOTHERPEACE, A Way to the Goddess through Myth, Art and Tarot and learning to use the lovely round cards. It was my first exposure to systems of divination and I found it fascinating to see how the cards echoed what was happening in my life. The Osho Zen deck has since become my favorite Tarot.

When I reflected on why my Twelve Days of Christmas had been one of the happiest times of my life, I realized it was the most self-affirming thing I had ever done. I realized that our unconscious registers our self-nurturing behavior. This healthy new appreciation for who we are encourages other healthy behaviors. Being good to yourself is good for you.

Moreover, a time that might have been lonely had been filled with anticipation, fun, and surprise. The negative symbol of my parents' rejection had been overpowered by my own self-acceptance to such an extent that since that breakthrough December, I have gifted myself with my present name, LiDoña. I took the name given to me by the nurse, Donna Lee, turned it around, and adjusted the spelling. Li in Chinese means fire or light. Doña in Spanish or Italian means woman or lady. Thus, LiDoña is Fire Woman or Light Lady.

I've never forgotten the power of self-affirmation and as Winter Solstice approaches each year, I feel a surge of anticipation as I contimplate my Twelve Days of Christmas. One year I celebrated my Artist Child with gifts to enhance my creativity. Another year I gave myself twelve days just for writing. This year, my home restored after the flood on November 28, I will do Twelve Days of Coming Home to Myself.

2011 was the year of the book. I helped edit Prayers for Transition, In Memory of Sandra Anderson True. I helped edit Art Twenty-Eleven, work by thrity-eight of the artists with whom I attend an open studio every other year. I achieved a twenty-five-year goal by publishing PILGRIMAGE Wonder Encounter Witness. The photo above was the state of my home on November 30, the night of my author event at the Jordan Schnitzer Museum of Art in Eugene, photo below. Stay posted for information about my author tour in mid-March to independent bookstores in Seattle, Bellingham, and Spokane in Washington and Moscow, Idaho.

Tonight is the longest night. Tomorrow light begins its magnificent return.

May your 2012 be filled with joy and light.

Memo to the Universe

Those who know me well, recognize that I have a strong streak of independence. Thus, you will perhaps appreciate that the universe has been delivering some strong messages to me about the fact that we humans are dependent upon one another.

The messages began to arrive in late August. I cut my left thumb while framing for my September Ancestral Lines show. A neighbor’s quick thinking got me to urgent care for five stitches by a female doctor from Barbados. Several wondrous friends stepped in to help me hang the show. I was filled with gratitude for my neighbor’s thoughtfulness, the medical care I received, and the compassion of my friends.

Then, in the fading light of an October evening, a curb and I had a miscommunication, my right ankle wrenched and I landed with a yelp on the cement parking lot. Three college students and a friend rescued me and got me started on RICE, rest, ice, compression and elevation. My seriously sprained right ankle has been in an air cast and I've been using a walking stick for the last month. In spite of the pain and stress, I am so grateful not to have broken any bones and for the wonderful care I received from friends, medical practitioners, and a young physical therapist.

The restorative power of physical therapy made me more stable and I was just celebrating being able to put away the walking stick, when the universe decided to upend my life in yet another way.

Early on Monday, as I was tending my plants, a water pipe in the upstairs bathroom broke and water began gushing out of the wall. Plumbing Dummy that I am, I threw down some towels to soak the water and raced for help. My neighbor’s light was on so I banged on her door. She grabbed some shoes, raced up my stairs, tramped through four inches of water and turned the water off. 

Together we threw down all the blankets, sheets, and towels we could find to soak up the water. We stopped the water from going into the room where all of my finished paintings are stored, but gravity is an irresistible force. Water flowed down the walls to the downstairs bathroom and dining area. I spotted water pouring through the light fixture above the kitchen counter. I pushed aside my computer modem and threw a quilt over the counter. My friend and I tossed more towels on the downstairs bathroom floor to catch the water running down the wall.  

Having done as much as we could, I tried desperately to find a plumber. When references from my neighbor and another friend produced nothing, I turned to the yellow pages. I called the company with the most professional advertisement and lucked out. He would arrive in less than an hour. Once the pipe was fixed, his knowledge of restoration professionals proved as important as his plumbing skills. We could have a team on site within another hour.

Next on the docket was the insurance claim, something else about which I had no previous knowledge. As I launched into what would become a day of phone calls with insurance representatives, the restoration crew arrived: two young men, one an ex-Marine and the other from the navy. Great, I thought; they will know about water. And they did.

I appreciated the way they began assessing and documenting the damage before crafting a restoration plan. When flashes of Katrina and the various earthquakes of the past two years visited me, I was aware that what I was experiencing did not even begin to compare with what others have endured. I was grateful for having lesser issues with which to contend.

As the marine team began releasing carpet edges so they could direct heat from drying fans underneath, they recommended that I go to a hotel. I saw the wisdom in their suggestion. However, I opted to remain in my home, at least for now. Yes, the noise from the fans is very loud, making it difficult to sleep. But it is probably no more difficult than trying to sleep in a strange hotel room where I would have no idea what was happening in my home.

They warned me that today the bathroom fixtures would be removed because both floors and some walls have to be restored. Then it will be one to two months before everything is shipshape. As I contemplate the disruptions and discomforts of the upcoming weeks, I am nevertheless once again filled with gratitude. In a world where children go to sleep hungry, elderly people find themselves isolated, and rocket fire keeps thousands wondering if they will greet the sunrise, I have been given so much. I have a job. I have a home. I have been blessed with awesome friends.

It would be nice if I could somehow send a memo to the universe that I wouldn’t mind having fewer reminders of just how lucky I am. However, for now I shall just allow gratitude to be my overwhelming message.