My Mess is my Message

Gathering evidence, 3KE style!

[mymessismymessage]

I am a witness for the prosecution

Last night I dreamt I was in a high school locker room. I was actually helping put up a vision board in the dream, complete with sprigs of flowers, pictures and declarations.  I was helping a woman discover what she wanted.

Then I heard a ruckus outside in the hall.  It sounded like a woman saying, "No, don't, that's not what I meant!  I don't want that!" And a man's voice saying, "But you keep egging me on.  You keep inviting me back.  I might as well just take you now."

I could hear a word in the back of my dream-mind: rape.

He flung her through the door into the locker room, I guess hoping it was empty.  There was a part of me that hoped he would not see me and I would be able to run for help. But a wall of lockers disappeared as he walked in and he looked right at me.  His victim lay on the floor, not even crying; it seemed she had already given up.

He looked like this when he walked in (no offense intended to the actor it resembles):

Except he was wearing a pink tie. 

He advanced on me saying things like, "What, you think you  heard something?  You didn't see what she's done up to now. She is asking for it.  She doesn't even want to be safe or pure. She wants me to take her over. You didn't see anything." etc.

I was slinking into the corner, away from him as he came closer until I realized um. NO.

I stood to my full height, which was practically nothing and said, "I did hear you.  I heard her say NO.  I saw you throw her in here."  I looked him squarely in the face and said, "I know what you look like and I know who you are.  I will be the best witness of your worst nightmares." 

He started to change. He grew.  He got more muscular and more physically frightening.  But I knew - as one knows in dreams - that he was just puffing up like a blowfish.  Because he was scared.  OF ME.

I pushed him with the power of my words and the power of my energy all around the room.  He backed up.  I had the power. He grew and grew until he was this:

Little more than a big clumsy ox.  He was no match for me, though I reached maybe his knee. 

He finally looked at the woman, his victim on the ground, then to me.  I stood  between her and him. He waved his hand at me, "Ah, I'll just get her later."

"But not today," I said, "Now you get out of here and never come back." As he was leaving I added, "And don't mess with my friends again.  They know I know you.  You know I know you.  I will witness against you."

Then I woke up. 

This is the dream I had after I had been led to mentor someone in 3 Key Elements education for the first time. 

[mymessismymessage]

I am Frodo

I am Frodo

Who did Sauron send to stop Frodo and get the ring?

Did he send his gentlest orc or lowliest pencil-pushing tree imp? Nope.

He sent these guys.

And then he sent these guys.

Then, when that wasn’t enough, he sent these guys.

And when that failed, he sent a friendly, pathetic spy hoping to slowly poison the hero…

And when that didn’t seem to be enough, he called out and amassed an army, leveling a full scale assault.  He came at Frodo with all he had.

Do you really think Satan is any different?

He may start small, he may even start strong, but he shows his hand as he starts to panic. 

Because, look, you’ve got a mission.

You have both friends and family who love you

as well as allies who know and support your mission.

You’ve got support you don’t even KNOW you have.

They’ve got your back in a big way.

You are strong and your message gives you power to influence others.

It will be tough.

And you can’t save everyone … maybe you can’t save anyone.

Maybe it will be too much…

But remember that you have a stalwart companion who signed up for this.

He sees your struggles, cries for you, and wants nothing more than to help carry your burdens.

And if it really gets to be too much, well, he’ll carry you.

And then he’ll rejoice with you and heal with you.

[mymessismymessage]

Hey, that was different!

That was different...

The Boy comes out of his room grumpy with angry eyes flaring under furrowed brow.

"What’s wrong?"

"What?" He asks defensively.

"I want to help."

"Oh yeah?  So help."

"I don’t know what’s wrong…"

"But you want to help.  What’s your idea to help."

I want to yell that he’s not making any sense…but really  he’s just not making MY kind of sense.  So I answer the question he’s asking rather than the question I WISH he would ask.

I close my eyes, put my head down and open my eyes again, reconnecting with my tenderness before I speak.

"My idea is that you tell me what’s bothering you. Then I think (I put my fingers to my temples with my eyes closed, like Sherlock searching his mind palace) of a solution.  Then I tenderly share that solution with you, (I use my hands to gently give him the idea from my heart), and then you take it in (I take a deep breath) and let go of whatever is bothering you.  Then you would feel better.  Would you like to do my idea?"

He frowns, “No.”

"Okay," I smile, "thanks for listening and watching anyway.  I’m here for ya."

[mymessismymessage]

Gooey Yak Hairball

"What's the matter, son?"

"I just need to cry so much!" he says, his head and very eyelids weighed down by some invisible force.

"Okay, you can go cry if you want," I say soothingly.

He does...and comes back up to the kitchen.

"Mom, it's not helping."

"Want to try some Kirk-tools?"

His eyes well with fresh tears and he nods.  

"Let's start basic.  How big is it?"

He stretches out his hands and bends at the knees, showing me that he's holding basically the world on his chest, and the weight of it is too much to bear.

"What color is it?"

"It's goopy."

"Is it getting all over you?"

"Yeah," he says through tears. "It's big and hairy and goopy and multicolored."

"Like a yak hairball?"

He smiles a little, but then nods. I can almost see it there, mucking up his hands and dripping on my floor.

"Want to keep it?" I say mischeviously.

He shakes his head, chin wrinkling with emotion.

"Want to get rid of it?"

"Yes!" He cries.

Okay.  So I lead him and the YakBall out side on the front porch.  I help him visualize the Salt Flats over the mountians - a place far away where the yak ball won't hurt anyone else. I tell him to aim for that ridiculous sculpture we see on the drive there.  He smiles.

He has to drop kick the yak ball three times before he can follow through and see it leave.

Then he goes inside and sobs like the dickens. 

And after that goes on for as long as it needs to, with plenty of quiet reinforcement from his mommy, "It's okay to cry; just let it out," He grows quiet.  He slumps, relaxed in our recliner.

"I feel so light now," he says softly.

"That's because you let it go, sweetie."

"Thanks, Mom." he smiles and takes my hand, "I'm glad you learned how to do this."

Me, too. 

[mymessismymessage]

A few stories to prove my point: Love Letters

There was once a few years ago that I was struggling in my dance with depression. I call it a dance because sometimes I lead and sometimes depression does. In 2009 I was struggling to move my feet as depression led me in dizzying circles around the proverbial dance floor.

I turned to a new crutch (candy bars) until an old crutch (theater performing) presented itself. I must have been bad off, because my husband encouraged me to be in - not one - but two plays a the same time. Which meant he would have to watch both children on his own for quite a while every night after work.

We had quite a mess in the first production - a Shakespeare - and I had been asked to be the stand-in Musical Director for the second, which was a beloved Sondheim Musical. 

I remember one particular night that I came home and I must have brought some weird gunk home with me because my husband sent me straight to bed saying, "You are acting weird and I don't want you projecting it on me. Go get some sleep." 

I beat myself up in my journal. I beat myself up in the mirror and I beat myself up on the scale.  I even beat myself up in my prayers. Until the last few seconds before I fell asleep on my knees, tears still fresh on my cheeks, and I finally spoke to Him. I don't recall the words, but I know it had something to do with love.

I woke the next morning to another bright, shining, sun-soaked July day. I thought I would be sick. Birds were singing. It was warm and people walked about the place with grins plastered to their un-depressed faces. 

I got to rehearsal and a few more little things fell apart. I was feeling utterly useless and forgotten.

Then I heard the thunder.

I looked out the window and saw thick grey clouds, complete with a platinum lining, pouring rain upon the thirsty ground.  I love the rain so much.

And I knew it.  I even said it out loud, "Oh!  God loves me!"

A woman in my cast overheard and said, "He must not love me; I hate the rain." And she laughed.

I cried. 

Ever have those moments when you just know something?

I have. And this particular time I knew that the rain was a sign God loves me. It could not have been more clear if He had walked in with a dozen roses. 

Similarly, on closing night of the second production my husband brought me a delicious mango smoothie.  He picked up the children and he went home. This bothered my castmate.

"Isn't he staying to watch you?"

"I don't think so," I say, smiling.

"Didn't he bring you flowers or a card or anything?"

"Yeah, he brought me a smoothie."

She rolled her eyes and grimaced, "Not much of a closing night gift, though. I mean, doesn't it just make you mad that he doesn't support you?"

I laughed. I mean a giant, shake the rafters, throw back my  head and just laugh laugh. 

"Wait," I said when I could catch my breath. "Which part of his actions is un-supportive? When he encouraged me to be in these plays?  When he takes care of the kids for hours at a time so I can rehearse and perform?  When he has to spend his days off without me because I'm HERE? Or when he brings me one of my favorite treats that would not interfere with my performance?"

She was stunned. And so was I. 

"Wow," I said. "I don't think I realized until just this moment how much that man loves me."

I suggest we make a list today, just sometime on a scrap of paper somewhere. And list all the evidences of love in our life. 

I sincerely believe you'll be surprised at the answer when the question you ask yourself is, "How am I being loved?"

You are. Perhaps you're just looking for it in the wrong places.

[mymessismymessage]

For the Record

A few years ago I was advised to “write happy.” This advice came on the tail of my Life Coach having read - of his own free will - a whole book of poetry I’d written in my youth/teenage years.

I told him that I knew more about pain and misery.

And even as I said the words, I knew they were a lie…I just didn’t know why. 

Enter Kirk Duncan, Kim Duncan, Ann Washburn and the 3 Key Elements (a wondiferous company if there every was one!) on a stage at the Salt Palace Convention center presenting "Master Your Influence" to an audience of 750 people over 3 days.

Now, although I was there and present for the presentation, there was something personal about the experience for me. So, to remember how I felt, I'll employ the right brain with imagery.

See Kirk enter stage left with his arms open, palms up, a big, sincere smile on his face. Kim enters stage right with her gentle yet powerful sashay and dressed to the nines, complete with eye-catching necklaces. And Ann, powerfully listening, is backstage this particular time as the capable, encouraging, places-calling stage manager. The Elements themselves were flown in from above, sparklers whirling on the edges of the banner (which means there was someone like Wayne or Kevin or one of the myriad of other fantastic employees back there working the pulleys).

You know what, I bet it was dazzling and the music was playing the first time. Yeah, they’ve made an entrance at least three times.

So why didn’t I see it before?

I didn’t see it because... I had been looking down.

But this time it was all of them … and this time I looked up

Therefore, in case anyone didn't know, I'd like to make it known, that this blog is specifically set aside to address 3KE learning and compile evidence.

I'm a storyteller.  I need to make sure I'm telling myself the right stories. 

[mymessismymessage]

Love is in the Air...

Love is in the Air

In my last post I talked about opening the love letters. Specifically I was talking about the many letters and cards people had written me over the last year or two which I had kept closed and locked away in a “special place” where I could not see them. 

Out of sight, out of mind.  Isn’t that how the saying goes?

This idea - that of opening the love letters - applies all over the place. I’ve been seeing it everywhere since I wrote it. 

I have found myself saying more and more often this phrase: Look for love where it is not where you want it to be.

For example, if I was looking for love everyday in the mailbox, I will find it rarely. But if I look at the compiled evidence of love, I find it daily. 

The same with God (who is my Higher Power). The same with spouses, children, angels, friends and other family members.

I have proof.

[mymessismymessage]

Open the love letters...

I have been writing cards and letters to people for years. I began because I had a writing desk and I like to write.  I kept on because it was a way for me to show gratitude and flex those muscles. 

But then I began to use it for something else....I didn't define it, which is why I didn't realize or own it was happening at all.

Long story short I would surmise, "No one writes me back, so what I do and my love must not matter to them."

Then 3KE showed me how to "build evidence." 

Two weeks after MYI, I was cleaning out my writing desk; this special spot in my home had been created and set apart for romantic meanderings of my mind, And it had fallen into a disgraceful state of disrepair.  There was garbage and coupons and old pictures as well as toys and empty pens covering my little corner of the house.

I began to separate things into piles. Garbage. Pictures. Toys. Things to File. Letters to save. Wait...What? 

That's right, I had received some letters.  Moreover, that specific pile started to grow. I found more in the drawer; some were sticking out of my favorite books in the bookcase nearby. I read them over. They were incredibly heartfelt and specific responses to my basic existence - not necessarily something I had said or done for another, but just how someone had seen me one day and thought, "She's great.  I should tell her."

I literally sprinted down my stairs (dangerous on my injured foot) to check the cedar chest.  I opened it and piled inside on top of the "past" were MANY letters and cards I had received in this last year alone.

That was my mess. A mess because I had just tied them with a bow and hid them in my cedar chest. Then cried that I never got any in the first place. 

But now I know that "for things to get better, I must get better.

For things to change, I must change." - 3KE

I took a purple binder, I added sheet protectors.  Then I set about filling those sheet protectors with the love-filled notes, letters and cards. Now I can - and do - pull them out any time I want and be reminded:

I am loved.

I am remembered.

I matter.

I know it because now I have evidence, exhibit A which outlines how I matter to a member of my church. Exhibit B which recalls a time a kind word from me was an answer to prayer (implying that I followed inspiration).  I have exhibits all the way to Q that lauds my smile. I will have to start the alphabet over soon! The evidence is piling up. 

[mymessismymessage]

Slick

Things have been going well, right?  Yeppers.

I have chosen my messages, I've practiced in front of the mirror so that my body language communicates those messages. And it's working!!

Case in point:

I've always thought I would be a fantastic ghostwriter.  Now, for those who don't know what that is, I'll define it: "a person whose job it is to write material for someone else who is the named author."

Basically I encourage people to find and tell their story. I use my talents to help them say what they want to say but feel they can't for whatever reason. And if I have to actually write it for them - it's still THEIR story and I just helped. 

I am really good at this.I LOVE doing this. It's one of the things I put up on my Vision Board at MYI in February. 

And then, in the last week three people have asked me for creative writing help.  Small, tiny, minuscule help, perhaps; but help none the less and I will not scoff at the opportunity to help someone tell their story!

I guess that explains why today I have had a similar number of experiences...but each giving me the message that other people think I'm stupid and that I stress them out. Well guess what? 

I graciously receive the positive, and tenderly turn aside anything else. 

So there, world. I am a duck, and negativity is rolling off my back.

[mymessismymessage]

Sometimes, I used to wake up and think, "What's the point?!" I'd stumble out of bed, aching in ridiculous places and on occasion barely able to walk as I carry my girth about. and that question would pound in my head, "What's the point?!"  

Whelp, nowadays, I just look up to the left and see my Declarations.I read them.  I act them out. I hear them as I read them out loud, often in accents.

I look up to the right and see my self, drawn by my own hand, surrounded by all the characteristics and adjectives that make me pretty darn special.

And I look at my Vision board, a whole space on my wall dedicated to reminding my brain what I want.

Oh, yeah... I remember: Creation.  Creation is the point.

[mymessismymessage]

Expression is like Juicing....

I attended "Master Your Influence" in February.

Kirk kept asking people if they had their vision boards up at home.  I did not, because the last time I had, I was only able to take off 2 things before "life happened," and then I just got really mad that the painters tape would so easily peel off my sueded walls. I had thrown out my vision board about 8 months ago, actually. Scrapped the whole thing.

On the way home from the last day, I thought about putting up a board and felt distinctly that it was not the right time. Which may sound mad...but if it was one thing Kirk had taught me, it was to follow inspiration. 

Fast forward through two weeks of keeping an "Inspiration Journal" and a "decisions journal" and a "drawing journal" and it hit me one day, "Put up your vision board; one for everyone in the family."

So I did. We even had a Family Night about it. But this time I used cork boards. WAY better for the walls, I can tell you.

And the very next day, well, I got me some evidence that Vision Boards are powerful. 

1. I finally had something to put in my "Black Journal" which I actually call "Comment Prison." Yeah, about 65 somethings... wow.

2. The idea I've been waiting for for over 7 months, it came to me!  The very reason I started the Inspiration Journal, the reason I put up the Vision Board!  It came THAT FAST. And it was - LITERALLY - idea 101.  What does that mean?

That means I LITERALLY had ONE HUNDRED other ideas/inspirations that needed to be expressed FIRST, before the one I was looking for could come out.

Wow, right?  

And that sort of breakthrough just scared the garbage out of the Dot People. 

*grin*

[mymessismymessage]

Grant bought me pants

Yesterday I was shopping for work pants; I found great stuff that made me feel and look like a million.  They started ringing me up for the sweater, the shirt, the sleek black pants with deep pockets. 

I knew how much I had in my checking account and how much was in my currently-inaccessible savings account (I don't have internet on my phone; cry for me later). So when the total came up three dollars over the amount in my checking ... I knew I didn't have enough. I felt that familiar sickened constriction in my stomach.

And the thought began to form, "I have to put something back, because I don't have enough -"

But then I remembered my Money Friends.

My eyes lit up and I said, "I have money!"

I opened my wallet and pulled out one of my friends.  I said - out loud,  much to the surprise of the sales girl at the register, "Hey, Grant!  Would you like to buy me some pants?"

"Yes, indeed I would," I heard him answer in an attractively gruff voice.

I unfolded him and snapped him in my hands.  Then I handed him over.  Grant bought me pants!

I went to my savings account later at the bank and replaced him; I don't think I'll ever want to be without Grant again.  Because he may look like a grumpy gills, but apparently he loves to take me shopping.

Thanks, Grant!