K2TOG

Tuesdays are turning out to be my favorite day of the week. Actually, Tuesdays were always up there because it's my knitting night. But now, the daytime hours are gaining ground because it's the day I knit with the women at the New Hope House.

I participated and completed the training program with the New Hope Domestic Violence Agency of North Attleboro earlier this spring, and started volunteering at the shelter about a month ago. I thought I was going to do Pilates with the women, because that's what I do for work. But, I wanted to try something new, so I decided to knit with them. Now, I am not a knitting teacher. I know knitting teachers. I have great teachers at In the Loop. What I've come to know is that I can pick up some of the best tips during Sit and Knit, when we're all just sitting around the table with no official teacher. We just share what we're doing and I've learned a ton around that table. My plan was to get them started with knitting and purling, start with a simple dishcloth pattern, and then let the real learning begin.

I committed to 10-11 on Tuesday mornings, figuring I couldn't get into too much trouble in an hour. I bought some cotton yarn, a few sets of needles, and off I went. There were 5 women that first day, different in just about every way women can: age, color, language, etc.  By the end of that first hour, I'd figured out how to "teach" each one according to her needs, and they'd figured out casting on and the knit stitch. Their homework: just keeping knitting until you either run out of yarn or run out of patience. In the case of the latter, frog it all and start again.  I floated home. It was THE BEST hour I'd spent in a long time.

Three weeks later, we're still knitting dishcloths, but as practice for learning new techniques. We've SSK'd, PSSO'd, cabled and cast off. They're working on afghans now and chomping at the bit to start scarves and sweaters. One woman is absolutely begging me to knit a dress! Each week, the time we spend around the table gets a little bit longer and I've set 3 hours as my limit although I could probably stay all day if they'd let me.

My mother taught me to knit and I made dishcloths until they were coming out of my ears. The first time I came into the shop and told Cheryl I wanted to try something a little more adventurous, she couldn't have been more generous with her time or her spirit. Her welcoming energy was infectious, and it wasn't long before I started spending the grocery money on yarn rather than food for my family.  (Screw 'em.) Ellen probably doesn't remember helping me pull out a scarf I was making (badly) with a Tilli Tomas yarn. It had tiny beads in it, so pulling it out was a total pain in the ass. She sat at the table with me and went row by row until we'd frogged it all and rewound the whole thing.  Soon, I joined a class, came to the sit and knits, and fell in love. And it is my absolute privilege to pay it forward with these amazing women on their journey to rebuild their lives.

But of all the best lessons I've learned around the table either at the shop or the House, it is always what happens when we K2TOG. Whether people, a broken heart, or knitting it is always better, stronger together.

Crossroad

Born in the USA

After my son Connor was born, the State of Maine sent his birth certificate. Actually, what they sent was his Certificate of Live. I filed it with the other important papers: the marriage certificate, copies of our birth certificate, and our original social security cards. Over the years, it was joined by other significant documents: his baptismal record, the divorce decree, the new marriage certificate. Every once and a while, I'd need to pull out proof of Connor's age like for Little League, Pop Warner, or other legal proceedings. There was never a problem...until Donald Trump.

For the last few weeks, the media couldn't get enough of Donald Trump's claim that President Obama's Certificate of Live Birth proved nothing. They'd herald the polls that some crazy percentage of Americans didn't believe that the President was born in the United States. And I'm ashamed to admit that I bought into their fear-mongering. I called my mother in a panic, worried that when Connor and I went down to the Registry for his driver's permit, some nut behind the counter would question Connor's legitimacy because he didn't have a birth certificate, but rather, a certificate of live birth. The next day, I ordered the long-form version (which cost me a whole lot more than I wanted to spend), and I told Connor he couldn't get his permit until the new version came, which it did less than 5 days later.

There. Now, no-one could question Connor's legitimacy. I was armed and loaded for bear. But I was also feeling another feeling I couldn't quite put my finger on. It hovered somewhere between sadness and anger. I was sad/mad that I'd let Donald Trump make me question my son's obvious existence. I was sad/mad that I was becoming suspicious and paranoid about the people I would encounter throughout my day. And I was down-right heartbroken and apoplectic when Obama called a press conference releasing his long-form birth certificate. I understood why he did it. But I couldn't help but wonder he felt angry, humiliated, frustrated, tired, or all of the above. What did he tell his daughters? Did any of the kids at school say anything? The Donald got into my head and I'm just a regular girl in Wrentham, Massachusetts, never mind being the President of United States. 

But as I was going to bed last night, I checked onto the Huffington Post for no particular reason, only to find that the President was going to be making a major announcement around 10:30pm. The President? On the Sunday night? This...was...BIG. We got into bed, put on CNN, and waited. Then in came: Osama Bin Laden was dead. Holy crap. OBL, American's boogeyman, was dead. We sat, glued to the coverage. Then they started showing the crowds gathering outside the White House and Ground Zero, cheering and sining the national anthem. And I felt a shift inside of me. Here we are again. Poised at a critical moment in our history as a nation, when we can put our differences aside and see ourselves in each other; each one an American. 

September 11, 2001, was a dark day in America. But the days that follow did, for many, bring out the better angels of our natures. I often what could have been if we'd been able to bottle or harness that energy. I can't help feeling that we're at that crossroad again or at least that I'm there again. I let fear pull me from my center. I will be careful not to let that happen again. It wasn't a wrong decision to get another version of Connor's birth certificate, it was the spirit in which the decision was made that I would change. As it turns out, the new version doesn't look much different from the first. It's slightly more official looking with a big green flourish border, but both have a raised seal and can testify that Connor Burns Eschmann was "Made in the USA".

Day 38: Training Completed, Intention Set

As of 3:30pm today, I am officially a Domestic Vioience/Sexual Assault Advocate. Now that I have completed training, I can begin volunteering for the agency. What a week it has been. My worldview has changed so significantly, it's hard for me to find the words to adequately express what I am feeling. I can only imagine how I will feel once i begin working with real people. I am so grateful for the women who put on such an incredible course and for the work they do. I am so grateful for each of the women who went through the training with me and for allowing me to be a part of here journey. It is my prayer to be able to serve the agency and its clients to the best of my abilities. It is my intention to remain open to the process and to find the best place(s) for me to serve in order to be a source of hope for those seeking options for.  I feel truly blessed today. I truly do.

Day 36: Second Day of New Hope Training

Today's topic for training: child physical and sexual abuse. I had planned on working tonight after class. I'd given my clients a head's up last week that I might need to cancel class because I was unsure of how I would feel at the end of the day. By 2pm, I'd let them know that I would, in fact, need the evening to process the day. And I feel terribly guilty about it. But that's typical of me. I hold myself to this standard that I should be able to go through this training and maintain everything as is. I know I've done the right thing by practicing self-care, but it does not come easily to me, and I know that it's a hard thing for most women to practice.

Here are the words of wisdom that have been ringing in my heart and ears all day:

I am grateful for what I learned in training and for having a safe home to return to at the end of the day.

Day 10: Moonstruck

I've been thinking a lot about the moon lately. Which is interesting because tomorrow's moon is going to be a rare Supermoon. This means that this full moon coincides with its closest passage to the earth. I read that's actually the closest it has been to the earth in 18 years.

Years ago, Fred and I driving on 495 and there was an absolutely beautiful Harvest Moon. It was that gorgeous shade of orange only seen in the Fall. The light from the sun showed all the details of the man of the moon.

I felt a lot like that moon that night. I was a new wife and a young mom. I spent a lot of time in those days trying to be the "ideal" wife and "good" mother. I relied on outside influences to figure out what that should look like. I looked for so much outside approval and validation that I lost my sense of self. I spent so much time reflecting other's light that I forgot how to shine by my own power.

But lately, I've been thinking that I got it wrong about the moon. The fact that she shines is a bonus. If she didn't reflect the sun's light, it would not diminish her true power and influence in the slightest. And this doesn't take into account her impact on culture, mythology, religion, or art. It's like that saying: If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there to hear it make a sound, does it exist? I used to be unsure of the answer. Now I believe it to be yes. I know that there trees in my backyard that I see everyday. And I know that there are trees in the Rainforest that I may never see. Yet, their loss impacts me. And I am not naive (or narcissistic) enough to believe that I must be present at the falling of every tree in order for it to have had meaning.

I used to see my self value through what I could do or be for the people around me, or what was "the right thing" to do, or what I thought was expected of me. I mistook my purpose to be as a reflector. I now know with increased certainty, that if what I do makes other people happy, it is a bonus, but it is NOT my true light and power. Right now, I am in the process of finding words for what lies within me. It is a much different experience from doing and achieving. Oftentimes it's extremely uncomfortable. But I am intent on staying with it. So as Sister Moon passes by tomorrow, I hope she comes close enough to whisper a word of wisdom or two into my ear. I'm definitely listening.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Wholly Crap!

This Saturday I held my first yard sale. The third floor of our house is unfinished. Since we moved in ten years ago, anything that can't find a place in the house gets put in the attic. A few years ago, I hired "The Garbageman" to come and help haul out the junk from the upstairs. It felt great. But then we just turned around and filled it with even more junk. It started to feel like I had all this crap hanging over my head, literally and figuratively, so I decided to deal with the attic once and for all. I read a great article about how to have a successful yard sale in the Saturday Evening Post (who knew this magazine was still in existence) while waiting in the doctor's office. I followed the main points of their plan:

1. Give each family member 3-4 boxes that they could fill with items to keep
2. All items leftover are tossed, sold, or donated
3. Hold your yard sale on the 15th or 30th of the month (around payday)

I was inspired. Labor Day weekend, I got up and headed to Target to buy 15-20 plastic bins. My husband and I spent the entire weekend hauling out and organizing the attic. My son and I handled the toys and athletic equipment. All and all, we put 20 full bags of trash out on the curb, with 3 dead televisions and a alarmingly large amount of styrofoam to be dealt with separately. I spent the next week cleaning and tagging all the items. Then, got some great ideas for advertising and sale day logistics from Yardsalequeen.com. The sale was set for Saturday, September 18, 9-2.

Yesterday was D-day. I added balloons to the signs by 6:30am and we started carrying everything out around 7am. By 8:20, I had just about everything out, organized by category and up on boxes or tables, as suggested by the Yard Sale Queen. The early birds started arriving around 8:15 and I made my first sale by 8:45: our first coffee table I bought at an outlet store for $99, which I thought was a real steal at the time. I sold it for $20. Other salewares included:

• a box of shoes at $2/pair
• the Jack Lalaine juicer used once at $10 (sold for $5 at 2:45p)
• endless toys
• lamps and tables
• various small tables
• prints and posters
• glass vases
• golf clubs and tennis rackets

and so much more.

At the sale's end, my neighbor came by and had the brilliant idea of hauling what didn't sell to the end of the driveway so it could get picked at and I'd had less to bag up up Sunday for trash day on Monday. (My town allows each household one garbage can of trash and anything else must be in special bags the town cells at $10/5 bags!)

Later that night, I headed over to Target to pick up laundry detergent. I usually enjoy a stroll through Target, but the idea of buying and bringing in another piece of stuff into my house made me physically sick. What it took to clean out 10 years of clutter was several hours of serious sweat, and at the end of the day, I had $232 to show for it. I've put the money into my SmartyPig savings account and setup recurring payments into the account to grow it. I haven't decided what we're going to do with the money once I've hit my savings goal, but I know it won't be towards buying a meaningless piece of nothing; and that's sure worth something!

Occam's Razor

I heard the most fascinating story on "This American Life" this afternoon. It was based on Occam's Razor which, boiled down to its essence, asserts that: Given a choice between two explanations, the simplest explanation is probably the right explanation.

The story was about a family who spent at least twenty years asserting that their first born son, was white, when in actuality, he was biracial. It was one of those classic NPR stories that is so compelling, I take the long way home and inevitably have to sit in the car to listen to the end. I was absolutely unable to comprehend so many different pieces of the story. How could this family live with such a big elephant in the room and never address it? Why, once the story got out, no one was angry, bitter, or betrayed? In fact, once the truth was out, the family felt relief. The son felt complete, both fathers felt equally a father to their son, the sisters could finally relax, and the mother was free. WTF???!!!

At so many different points throughout this family's life, when faced with an opportunity to face this unspoken truth, each family member, chose to go with the easier and simpler option. They did it because it was easier than facing the possibility of losing their center, their world, the idea of their perfect circle of love. But, it still didn't seem plausible to me. This kind of blindness is just not possible.

Then I thought about where I am in my personal journey. I've always seen myself as a creative person. I play an instrument, sew, knit, and pretty much enjoy any type of crafty venture. It's that second to last word that is my Occam's Razor solution. Given the choice between thinking of myself as crafty versus an artist, the simpler is explanation. I can answer yes to crafting, but an artist, no friggin' way. Artists create things. Artists have vision. Artists can see what is unseen and then express it through a given medium.

But, oh God, do I want to be an artist. Just typing these words made my stomach flip flop. I want to be an artist. And it seems to me, that to make that happen, I have to abandon the idea of my perfect circle of self. And I realize that, like the family, it's the insistence of keeping the idea of my perfect circle of self, what's holding me back from being in the center of my freer, truer (not perfect) circle.

I have been encouraged by a mentor to start an Artists' Way circle. My first instinct was excitement, then came that naysayer voice who says I am no artist and no one will join and now is not the time, and besides, a lot of the readers on Amazon said it's corny and they're probably right.

So I have to ask myself: Given a choice between two explanations, is the simpler explanation the easier one or the safe one?

I will bless you doublefold

What if I told you that I believed that I had been chosen. Chosen to be special. To live a life so extraordinary. Would you think I was crazy? And why not me. It's happened before. Ordinary people chosen for extraordinary things. Noah. The Buddha. Oprah.

What if I told you, that this call was so strong, so persistent, it haunts me in my dreams. Angels speak to me. Tell me things. Special things. I see amazing places. I fly over canyons. I visit sepia cities and travel in cars with no drivers. Tornadoes swirl around me and leave me whole. Still stand. Would you laugh nervously? Gather up your bag and have to go?

What if I told you, that the desire for me to leave ordinary behind was so insistent, that when ignored, she pounds my head until I have to no choice but to take to my bed and submit to her will. Every minute not lived in "the new way" knots my muscles so tightly that I am unable to get out of bed to waste time in a farcical fantasyland. The anger I feel that she won't leave me alone is so dark, so deep that I am afraid to let it out. So I turn it inward and suffer in silence, lest anyone feel my wrath. It's easier. It's just safer that way.

What if I told you that I've surrendered? Would think I'm weak? I'm so sure you would know me to be crazy. Surrender to what? What makes you think you are so special? What are you going to do in your small town, in your small life? Are you going to change world? Foolish indulgence. Prophet and priestess. Yes, there it is. Crown her with many crowns: Fool, Dreamer, Prophet, Priestess, Free.

Mother, May I

Remember the game: Mother, May I? One child was selected to be "The Mom". The other kids lined up at a pretty good distance from her. Mom would pick a player at random and say: "Karen, you may take X steps." She would respond: "Mother, may I?" and it was up to the Mom to grant the request or not. If the player forgot to ask permission, she must go back to the starting line. The first person to touch Mom wins.

Seems like a pretty straightforward game. All you have to do is remember to ask for permission and you're all set. How hard could it be to remember 3 simple words in order to win?

On one sunny day, Mother is a kind, benevolent soul. She has a heart for fairness and wants everyone to win. Mom goes out of her way to make sure she picks each girl at least once, and chooses the shyest ones twice. Mother says: Nikki, you may take 6 giant steps forward. Mother, may I, I call out in respond. Yes, you may and I throw myself forward, lunging as far forward I can possibly go without ripping my pants apart at the seams. Maria, Mother beams, you may take TEN giant steps forward. Mother, may I, asks Maria in utter disbelief. YES YOU MAY cries back Mother, barely able to stand still at her post. At step eight, he realizes he's actually going to win. A slight hesitation at step 10, making sure this isn't some sick joke. Step 10 and he's the first to Mother. She has won Mother's favor. I'm close enough to see her pure ,gapped-toothed joy, and Mother's self-satisfying glow, too. I don't even mind losing, after all, Maria's life is an uphill battle. I know things. She gets extra help for reading. There are whispers of "social services". She's on the hot lunch plan. There will be other days to win. I don't mind. I really don't. I really don't mind.

Another peach of a day brings me back to the same playground. I stand in line with a dozen other girls. "Nikki, you may take 5 regular steps forward." I've been called first and take this as a good sign. "Mother, may I?" "No, you may not. Jennifer, you can take 5 regular steps forward." "Mother, may I?" winks Jennifer. "Yes, you may," Mother sing songs back. It goes on like this. Jennifer goes by, then Moira, Missy, Natalie. I stand in my spot, praying to get the call. "Nikki, you may take 10 giant steps forward." Bingo! and off I go landing smack in the middle of the pack. "You forgot to say Mother, may I" growls Mother and back I go, standing alone near the starting line, smiling on the outside because this is not bothering me, dying on the inside. As the game comes to a close, Mother is surrounded. The girls are standing so close, I'm certain she can smell the flavor of each of their lip glosses. She prolongs her pleasure and tortures her subjects with the skills of a long-practice dominatrix.

"Mother, may I. Mother, may I. Mother, may, I," I silently chant, far away from the maddening crowd, but still clinging to hope. "You can stop playing," says Maria from the sideline. "Don't you get it? You have no chance to win. This game isn't about you. It's all about her." And I know Maria is right. So we leave, holding hands the way girls do in order to show the world that we are together. Off to find a better way to spend our time.

things you should know before metamorphing

Last spring I heard a fascinating story on NPR. It was about the memory of caterpillars after metamorphosis. The scientist interviewed described how her researched uncovered the fact that caterpillars have the ability to remember things even after they have become transformed into moths. That was not the most interesting part of the story for me. She said that caterpillars don't just "put on a change of clothes" to become butterflies, but rather they go through a "biological meltdown that reduces them to soup".  The caterpillar parts are totally rearranged and the unneeded pieces are discarded in order to achieve butterflydom. NPR Story

I've always thought of the metamorphic process with the emphasis on the beautiful creature that emerges at the end of the process. I imagine the time in the chrysalis (the cocoon) in more gentle, even mystical terms. This story completely changed that for me. The caterpillar is reduced to soup. Now I've made a few soups and stews in my day and I know that reduction requires a rapid boil on a high heat. This challenges my whole idea of caterpillar going into a sleep-like state and the transformation happens without really disturbing it. And that's just what goes on in the chrysalis.

Before the caterpillar can get to this stage, she:

• Is born and sheds her skin 5 times to accommodate for her growth


• Crawls 30-40 feet (which has to feel like forever) away from her home to find a safe place to pupate. Once found she has to hang from her last 2 legs in a j-shape for one day.


• Sheds her skin one last time to reveal the chrysalis that was under her skin the entire time. Her temporary home is about an inch in size and is soft at first, but hardens over time so it can keep her safe for the next stage.


• Reduces to soup and her old parts are used for new purposes


• Emerges, after 9-14 days, as a butterfly, her wings wet, small, and crumpled leaving her unable to fly and quite vulnerable to predators,not to mention the elements around her.


• Dries after an hour or so, ready to fly and start the process for another by mating and laying eggs

January is when we hear the classic battle-cry: "New Year, New You!". The NPR story reminds me that transformation is not a mystical experience. It is hard work. It is messy work. And most important, it is mindful work. So before I go tearing off to make a new me, there are questions that need to be considered:

• Am I shedding skin? Is the the first time, third time, or final time?


• Am I in a safe place? Am I ready to move in order to be in that place?


• Do I have a solid chrysalis around me?


• Am I really ready to melt?


• Am I up the the challenge of asking my old parts to do new things?

and last but not least...

Am I ready to fly?

proud flesh

I received my first badge sometime during my elementary school years. I went through quite a growth spurt. At some point two large ridges of flesh appeared. Caramel colored fault lines along each shoulder where the skin yielded to the rate at which it was asked to grow.

In my senior year in high school, I lost my left ovary to a cyst the size of a lemon. It had wrapped around the fallopian tube and crushed it. I felt the pain a different points along the way. The most memorable was in the middle of a street market in Barbados during my senior class trip. My friends helped me back to our hotel room where I laid in bed until the pain went away. The next time it struck, I ended up in the hospital and in surgery. The doctor said she'd never seen a case of endometriosis that severe in someone so young. I've always prided myself on being an overachiever. Why stop in the classroom? I left the hospital one ovary short, a warning to get pregnant sooner than later, and a long purple gash running across my belly and three inches below its button.

Eight years later, that gash would be overlayed by a topographical map of flesh valleys, rivers, and ranges. I was pregnant with the only child I would be fortunate enough to carry. A baby boy whose every flip, flutter, and hiccup I can still remember. During a shopping trip with family, my little cousin Desi kept me company in the dressing room while I tried on maternity clothes. She stood there quietly sucking her thumb and tracing one particularly long mark along my side. Her small mahogany finger riding along my river bed.

I breast fed for one year. Every day I would bring an electric breast pump to work. It was the look and size of a classic workingman's tool box. On my lunch hour I would sit in the handicap stall in the women's bathroom to pump. I didn't have an office, so I'd dragged a chair into the stall and run an extension cord in as well. I sit, pump, and chat with the other women who'd come in and out. Now at age 40, I spend a fair amount of time looking at what's left of what was once a pair of majestic peaks that now appear to be the victims of tectonic plate shifting. And again with the river beds.

Yesterday, I turned on the television and an ad for Cindy Crawford's skin care line was on. How did she stay looking so young at age 41? She's only 41! I screamed back at the television! She is young! A few months ago I saw a commercial for Palmer's Cocoa Butter. Picture a young pregnant woman with her beautiful belly out for all to see. "Pregnancy, it's a beautiful thing", it begins, "but it can also leave ugly stretch marks." From beauty to shame in three seconds flat.

Jane Hirshfield writes in her poem "For What Binds Us":

And see how the flesh grows back

across a wound, with a great vehemence.

more strong

than the simple, untested surface before.

There's a name for it on horses

when it comes back darker and raised: proud flesh

as all flesh

is proud of its wounds, wears them

as honors given out after battle

small triumphs pinned to the chest

I remember the first time I read the first half of that passage. It was in an Oprah magazine and I like it so much, I tore it out and tucked it away behind my jewelry box for safe keeping. For someday. That day has come.

I am tired of being to asked to diminish, reduce, erase, and minimize. Why would I want to hide the evidence of a life in which I have laughed, cried, birthed, and sustained. I have been damaged, bruised. I have stretched. I have been torn. I have been reborn a thousand times. Sometimes, it feels, in a single day.

Life marks us and those marks make us. They testify to our authenticity and I will not apply anything to this body that removes one once of its essensce, of its being but rather

a balm that recognizes, restores, and honors the beautifully broken, working vessel I am

its application a ritual that reminds me that I have been tested and still stand. Not unmarked, but bound together by a wondrous mosaic of skin light, dark, smooth, thick, scarred, raised, and wrinkled. A living fabric of scar tissue cords interwoven with muscle fiber, veins, and flesh knitted together by hope, desire, memory, will.

Proud flesh. It doesn't begin to cover it.

Refractology

I loved going to the eye doctor when I was a little girl. I really wanted to wear glasses. There seemed something interesting about a girl who wore glasses. Sometimes I would purposely read out the wrong letters during the chart test hoping that would be enough to fail the exam. The doctor's office had a special room for the frames. They were beautifully displayed in cases tall and wide. Laying on glass shelves with their matching cases. The models wearing the glasses in the pictures on the wall looked cooly back to me through their transition lenses. Oh what I wouldn't give to be a part of their world.

My most favorite part of the exam was the optical refractor. The doctor would pull the ultimate pair of glasses down in front of my face and the magic would begin. A flip and a click, then, can you see better with the left eye or the right eye? Flip, click. Better or worse? I loved it. Sometimes the letters ahead of me were fuzzy, and then in an instant, a little better, then better still.

Of course, it always ended the same way. The glass that had improved my vision for the better would always turn out to be my actual vision. Curses, foiled again. Then I would wait in the frame room while my mother squared up with the front desk, promising the frames I'd be back again for them next year.

I don't know what got me thinking about the optical refractor the other day. Refractology (I'm not sure this is a word, but I'm going with it for these purposes) may be a very effective strategy for dealing with life. Let me play this out as an example. The holidays are coming. As I look out to that reality, I feel anxious.

• There isn't enough money to buy the gifts I really want to buy for all the members of my family.


• I ALWAYS get some type of flu the week before, the week of, or the week after Christmas.


• I have gotten a 24-hour stomach virus every night of the Fallon's Christmas party for the last 3 years.


• I'm not sure it's fiscally responsible to close the business during the week between Christmas and the New Year even though the break is good for me

I could go own, but that's gives a sense of the issues at hand. Now I will approach it through my optical refractor,

• There isn't enough money to buy the gifts I really want to buy for all my family members.


• FLIP, CLICK: Maybe I shouldn't assume that all my family members actually want more things. CAN I SEE BETTER, OR WORSE?


• FLIP, CLICK: I'm really enjoying knitting. I could knit something for sister-in-law and my brother which I know they would really like. CAN I SEE BETTER, OR WORSE?


• FLIP, CLICK: My father doesn't care about things, but my mom really enjoys a thoughtful and creative gift. This will give me some wiggle room in the budget and gift ideas for them. CAN I SEE BETTER, OR WORSE?

Practicing refractology can be a meditative process. It can be a mindful process. It can pull me back to center and reconnect me to what is authentically true for me. Flip, click. I'm seeing more clearly by the moment.