This weekend I drove North to a workshop given by Kate Munger who started and leads Threshold Choirs in the Bay Area and elsewhere. The choir honors the ancient traditon of singing at the bedsides of people who are struggling, some with living, some with dying. Kate says the voice is a true and gracious vehicle for compassion and comfort.
I expected to learn songs, but I didn't expect the depth of healing that happened as nearly 30 women sat in circle and shared the resonance of lullabies, chants, rounds and hymns. We met in a rural, wooden Episcopal Church and memories returned as I paged through a hymnbook. I grew up in a small Episcopal Church in Iowa and I recognized many of the symbols and statues. I shared a room with Jean, who I met in the kitchen, chopping vegetables for one of our healthy, nourishing meals, all prepared by Kate, with help from the community. Our room held two beds that were built into the wall and just perfect for women under 5 foot 3. It reminded us of a boat.
Between singing, we knitted, shared stories, discovered synchronicities, laughed, drank tea and took walks in the misty woods surrounding the church. A flock of pelicans flew by and a red-tailed hawk perched high in a dead tree outside our windows. Instead of alarm clocks, we were awakened by choir members singing to us.
The weekend helped heal a part of me that thought I had lost my voice. When I was in high school, I was part of a duo, Mike & Val. My friend was a self-taught guitar player during the 60's and he taught me folk songs, which we sang at parties and sock hops. It was a long time ago. My voice was there this weekend and it blended with everyone else's voice. The voices expressed sadness and joy and pure pleasure.
There are choirs currently meeting (twice a month for rehearsals) in Marin, Sonoma, Oakland, Contra Costa, San Francisco, Santa Cruz and more. (thresholdchoir.org) Check it out if you want to find your voice and so much more.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Monday, October 15, 2007
Getting Things Done
“When hungry, eat your rice; when tired, close your eyes. Fools may laugh at me, but wise men will know what I
mean.” – Lin-Chi
I came across this quote this morning on David Allen's website. He's the author who has written "Getting Things Done." It's a great book for people who could benefit from getting all those whirling messages out of their mind and onto a list. Here's a capsule of his system:
* Capturing anything and everything that has your attention
* Defining actionable things discretely into outcomes and concrete next steps
* Organizing reminders and information in the most streamlined way, in appropriate categories, based on
how and when you need to access them
* Keeping current and "on your game" with appropriately frequent reviews of the six horizons of your
commitments (purpose, vision, goals, areas of focus, projects, and actions)
Implementing Getting Things Done alleviates the feeling of overwhelm, instills confidence, and releases a flood of creative energy. It provides structure without constraint, managing details with maximum flexibility. The system rigorously adheres to the core principles of productivity, while allowing tremendous freedom in the "how." The only "right" way to do GTD is getting meaningful things done with truly the least amount of invested attention and energy. Coaching thousands of people, where they work, about their work, has informed the GTD method with the best practices of how to work (and live), in that most efficient and productive way.
It takes some time to set up and requires continued attention, but it really works. For one thing, it teaches you how to look at projects as a series of next actions. Another of his tips is if the Next Action can be done in 2 minutes or less, do it when you first pick the item up.
As for the quote, I think it represents a reminder to indulge in extreme self care. This is the mantra of one of my clients and I'm giving it a try. I'm tired, so now I'll close my eyes.
mean.” – Lin-Chi
I came across this quote this morning on David Allen's website. He's the author who has written "Getting Things Done." It's a great book for people who could benefit from getting all those whirling messages out of their mind and onto a list. Here's a capsule of his system:
* Capturing anything and everything that has your attention
* Defining actionable things discretely into outcomes and concrete next steps
* Organizing reminders and information in the most streamlined way, in appropriate categories, based on
how and when you need to access them
* Keeping current and "on your game" with appropriately frequent reviews of the six horizons of your
commitments (purpose, vision, goals, areas of focus, projects, and actions)
Implementing Getting Things Done alleviates the feeling of overwhelm, instills confidence, and releases a flood of creative energy. It provides structure without constraint, managing details with maximum flexibility. The system rigorously adheres to the core principles of productivity, while allowing tremendous freedom in the "how." The only "right" way to do GTD is getting meaningful things done with truly the least amount of invested attention and energy. Coaching thousands of people, where they work, about their work, has informed the GTD method with the best practices of how to work (and live), in that most efficient and productive way.
It takes some time to set up and requires continued attention, but it really works. For one thing, it teaches you how to look at projects as a series of next actions. Another of his tips is if the Next Action can be done in 2 minutes or less, do it when you first pick the item up.
As for the quote, I think it represents a reminder to indulge in extreme self care. This is the mantra of one of my clients and I'm giving it a try. I'm tired, so now I'll close my eyes.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Living at the Tri Sig house
I just received an invitation to join an e-mail list with my old sorority sisters. The last time I saw any of them was at a reunion in 1986. Now it's 40 years since I lived in the sorority house on the campus of Eastern Illinois University in Charleston. I was reminded that 22 girls shared a house with one bathroom. I remember the time the pledges stole the bathtub plug (there was no shower) and the actives made them sit in the tub with their clothes on to plug the drain as we each took our bath. As pledges, we had to wear white sailor hats decorated with purple Sigmas on which we had to collect the signatures of as many fraternity boys as we could. It was a fairly easy, and fun, task.
One of my fondest memories was the Easter break that six of us drove to Daytona Beach and then flew to Nassau for a few days. We called out the window of our hotel when we arrived to three guys who were on the street waiting for a taxi to take them to the airport. They were boyhood friends who had taken a trip together before going into the Army during the Viet Nam War. When we told them to come see us, they ditched the taxi and ended up staying with us for our visit. They even followed us back to Daytona Beach but these boys didn't fit in with our college friends who had come to Florida for spring break. I often wonder what happened to them.
Now the sisters share stories of illnesses, deaths, children, husbands. It seems such a long time ago that I lived at the sorority house where my friend Marion and I knew every word to every Simon and Garfunkel song and even sang backup in a local fraternity band. One night I woke up to the sound of screams in the third floor sleeping dorm of the house. There was a wooden stairway on the outside of the house and someone had come up the stairs and was banging on the door. He ran away before anyone could identify him, but we were all terrified. We might have overreacted because, at the time, Richard Speck's murder trial was page one news. He had killed several student nurses in their townhouse in Chicago.
We grabbed suitcases from the closet, the only thing we could think of to use as weapons, and ran down the stairs en masse. When we reached the first floor, our sorority housemother was stomping around with a shotgun and the police had just arrived. Their first order of business was to get her to put the gun down. Then they searched the premises and assured us there was no one around.
From then on, until the end of the semester, we slept with our sorority paddles next to our beds. Some people shared beds they were so afraid. And the last person upstairs would put a coke bottle tied to the doorknob on the step so if the door opened, we would be alerted. It was only years later that someone finally admitted it was a drunken prank and not a serial killer at our door.
One of my fondest memories was the Easter break that six of us drove to Daytona Beach and then flew to Nassau for a few days. We called out the window of our hotel when we arrived to three guys who were on the street waiting for a taxi to take them to the airport. They were boyhood friends who had taken a trip together before going into the Army during the Viet Nam War. When we told them to come see us, they ditched the taxi and ended up staying with us for our visit. They even followed us back to Daytona Beach but these boys didn't fit in with our college friends who had come to Florida for spring break. I often wonder what happened to them.
Now the sisters share stories of illnesses, deaths, children, husbands. It seems such a long time ago that I lived at the sorority house where my friend Marion and I knew every word to every Simon and Garfunkel song and even sang backup in a local fraternity band. One night I woke up to the sound of screams in the third floor sleeping dorm of the house. There was a wooden stairway on the outside of the house and someone had come up the stairs and was banging on the door. He ran away before anyone could identify him, but we were all terrified. We might have overreacted because, at the time, Richard Speck's murder trial was page one news. He had killed several student nurses in their townhouse in Chicago.
We grabbed suitcases from the closet, the only thing we could think of to use as weapons, and ran down the stairs en masse. When we reached the first floor, our sorority housemother was stomping around with a shotgun and the police had just arrived. Their first order of business was to get her to put the gun down. Then they searched the premises and assured us there was no one around.
From then on, until the end of the semester, we slept with our sorority paddles next to our beds. Some people shared beds they were so afraid. And the last person upstairs would put a coke bottle tied to the doorknob on the step so if the door opened, we would be alerted. It was only years later that someone finally admitted it was a drunken prank and not a serial killer at our door.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
