Passionate Possibility

2008-12-31T08:02:00.001-05:00

Picking up Victor from Duke Hospital this morning - he needed IV antibiotics for his CF. He's a trooper.

2008-12-30T17:10:00.001-05:00

Um...the battery was dead on the van today. Called AAA, got it charged, left it running to recharge. Forgot it for SIX HOURS. ADDiva moment!

2008-12-29T15:08:00.001-05:00

Worked in am with my organizer Erica to clean GardenSpirit garage and voila! Started rearranging the INSIDE too. Ah, my distracted mind...

2008-12-28T08:53:00.001-05:00

OK, making sure this ping.fm thing works -- thanks Tara M. for leading me out of the updating woods!

Moving to a new blog title

2007-08-08T20:27:00.000-04:00

So, if this blog seems a little stale it's because I consolidated it with my Linda Roggli blog...so head on over there to get the latest and greatest....
http://lindaroggli.blogspot.com

Hugs and love
Linda

"The Secret" beach retreat for women June 7 - 10

2007-05-30T11:13:00.000-04:00

Gift from the Sea: creating a life you love
Emerald Isle, NC
June 7 - 10, 2007

You've seen "The Secret" - now live its promise!

Come to Emerald Isle for a long weekend at Pelican House with a group of women who are ready to live their dreams to the fullest!

Private room, oceanfront retreat house, all meals included, full body massage, guided retreat with Linda Roggli, ACC and lots of surprises add up to a magical weekend.

Oh, and if by chance you haven't experienced the power of The Secret - we'll watch the DVD at the beginning of the retreat.

It's your turn to shine! Come to the beach Thursday-Sunday, June 7 - 10, 2007 for a life-changing retreat!

Click here to find out more about this amazing weekend!

Memorial Day retreat for women

2007-05-20T10:17:00.001-04:00

"Coming into full bloom:
renewing that wild, wonderful woman inside"
May 26 - 28, 2007 Memorial Day weekend
GardenSpirit Guesthouse
Durham, North Carolina

Let yourself BLOOM into the amazing and magnificent woman you always thought you'd be. Live up to your own expectations - even better, change your expectations to live up to YOU! Join a group of women who are on the path to loving themselves more fully and appreciate each other, too. $450 per person includes shared accommodations at GardenSpirit Guesthouse, all meals, fresh flowers, labyrinth walk, hot tub, chair massage and retreat materials.

Click here for the exhilerating, blossoming details!

Freedom

2005-08-30T07:59:00.000-04:00

I heard the tapping first, as soft and quick as raindrops against my windows. Then I noticed the lower undertone, a frantic hum. And the frightened cries of a hummingbird, panicked beyond hummingbird imagination.

The little fellow had trapped himself in my garage. I had no idea how long he'd been beating his hard shell beak against the double-paned glass, wings a-whir. His squeaks of frustration must have gone unnoticed; there was no hummingbird contingent on the other side of the window, urging him on, to try harder to break free.

And freedom seemed so near. There it was, just outside the transparent barrier. Again and again, the tiny bird pelted himself at the glass, determined to fly off into the summer sky.

It was heartbreaking, if not glass-breaking.

The little guy didn't seem to grasp that the garage door was open, a giant invitation to freedom. I suspected that he had been locked inside for several hours, flown around and around and finally settled on the window as his most likely exit strategy. Apparently hummingbird minds are not easily dissuaded. He needed a little help.

The logical solution was to pull down the top window frame. removing the glass obstacle and allowing the tiny bird to finally succeed at flying straight out the window. But I only managed to increase the little bird's anxiety; the top frame was painted shut.

I thought briefly about trapping the little guy, but I didn't want to harm those delicate wings. I finally managed to wrench open the bottom tilt-out window. But the bird stubbornly maintained his vigilance at the top window, peck-peck-pecking, squeaking his terror.

In desperation, I grabbed a lightweight broom. Gently, slowly, I guided the terrified bird lower and lower toward the open window. The little bird fought back, tried to hold his position. I was suddenly afraid I would injure his fragile body even with the broom's soft bristles. He fluttered lower, then abruptly turned, noticed the broad opening of the garage door and was gone.

Smiling, I pushed the tilt-out window back into place and locked it.

It was such a metaphor for my own yearning, my insistent push toward freedom. It's right there. I can see it, beckoning, taunting me. And, like my little hummingbird friend, I peck ineffectively against the Big Barrier.

Perhaps it's time to stop beating my head against the glass and turn around. Wow. That other door is wide open. Excuse me while I fly.

Overdoing abundance

2005-08-18T03:30:00.000-04:00

In my less enlightened days, when I found something I loved, (a well-fitting T-shirt, for instance), I'd sometimes buy five at a time (well, at least two). Just in case one wore out, got a stain or broke, I'd still have plenty to get me through. It was silly, wasteful, and fell headlong into that ugly vat labeled "conspicuous consumption," but it made me feel a-b-u-n-d-a-n-t. I had a cushion; I was protected from loss. I had MORE THAN ENOUGH.

What I came to realize is that having too much of something diminishes its value. Even when I value it highly.

My husband and I built a house together about a dozen years ago, a new foundation for our new marriage. To celebrate moving in, we bought our first (and only) bottle of $100 DomPerignon champagne.

I like champagne. The gentle bubbles tickle my nose and the first few sips bite my tongue. But I'm no expert; I couldn't tell the difference between the DomPerignon and grocery store sparkling wine. I saved the empty Dom bottle, though, a momento of our shared excitement. Even now, remembering makes me smile.

If I'd bought five bottles of Dom (assuming I could afford them), I doubt the experience would be so sweet.

I've learned that quality really does have a leg up on quantity. These days I am better at savoring my life, drinking it in small DomPerignon sips, letting the flavor linger and tantalize. Conversations with friends, hanging out the sheets in the summer heat, even cleaning up after my accident-prone Sheltie: those tiny moments point me to to inevitable conclusion: that I live in expansive abundance. Poignant abundance. Grateful abundance.

I never did need those "back-up" supplies. It was a pinprick of fear in my head that said: there might not be enough for YOU. They call that a scarcity mentality. And there are only two choices in life: to live from fear or to live from love.

I'll be drawing loving hearts on my scarcity mentality, thank you very much (do you suppose it will be scared away?). I buy one T-shirt at a time. Then I lay in a (moderate) supply of stain remover.

Wilting

2005-07-10T11:10:00.000-04:00

A dozen sweet potato vines cower from the impending noontime sun, limp and wilted in their new bed. It's not their fault. Yesterday, I ripped them from their happy, crowded existence in Bed #2, pulled them apart and replanted them in Bed #14. It's for their own good. But they don't realize it yet.

When the vines arrived from the mail order nursery, in late May, I thought they were dead. I registered a complaint with the Customer Service Department. The Customer Service Associate assured me that people often mistakenly believed the vines were DOA (dead on arrival) but that they would perk up after I planted them. She even went so far as to suggest that I prune the dead leaves off and plant only the stubs of the plants.

I didn't prune and there was no time for intensive care for my sad sweet potato slips. So I did some triage: dug a small hole in Bed 2, stuck the dying roots in the ground and patted soil around them. It's calling "heeling in," a temporary solution used to care for plants until I can get them in their proper place.

A month later, half the plants had taken root, started spreading vines along the top of the soil and were anchoring new rootlets. Heck, if they were interested in growing, I might as well given them some room to do so. Bed #14 beckoned.

Now, the plants are tender and vulnerable. I'll have to water twice a day for a week or so, making it easy for their tattered roots to take up moisture. Eventually, the roots will gingerly anchor themselves in this strange new soil and begin to move forward.

The plants would have grown in Bed #2, too. But their growth would have been limited; they would have fought for space and nutrients. They never would have lived up to their full potential.

I emphathize with those wilty vines. I've been there, floundering in unfamiliar territory, certain that I'd made a mistake. And then, I'd discover that the discomfort transformed into greater joy than I'd ever experienced in my safe secure nest. There really IS a bigger picture, usually invisible to me. So I can trust that things will turn out just the way they are supposed to. Perfectly, in fact. Discomfort or no.

Next time I bump into the messy chaos of my own confusion and fear, I'll take a tip from my sweet potato vines. Give them some extra water for a while, let them regroup and they'll grow wild and wonderful. So will I.

Push or flow?

2005-06-26T20:14:00.000-04:00

So my question is: when's the right time to push forward, get assertive, follow your dream to the very hilt. And when's the time to just notice, sit back, let it all wash over you like a warm summer breeze that tickles your hair?

I have something very specific in mind, as you might guess. For a few days, I'm staying at a small retreat center north of San Diego. Although I do have appointments in San Diego (Solana Beach, actually), I decided NOT to waste five days away from office and home, but instead to spend that time wisely. Writing. So I created a mini-writing retreat for myself. Good for me, right?

Exceptionally good for me. Except for one thing. I fell in love with the place. It's everything I've ever wanted in a Garden Retreat Center, my vision for My Work here on Earth. It has organic gardens, housing for 20 people, orchards, rocky paths, a house with a pool and hot tub, pools, fountains, even goat pens.

But it's in San Diego, my husband reminds me. The unspoken end of the sentence is: "and we live in North Carolina." He's right. His job is here, his retirement is only a few years away. And we don't have $1.5 million in the bank to save this charming retreat center from the clutches of development. That should put an end to my speculation. Right?

Well, maybe not. I have frenzied imaginings of pulling together investors, drafting a quick proposal, energizing my business plan and making a valiant effort to get financing. Nothing is impossible, after all.

So how deep is this dream? How serious am I about throwing everything into disarray? Would I really move to California? I flirt with the idea of living bi-coastally, a commuter marriage. Do things like this come into my life to tantalize me, make me wake up to the possible -- the passionate possibility? And after the teaser, I am to close my eyes and let that summer breeze whisper: let it go, let it go, let it go.

There is something important in this experience. I didn't choose this retreat center at this time by accident; I don't believe in coincidences any more. I trust that everything comes into my life with purpose and possibility. I just need to practice patience until that message comes in more clearly,

Let it flow, let it flow, let it flow.

Live like you are dying ...

2005-06-20T01:13:00.000-04:00

Passionate balloon 72 trans
Originally uploaded by PassionatePossibility.

Just returned from France and Switzerland where I had the chance to visit with a a good friend again. The same friend that unknowingly spurred me to buy a hot air balloon earlier this year.

Yes. A HOT AIR BALLOON.

At the time, she had no idea that she had inspired such an unusual purchase. Yet when we met in San Antonio at the end of February, she changed my life. "Hank (name changed for this blog) and I had treated the kids and grandkids to a trip to Hawaii," she said. "And as we sat there enjoying the beauty of Maui, we took a moment to appreciate our good fortune: Hank had just turned 60 and was on the verge of retiring, we were financially stable, our son and daughter were each happily married, we had two wonderful grandsons. Life was good!" Two months later, she was in surgery for advanced ovarian cancer.

She's been battling this unwanted invader ever since, almost two years now. Her CSA-125 is down (that's good), then it's up (not so good). She starts chemo, stops, starts again. This time she may lose her hair again. That, more than anything, is the clear, outward proof that there is something really wrong. And it's disheartening. Although she knows - we all know - that there is something funky going on even without the thinning hair and daily visits to the doctor. Her life has been changed forever. And she's not alone.

Another friend - OK, to be honest we were estranged by the time I found out that she was critically ill with advanced breast cancer - died last fall at age 52. She left behind not only her husband but a five-year-old daughter, their only child. My friend and I were exactly the same age. We graduated from high school the same year, different cities, same baby boom era. I think of her often these days. Our differences seem trivial now. I feel her presence "through the veil" and appreciate the depth of her grief at leaving this life prematurely.

And my former executive coach, who worked with me for four long years, was at the top of her game when she found out the numbness in her legs was multiple sclerosis. Two years later, she walks with a cane and falls a little too often. She struggles with depression and wonders how the heck she can convince the people at disability that she really can't work any more.

My best friend since the seventh grade is a breast cancer survivor. But she has lymphodema. Her left arm is permanently swollen to twice its size. And a paper cut on that hand can send her to the hospital with infection, a threat made more difficult due to her teaching schedule. First-graders use a lot of paper.

Everywhere I turn our fragile human bodies are breaking down, turning against us, reminding us that mortality is inevitable. We don't get out of this alive, after all. It's HOW we live that matters in the end. Because there WILL be an end.

My husband is on intimate terms with the brevity of life. He has cystic fibrosis, a genetic disease that clogs his lungs and digestive system. For a decade and a half I have listened to him work for breath; he takes two breaths to my one. I can gauge how he's doing by the intensity of his cough. He was supposed to die at 12. Then at 20. Then at 30. And now, at 54, he kids me that he is cured, although we both know that each new infection scars his lungs. He has no time to feel sorry for himself; he's too busy living his glorious life. What an inspiration!

And so I decided to live like I was dying. Because I am. My friends are. We ALL are. One of these days will be my last. Who knows what kind of revolt my own body is planning RIGHT NOW, without my knowledge and certainly without my permission? Life is unpredictable. I might not even be here a year from now. But if I die next month, I decided that I will have died owning a hot air balloon!

So I bought one, even though I AM AFRAID OF HEIGHTS!!! Then I bought a big gas guzzling van (not proud of that but how else do you haul around a 500-pound balloon?). I flew to San Antonio, Texas by myself, picked up my red stained glass balloon, which I had already dubbed the Passionate Possibility balloon, and drove 1300 miles alone all the way back to North Carolina (more about that later).

It was an odessey. I was living directly from the heart, chest thrust forward, head tilted back, letting my heart lead instead of my mind. Yeah, there were some bumps. That happens when you lead with your heart. But I wouldn't give anything for the experience of taking that leap of faith. Like Luke Skywalker putting a foot out into thin air and finding a narrow bridge that was hidden until he trusted himself. For me, this adventure has always been more about BUYING the balloon than FLYING it.

Will I go ahead and take flying lessons? Of course I will, fingernails digging into the basket to steady my nerves!

I will FLY, lift off and float into the ether. Fearless and Free. A fitting epitaph for any of us.

And now I listen to Tim McGraw sing about a friend who went through exactly what my friends have endured.
"I spent most of the next days, looking at the x-rays...this might be the real end ... man what d'ya do?"

And the answer is loud, clear and vibrant:
"I went skydiving, I went Rocky Mountain mountain climbing...I went 2.7 seconds on a bull named Fu Manchu
I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter and watched the eagle as it was flying...
Someday I hope you get the chance to live like you were dying!"

I refuse to wait until I am face-to-face with death to be fully alive.

Living at full throttle makes my skin tingle, my gaze soften and my heart overflow with absolute love.

Your turn. Wanna fly?