“That sounds like the name of an article about music therapy,” I respond.

But Thalia Vitikos is more than a music therapist. She practices Expressive Arts Therapy. This therapy makes use of all art modalities in service to the client’s need and state. Without rigid prescription, it exists to invoke healing and help an individual tap into potential.

Expressive Arts Therapy builds on our inclination as humans to create, to imagine, to feel, to be.  According to founder Paolo Knill and colleagues it  is a  “specialized and psycho-therapeutic discipline grounded in the imaginative tradition which all the arts have in common.” (from Minstrels of Soul: Intermodal Expressive Therapy)

The vibrations Vitikos may be referring to is a trend toward integrative approaches and thinking. She may be feeling the neuroscientific lens that points to an integrative system rather than mechanistic functionality. Or perhaps the field of complexity studies that builds a bridge to many disciplines – linked by complex systems and problems to solve. Collaborative learning, coaching, integrative medicine are variations on the theme. And perhaps there is an overall trend that many people and professions are plugging into – a matrix of connection.

Years of experience and an initial knowing told Vitikos that integration amongst individuals and within an individual is key. The vibrations prove her to have been right all along.

Light of summer finds a new red – not of holiday and cheer. Red of death splatters on a summer path. It spills from frantic strokes  and breaks against the shores, mourning its tainted meaning on the island beach.

Oh, to hear the waves and smell the sweet air that Norwegians love to play in when the healing waters come. Oh to know they will in time find comfort enough to dance outside by the shore – that there will come a fading of red and summer frolic once more to this land of peace.

What Caleb thought may not be available in archival texts, but Geraldine Brooks offers an alternative view into this intriguing story. In her recently published Caleb’s Crossing, she tells Caleb’s story through the eyes of Bethia, teenage daughter of a minister for a community on Martha’s Vineyard.

As Bethia’s father seeks to help the Wampanoag community “repent” of their “idolatrous” ways, Brook’s Bethia stretches the bounds of exploration appropriate for a girl of Puritan Massachusetts. She roams on another side of Martha’s Vineyard life that she herself shudders at. She ventures as close to Caleb as was feasible given circumstances. And in their depicted interactions, the readers benefit from the questions that push one or the other belief  to its edge.

What results by their interaction may have been his decision to learn English, read English books, and gain the ultimate Western learning for reasons we may never know. And the end so premature – not fair. But Brooks reminds the readers of the reality of the times. If today – things might have been quite different. Caleb would most certainly not have died of consumption.

The question for readers of Caleb’s Crossing are numerous. The book challenges inquiry to cast off borders of understanding enough to grasp something so foreign as vexes us. What of defying oppressive constraints on societal roles. Can one defy the pressure or work within it – as Bethia did – fulfilling her duties?

The story of Caleb is not satisfying – not because this novel is not well-written. The full expression of two sides of life don’t really merge equitably. What is reasonable transpires outside the true story. And this is best but not the happy hope. Why would Harvard learn anything about Native culture? Why would the puritan perspective adjust by a bit of understanding? Yet – with the realities controlling possible outcome, the novel reads easily and with intrigue. It is hard to set it down. It is vexing yet compelling to consider ways to adapt the ideas this story engenders.

Haitian children draw what they hope for in Haiti as part of a WorldVision project

A week of rain in May dampens my memory of sun and causes me to forget for a moment the pleasure of warmth.

It is not now, so does it exist? Can I hold the ray in mind as wet falls on my back?

Such is the gift we have as humans – that we can conjure up possibility in the midst of a reality that obscures goodness. And in our capacity to imagine what does not currently exist we find hope.

In hope lives pleasure – also disappointment. Both must be. They hold sides of a tension necessary for the full life.

Here is a mystery wrapped in layers of living. It is what we find when stripped of all. It is what fuels the climb up toward the heights. And what sustains singing through trepidation. Let not such jewels drop from your consciousness. It is in the longing you will explode with a  pleasure unexpected – more than the fruit – more than a job well done.

I climb the journey of yearning for the other side – where sunlight drips onto my hand as silver streams – turned to gold when clouds suffocate hope.

I write to clarify, to distill, to clean, to pierce, to find, to discover, to formulate, and challenge the wasteful thoughts that need to be discarded. I must write to clear it all and challenge myself to find my voice. That voice hunts me and tears at my being – it longs to carve out caves and throw dynamite in crevices where mediocrity lies in rot – smelling away excellence. Give me a cliff to soar from. Let me race down a dirt and bumpy road – kicking up dust and stones – all the wake back. I am ready to let it explode beyond a ceiling up the side of a mountain – through the tunnel of my dreams where on the other side a dim-lit speck beckons and calls – and sings a dirge for those whom I never reached in time.

Liam Schwab, alien specialist

Alien specialist, Liam Schwab, discovers alien eggs on Mother’s Day 2011.

The eggs were noted in two forms: larger burgundy spheres and smaller multicolored oblong shapes. Mr. Schwab hopes that analysis (and consumption) of these specimens will lead to further investigation and possible travel through space to the egg origins.

Her eyes embraces it all – the natural world that carries our precious life. My mother feels akin to the rocks, to a hummingbird, and to limbs that reach for clouds. She is no stranger to the whisper of blooming magnolia. And when the spring is done, my mother creeps out at dawn to capture reflections on a morning pond.

Who is my mother? She is kindred spirit with the winds of light that hold a moment eternal. My mother asks for another view of color and communes with a sunset not yet born. All this and more speak to her grasp of life within the tapestry of creation. And she will clamor for its consideration. Don’t ignore – wonder. Stop tearing down – cherish!

To the defense of all things natural my mother shoots time away. Still – eternal – a moment draws awe. Observe and tremble she says. Hear the rhythm of water. See shades of green. Walk under patterns of sky. Take in the extraordinary magic. For more wonderful are the strokes of our natural world than any canvas conceived by man.

Hälsningar på Mor’s Dag Mamma.

To view the pictures of Ose Manheim, my mother, visit http://manheimphotography.smugmug.com

Last night a client’s father said he does not care much about hearing reports of what is going well. He would rather know how he is “screwing up” and what I recommend for him to do so he can be the best possible support for his son. To my affirmation-addicted ears, I heard Greek.

From positive psychology, the study of happiness, we read about how positivity prepares our minds for more expansive thought, better motivation, clearer thinking, etc. These studies, when diluted or oversimplified may misdirect people to thinking only positive words are important. Clearly, motivation for improvement comes both through constructive criticism and encouragement. Individuals may gravitate more to one or the other – with the same effect – a drive toward progress.

The term spur as in “spur on” originates as a physical poke to the horse to get it to go faster. Sugar cubes also influence a horse’s response – a treat to nurture rapport. Is it the lump or the spur that gets a horse going? Maybe that depends on the horse, the horse-owner relationship, training, timing, or the individual horse.

Upshot of my thinking concludes that whether spur or sugar, I should consider my recipient. Even if I will dart forward with a bit of acknowledgment of a job well done – another person might just as well blast off with a critical evaluation of what is missing.

Wobbly. You cannot stand tall. Your ankles are at risk for a serious twist. You may also feel tentative. Not sure. Not secure. And certainly not ready to run.

When we step into our daily life, are we in our shoes? Are we in the space of our true spirit – behind our defenses and under our fears? Do we embrace our capacity, our role, and our emergence to power?

A recent experience led me to feel the release of foot in shoe completely. What I mean is that I recognized my resistance to embracing my full potential. That is to say – I was holding on to an old and dusty perspective that did not offer the clear image of what I could be and what I am currently. And suddenly, I felt the shedding of old tapes and protective grovelling.

An invisible wall melted down from my consciousness so that I could be one with what was around me. Not tucked behind or in a cavern darkened by denial, I could say “yes” to success and to abundance and to whatever was there for me to 100% step into.

I had to stretch forward to reach this state. I listened to those around me, to what others saw in me. I cried. Not for the hurt, but the long years of denial, the refusal to embrace and see capacity. But today I reached for the shoes. I have stepped into the shoes and feel free to run forward.