Every now and then. One found thing. Maybe it’s a nickle. Maybe it’s a secret message. Maybe it’s someone’s lost grocery list, a robin’s egg, a walking stick or a hidden book, a treasure chest. It’s just a matter of staying awake and aware. Look with me?

Trove of Gold

I hit the jackpot at Meig’s Point at Hammonasset Beach where the William F. Miller Campground—the largest in the state—is named for my father. Born on farmland that would eventually become part of the park, my dad worked his way up to the position of Director, a job he held until his death in 1984. When I walked the beach yesterday, he sent me these. IMG_2474

Key-p-sake

I tend to find keys. Or they find me. Yesterday a small gold one appeared on the bathroom floor of Fajitas and ‘Ritas in downtown Boston.  I think it opened the lock on the toilet paper hold. No matter, I left it untouched. This Tinkerbell one, however, was irresistible to me when I discovered it on the bike path near Spy Pond. She now sits on my writing desk working her sassy fairy magic, unlocking creative possibilities.IMG_0246

Sidewalk Queen

I found this tiny Queen of Diamonds card on the sidewalk while on an evening stroll with imagemy friend Margaret. Plastic coated, protected from rain, this Queen really inspired this blog. I mean, if a girl can find diamonds (and royalty) lying around on the streets of her neighborhood, what else is out there? Then there’s the question of what does it mean? Well, it means nothing and everything depending on what you are open to believing. If you are looking for clues to something in your life, she might mean riches and reassurance, a glint of hope or possibility. In the tarot, she is the equivalent of the the Queen of Pentacles, a woman sitting on a throne decorated with carvings of fruit trees, goats, angels, all symbols of material success and sensual pleasures. If you’re not a searcher, she might just be a playing card. But then you probably wouldn’t be reading this still. 

Writing and Treasure Hunting Workshop

Imagine that your life is a treasure trove of possibilities, and the way to discover  the “gold” you seek is by cracking the codes of your past while revealing the clues to your future. Now imagine that by exploring those codes and clues through journal writing and spiritual exercises, you will start to discover your passion, your purpose and your path of bliss. Come write and seek with us. Bring a journal, an open mind, and your imagination.  Treasure awaits.

On Wednesday, May 15th, from 5:30 – 7pm I am leading at short introductory workshop called Writing and Treasure Hunting for the Spiritually Inclined at  Qi The Inner Gym on Boylston Street in Boston. Qi is a mind, body, spirit center that my energy work teacher recently opened in the heart of Back Bay, and it is truly a place to experience. There are gorgeous therapy rooms, yoga studios, classrooms, a tea room and nooks for reading, reflecting and connecting. Since, May is friends and family month at Qi, we are making classes and workshops available on a drop-in basis for $12 a session.  My one-evening workshop, as described below, will combine journal writing and spiritual exercises, but it is also an opportunity to introduce friends to a place that I feel deeply connected to. When you visit, I think you’ll see why. Let me know if you can attend the workshop, of just come on down to 419 Boylston Street, 4th floor on Wednesday. I would like to start promptly at 5:30, so try to arrive a bit early if possible. For those who can linger, we can enjoy connecting in the tea room after class.

jars

The mason jars line one of my office bookshelves. Seven in all. Seven, like the major chakras. Seven, as in my favorite number. One holds colored glass marbles that I have found or bought in junk stores. Some of those marbles have been rescued from old board games. Rust red or milky white, they peer at me with the eerie look of glass eyes. Another jar holds onlyimages (1) blue things—found stones or beads once set free from a chain, only to be caught again and contained, while the largest jar is stuffed with hundreds of folded gum wrappers—Teaberry and Wrigley’s Spearmint, Beech Nut— the flavors of my childhood. When I was young, my sister and our two best friends Laura and Dianne spent dozens of Saturdays fashioning wrappers, found, stolen or bought, into a 28-foot chain. That unfinished chain now sits in a box in our basement. We had planned to make it hundreds of feet then enter it in the Guinness Book of World Records, but ultimately turned our attention and weekends to other things like boys and growing up. Dianne died of cancer the week before my son was born. I was swollen with life at her funeral, and when I look at that jar of colorful folded wrappers, I remember to live, to finish things. A fifth jar contains white rocks. A sixth holds shells and sea glass, bringing the ocean into my every day. The seventh jar has both the dullness and shine of fifty one-dollar coins. Round. Heavy. Gold. I sit one in my palm. I feel its warmth. And I wonder what I am really looking for.