On Wiggle Room

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

TThis week I attended a work conference on business fundamentals in healthcare. A slide came up about two glasses—one that is 75% full and another 100% full. At first, I thought to myself, “What the devil?”

The speaker explained how when our cup is 75% full, it looks and feels pretty full. We can take that cup and walk around fairly comfortably. The water can slosh a bit without spilling over.

A totally full glass, on the other hand, not only feels full, but requires us to walk around on high alert with caution. The odds for even the most deft among us are to have a spill or two on the way from one destination to another.

The water glass slide, it turns out, is about how full a Primary Care Provider’s panel should be. My mind instantly drew the relation to life.

A few slides later came one with our normal baseline heart rate at 60% of its capacity, and then the rate at 100% when we might be chased by a vicious bear.

Which really answers the question of why we have an upper limit and why meeting the gold standard for everything we do is unrealistic.

It is for the same reason we don’t keep our heart at max capacity. The limit is there for emergencies to keep us alive and afloat. It’s not an aim; it’s a safety measure.

So why do we routinely schedule the last possible flight home? Fill our week with an event every night? Or permeate our kids’ schedules with enriching activities every free possible minute?

At what point in history did we lose the knowledge that full to the brim is better than wiggle room, or you are a slacker?

Another analogy I love is what we called the “Jiggle Jar.”

The first time I saw this jar demonstration (at the top of the page) was when I began yoga teacher training. I’m sure I rolled my eyes with these fru-fru yogis demonstrating visuals like business people do. The jar is filled with water and mud. The premise is that when you are still, your mind is clear and we are able to see well. When you are running around or getting bumped from the outside, it stirs up the muck and clarity cannot exist.

Of course it makes sense. But it wasn’t until a few weeks into teacher training, when I felt a relaxed sense of mind on a regular basis, that I was unable to tolerate being riled up any longer.

I had been the frog that was initially put in tepid water and the temperature turned up so slowly that I didn’t realize it was nearly boiling. Vacillating my mind between tepid and boiling made the anxiety disorder I didn’t know I already had unleash to where I was non-functional.

Just like the frog, if you moved it from a near boiling state back to tepid water, that frog may have been quiet and happy while nearly boiling to death, but it would scream and fight once it was tossed back into immense heat from something comfortably warm.

While it was my home life that was out of control, without leaving my husband and kids in a lurch, the only control I had over my life at that time was leaving my job as a Strategic Planner and taking a part-time, lower GS pay level job.

It was the best decision I ever made.

It’s the wiggle room that makes the difference between life and death, tolerable and intolerable, sanity and insanity, and even a safe panel size for a patient and provider versus one that is at maximum capacity and bound to have accidents like water sloshing out of a cup. We don’t want those water droplets to be any patients or pieces of our providers’ state of mind.

In the jiggle jar analogy, we need to see that it’s not possible to bump into anything or anyone when we create space in our schedule—and totally related—our mind.

Wiggle room is what saves us. It should be as important, or dare I say even more important, as our most important regularly scheduled appointment.

Like the temperature gauge only someone on the outside can read as the frog’s heat is being turned up, our schedule may be the only gauge we have. We can’t walk around forever with a full cup. One false move or someone else with no wiggle room or a full cup will bump into us and inevitably create undesirable results.

If you are feeling the heat, turn it down and create space. No matter how important everything else seems, it will all be figuratively dead in the water when you are no longer around to keep it all going.

Choose wisely! Namaste.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On the One who is Looking

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

This morning was a gorgeous, unseasonal April spring morning. There wasn’t a wisp of wind, and the water surrounding my home was perfectly still. I took these two photos. What I love about these pictures is the perfect reflection of the objects on the water.

The photo with the wooden boat stakes is particularly interesting in that it is nearly impossible to tell where the stake ends and the water begins.

This situation reminded me very much of our essence and our soul. Do we know where we begin and forever ends?

That may sound deep, but it really is not.

This stillness of the water this morning reminded me of the quote “As above, so below.”

What does that mean?

My understanding is that the laws of physics and how things work in the universe (above) is how things work with us too (below).

Both us and the universe are made up of the same “stuff.”

Our bodies and minds operate the same way the universe operates. Yes—even our mind. While our mind is invisible to the eye, it is still a product of the “stuff” in our universe.

The Yoga Sutras were written around 200 BCE in Sanskrit. In the very first chapter, it is explained that we really are not separate from the Universe/God/The Divine/Pure Consciousness (or whatever your concept is of an entity that is greater than us as individuals). It is said that we can’t see this because we are looking at ourselves through false lenses.

Why did they think this?

It sounds complicated, but when it’s explained and thought through, it’s really simple!

• Our minds are comprised of matter
• This matter fluctuates
• These fluctuations are what we perceive as mind chatter (that voice in our head that is talking to us all the time, replaying songs and conversations, worrying, chatting—chatting & CHATTING…)
• These fluctuations and chatter impact our emotions
• If we quiet the mind, we will be able to think clearly and not have our emotions impacted by our thoughts
• A quiet mind brings peace
• Our emotional/mind connection functions like a mirror that is clouded. Others have interpreted the original Sanskrit to liken this to water

That last bullet point is the most important, and off the bat it makes the least sense. But if you stay with me, maybe it will make sense to you too.

But what needs to be explained first is the watcher part.

Watcher part???

I am blown away by the idea, expressed in the first part of the Yoga Sutras, that we are one with everything in the universe. We are all connected to just one thing—a source of sorts. All major religions incorporate this concept into their teachings.

That part, in and of itself, is not particularly mind-blowing. I have always heard it, kind of accepted it, didn’t understand it, and just moved along.

But when I considered this in a different way, I was able to understand the absolute coolness (for lack of a better word) of how this can be.

This is the watcher part:

If we consider the monkey chatter of our mind and understand it to be the organ of our brain doing its thing—

Then the other part—the part of us that notices the chatter (which seems like the same part)—is the part of us that is not stuff. If you are just reading this through right now to finish and didn’t grasp the lines here, re-read it.

Another way to put this is that when I notice a song in my head that I didn’t put there, the thing that noticed the song is not the same thing that is playing the song. They can’t be. How can the same thing notice something it didn’t do?

The first time I grasped this concept, someone asked me to close my eyes and picture a dog. When they asked if I saw the dog, I said yes. Then they asked who created that image, and I answered my mind. Then they asked, if your mind created the dog image, who is seeing the dog? And who told the mind to put it there?

The part that notices is the part that sages, philosophers, and religion describe as our immortal soul.

Psychoanalysts have used the Freudian construction of the id, ego, and superego. While the superego in Freud’s theory is not meant to be a soul, it is still the watcher. It is the part that hears the chatter of the mind and sees the images that are there.

This superego has also been referred to as the superconscious.

If our soul/superconscious is immortal and interpreting the world through our senses, which part is real?

Back to that last bullet point, which I will copy here again:

Our emotional/mind connection functions like a mirror that is clouded. Others have interpreted the original Sanskrit to liken this to water.

If water is moving, filled with dirt, impacted by wind—anything that would disturb it—it is not clear. Items reflected off of it will be distorted and not reflected back as they really are.

Same with a mirror. If you look through it and it is distorted, moving, dirty, or clouded, it is difficult to see the original image clearly.

The mind works the same way. When it is filled with chatter, static, noise, etc., it does not see clearly.

When we still the mind, we will feel peace.

That is fairly simple, right? Easy concept, but difficult to carry out.

But where does this reflection come in?

If our immortal soul is watching the world and listening to our brain’s chatter through our bodies, unless we clear the mind, we will see distorted images. The mind is the vessel that transmits the image, like the water or the mirror.

On a completely similar note that may not be clear yet, scientists have been studying the theory of a holographic universe for about 25 years now. Could that mean what we see and live in the 3D world is only in our minds?

I do know it sounds absolutely CRAZY. I’ve watched at least a dozen documentaries and explanations about this. I understand parts of it for moments but get thrown off by the math and science that is beyond my ability to fully comprehend.

Perhaps it’s true. Think about it.

If, as in the Yoga Sutras, our immortal self that is part of everything else can only see ourselves through the mirror of our mind, only one part is real. Because when we look through a mirror, we see a duplicate of us. Only one is the original.

If the theory of “as above, so below” has any merit, mirrors and water reflections and all that jazz show two of everything, with the “two” really only being one.

But if the mirror is cloudy or the water is moving, it looks like two different objects, but really there is still only one.

If our mind works like everything else in the universe, what we experience when we still our mind is our true self. It is a point at which we are aligned with all that is and are able to see that what is all around us is only a holograph.

But like my photo of the boat stakes, with that perfect reflection it is difficult to tell where one part begins and the other ends. But only one part is real.

What is looking is safe and secure for all of eternity, because it is eternity. It’s why we feel peace. It is us.

The moral of this story? Still the mind. Meditate. Be at peace.

Namaste.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On Lighthouses

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Ever since I could remember, I loved lighthouses. As a child, they looked like fun structures to explore—crazy stairs, little buildings nearby, and oddly shaped rooms.

Each looked different on the outside too—varying colors, shapes, height, and of course stories. Not just stories as in floors, but legends about ships, sailors, and the keepers who kept them up and running.

These days they are automated (if they even work at all), and gone are the times of the lonely lighthouse keeper. On the other end, the need for lighthouses is not as pressing either. GPS and good maps not only provide solid coordinates of where you are, but they also include every rock and shallow to avoid.

But the beauty and idea of the lighthouse are still the same. They are beacons of hope for the lost and weary.

When you are proverbially lost at sea, all systems are down and hope is limited—the idea of a beacon of light seems intoxicating. I can only imagine sailors in the past, or even someone on a small rescue boat in 2022, floating along in a storm, in the dark, being cold, tired, and hungry… then seeing a lighthouse! Knowing that safety and land are close by. Hope is restored. There is a chance of making it—and soon!!

Even if a [proverbial] sailor doesn’t need to stop, lighthouses are aids to navigation. They help to inform whether or not you are on the right course.

The lighthouse is a helper—there if you need it and just looking beautiful and stately if you do not.

It can help to guide you securely in and out of a safe harbor. They are there to help keep you from danger.

Their light breaks through the darkness.

We need that kind of aid for hope today—not only in our own backyard, but around the world. The first place that comes to mind is Ukraine. They need to see hope. We all do.

I made these cookies at the end of this year, 2022, as a sign of hope—a beacon of light for things to come as we rip off the last page on the calendar and begin again.

Hope, peace, love… we can get there. It’s not impossible with all the love to go around, all the people who care, and all the aids we have to navigate us in the right direction.

Each lighthouse has a place in history and the lives it saved. However, that salvation was temporary to a mortal life.

I still LOVE lighthouses. I now photograph, draw, and paint them. It’s the closest I can get to experiencing them, other than popping by to visit them when I can.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Edited in Prisma app with Bonfire

On Paula

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I have worked in a hospital for 20 years. 99% of my work has to do with outpatient administration. I have been in the background and very much away from the inpatient floors. Those few floors are where the procedures, recoveries, and most critical health issues take place. Yet I nearly always forget I work in a hospital.

On some work calls, I hear about the inpatient statistics and infection rates of COVID. Those patients seem distant and far away. They have little to do with me. Yet on other calls where letters are anonymously shared, patients and family members have the most human experiences on those floors—experiences that are so positively impacting to their lives that they take the time to share.

While these letters cause me to smile and temporarily feel proud for working in my organization, they do not personally touch me.

Enter Paula.

Yesterday my husband and I moved a wooden flower container that was Paula’s from our deck to our small garden area behind the fence to remove the dirt.

As soon as we dumped the dirt, the entire container fell apart. Pieces of wood mixed with the dirt. I was surprised at the great condition those pieces were in. Being a self-proclaimed upcycler artist, I immediately saw beautiful pieces in which to make art on. First order of business was to make something involving Paula.

Paula used to have beautiful wildflowers in that same box. I remember her telling me in 2020 how she went to go put some seeds from a packet into the container when the wind carried the seeds right out of the packet! She thought they flew away, but a few months later, beautiful flowers appeared.

Now, like her life—some of the most raw, beautiful things such as the wildflowers are long gone, but the memories and magnificence of what was there remain.

Paula was the first neighbor I met when my husband and I bought our current house in 2016. It was a second home on the water in Branford. We had no intention of living at it for several years, so I was taken aback (in a good way!) when Paula and a host of other neighbors warmly welcomed us to the neighborhood.

Somehow every time we were here, I saw Paula. She was always around—walking, talking to neighbors, out with her happy dog Stella. Paula was in her mid-sixties and lived alone. She was FULL of life. Always smiling, laughing, joking… happy.

She often invited me over with my dog Koji to her fenced yard. Sometimes I had limited time at the house to complete work and declined her offers; other times I went there to spend time with her. In a short time, I learned about her life. She had a beautiful home that was lifted from the ground recently (flood risk), and again she was one of the happiest people I ran across regularly.

She often hosted happy hours. She held a welcome party for anyone who moved to our small community. She randomly met people on walks or in town and made connections with them and for them.

Somehow I had her cell phone, and she texted me often. She would often call to let me know about how nice my renters were, that an ambulance was on the street, or that something happened in the neighborhood we might be interested in.

I felt a part of the neighborhood even though we didn’t live there—thanks to Paula.

Extra bananas, clothes she was cleaning out, a knickknack that reminded her of me… she was often coming by with items that I may want that she didn’t need.

She dressed beautifully. Her natural hair color of nearly white looked very chic with her stylish cut. She had keys to our house and often went in to check on things while we were away. She welcomed nearly all our renters to the area. I still have dozens of comments from renters about how wonderful the area, neighbors, and particularly “that lady across the street,” Paula, was.

She was the only neighbor our children knew the name of. None of them ever lived here, but when they visited, they were sure to run into her.

I shared my blogs and stories with her. She often commented and referred to little things I wrote in daily interactions.

Based on an innocuous comment one hot summer day in July 2018, she was the very reason I realized how my PTSD was different from panic attacks. This kicked me into a three-day frenzy of large flip charts and sticky notes about the root cause as I explored a past that I was previously afraid to face.

During that time, there was a storm and we lost power. I was alone in my current home here in Branford. While I never went over to her place, Paula invited me over daily to have some salads and enjoy the comforts of her generator. I was very much involved in my little self-exploration and in a strange but cathartic despair. I knew Paula was right there if I needed anything, and that was comforting.

She came to every party we hosted with a very elaborate store-bought dish to share. She WAS the life of the party. I do remember, though, in the early months of 2019 during a party, she disappeared quite early. The next day I brought her coat that she left behind over. She would tell me she didn’t remember going home. She was drinking, so I wrote it off.

In the late summer of 2019, when we permanently packed up our Cheshire home and made the move to Branford, Paula was very excited. Yet every so often she seemed confused. It was getting to be this way for a while. I can’t say when exactly, but she wasn’t the same.

She was never the same. In 2020, the decline had taken an obviously noticeable turn. She turned 70 that year, and in the height of COVID, her brother and sister-in-law hosted a very nice outdoor party. Paula had friends staying with her from all different times in her life. My husband and I heard stories from them about Paula that were not surprising—how friendly and vibrant she was, how amazing of a friend she had been, how she lit up a room—and how the person now on her 70th birthday was only a shadow of Paula.

Now it’s 2022. Her home is empty. She is a patient that some administrator counts the beans for. She is a number. Paula is someone that providers confer about how to handle during a huddle—someone that family members will likely write a nice letter for if her care was good. A random note that someone like myself, who does background work to make such a place run, will hear about, smile for a moment, and carry on.

But what about that patient’s life? Their loved ones? The people they touched? The remnants of their possessions that used to hold such life and love—like the planter that used to adorn her lawn, which is now in pieces in my yard? Where and how does that all count?

Where do those stories and that love go?

I was a very small part of her life for a very short period of time. Thinking about Paula and these pieces of her planter (that I will absolutely turn into something beautiful) will hopefully help me to stop and think about each patient while I run thousands of beans for them in various “ways ’til Tuesday” so the administration can make data-informed decisions.

These lives count. All lives matter. We aren’t just numbers. We are amazing human experiences that make differences for the next lives that come along. The history of each one of us may not be recorded, but we make history with every last interaction of our lives—even by accident. Like the wildflowers that appeared when Paula thought they flew away. She planted something beautiful and didn’t even know it.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Please feel free to leave a comment or subscribe for future updates.

Some pieces of the wood I plan to work on first are out to dry.

A set of five wooden planks arranged on a composite deck, with sunlight casting shadows, alongside a plant and a white rocking chair.

On the Importance of Food, Shelter and Clothing

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Most mornings and evenings I walk with my husband and our beloved black lab mix, Koji. In the morning, with limited time, we walk down the shore and back and observe the day awaken. In the evenings, we take a longer walk. Depending on the time of year, we are catching the height of the evening’s festivities, the daily wind-down, or the flat-out night in our neighborhood (summer to winter span).

This morning it is late September. The air is cool, and I wore my lightweight, dark blue raincoat I purchased in Maine a few years ago during an unexpected rainstorm while in Perkins Cove.

I already had my morning coffee. I wasn’t yet hungry. I was not stressing about what may be in my work inbox. My life felt content, and I was alive.

So very alive that my senses were more open.

I felt the crisp autumn air around me. I held my arms out and inhaled deep breaths. A few times in the past week or so, I was able to detect the smell of wood burning in a nearby fireplace.

I heard the dog sniffing. I heard the squirrels shuffling across the grass and their tiny feet crunching the dried fallen leaves. I heard water from the shore in the distance. I heard a lot of bird signals and whistles. Mingled into it all were the sounds of crickets and other unidentified woodland creatures. I closed my eyes to help my ears hear it all. What a song!

As we approached the shore, I noticed the early morning light dancing across the water. The sun hadn’t quite made its way above the horizon, but the light was creating a spectacular palette of color nonetheless.

I didn’t have my phone and asked my husband for his. I snapped a short video of the rippling water and rising sun. It looked beautiful through the camera, but more beautiful in real life. Nothing captures the moment like living, breathing, and appreciating the actual moment.

On the way back home, I contemplated nature with teeming life around me. I’ve been wanting to go back to being vegan. I do not need to eat so much. Some people have no healthy or good food options. Others have no food at all.

This got me thinking… How can you have an appreciation for life when you are hungry? When your body is so primed to keep itself alive, it is not thinking about other lives. It is telling you to feed it.

Sometimes I walk at lunch. Almost always after dinner. I thought about how I don’t always enjoy these walks so much. When I am not dressed right, when I am in a rush and worried about getting back to my computer, or when I am thirsty or hungry and fantasizing about what to eat or drink when I get back home is when I enjoy these walks the least.

I, like every other human, feel content when I have food, shelter, and clothing. Next up on Maslow’s pyramid is safety.

For years I did not feel psychologically “safe” with my husband. For reasons that belong to another blog, his perception of how to approach the issues in our lives brought a proverbial fire alarm in me. When I worry about work or the kids, or when I don’t feel psychologically safe, the ability to have my senses pick out subtle sounds and visual nuances is dulled. I don’t notice what the dog is doing if I am walking him, and then I’ll subsequently feel annoyed with him. I’m not present to those walks or my life when I don’t have the bottom of the pyramid covered.

As we continued home this morning, I contemplated how I felt safe—safe with my husband, who at that very moment of my quiet contemplation seemed to sense just that by reaching down to gently place my hand into his. I felt safe with him and in my neighborhood.

How can anyone feel safe living in the “hood” just a few miles down the road? How can you feel like the world is beautiful when outside your window is nothing more than buildings that block the sun? Where there might be a dangerous concrete jungle? Where the sound of birds and crickets is overtaken by honking horns, someone yelling, loud street signs, and overall chaos? If your walk to school or commute to work is fraught with fear and anxiety about being safe and what may greet you when you get there, how can you be comfortable and take a moment to appreciate life?

How can anyone thrive without life’s basics?

A flower cannot grow without a medium, sun, and water.

A human cannot flourish without food, shelter, clothing, and safety.

They just can’t.

Anyone who says we live in the land of the free and that anyone can make it is naïve.

I’d like to think that too, but people who don’t feel safe at home or anywhere in their surroundings during their day-to-day life are not free. They are prisoners of their own heightened senses that are keeping them alive. When a human is hungry, they cannot think of anything else but how to eat. When we are cold or too hot, our body turns other senses off to divert energy into keeping us alive. No shelter or an uncomfortable sleeping arrangement leads to sleep deprivation. No one thrives when their body is too tired to function.

I personally don’t know what to do other than what I already try to do. But I want to do more.

If you feel you have food, shelter, clothing, and psychological safety at the moment—perhaps just take a few seconds to stop and think about one thing you can do to lift the consciousness of others so they can be happier and more productive members of society too.

This morning I appreciated life. I wanted to be better, do better, go vegan. I felt that way because my needs were met and I was able to look past myself and help this beautiful world around me thrive. I wanted to protect nature. I wanted to bring other humans to a place where they could see and appreciate what I was able to at that moment.

Pay it forward. Forward this message. Activate and do something, anything… and give me some ideas back along the way…

Only we can help each other—our families, our neighbors, our communities. It starts with me. It starts with you.

If just one person does one thing to help raise us all as humans from reading this blog, then I consider that a success.

If you enjoyed my writing, consider leaving a comment, sharing with others, or following my blog.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On Transformation through Thoughts – You have more power than you think!

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I saw a Facebook post from my good friend Michele and it inspired me to write a blog. I haven’t felt inspired to write in a while. It is a quote that talks about how powerful your mind is, to mind your thoughts because your body doesn’t know the difference of what you want and what you don’t – but it will manifest what those thoughts are.

There is so much truth to this concept.

I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with the word “woke.” Back in 2008, I don’t remember what I googled, but I fell into a rabbit hole of reading about what the end of the Mayan long calendar meant in 2012.

There were all kinds of end-of-the-world predictions. There were also some spiritual explanations that were ever so slightly hokey, but something about those explanations felt right. Have you ever heard or read something that spoke truth to you down to a cellular level, where you knew in your core there was veracity to it?

The spiritual predictions said that in 2012 there would be a mass spiritual awakening for many humans. People would start to look at the world in a different way and realize immutable truths that were otherwise hidden in plain sight before.

I closed the browser that day and enjoyed the life I built at work and at home, although there was always a little bit of a nagging feeling that something was missing.

Four years later, when 2012 arrived, I was in a new marriage with a larger family, and despite the unbelievable love I had for my new family, there were equally unnecessary struggles with the adaptation to the new situation—so much so that I was experiencing anxiety at levels that I’m sure were doing harm to my body.

And then, oddly, a series of trainings, books, and podcasts just happened to come my way. They were eye-opening, and in a few months I had radically shifted the way I saw the world. An absolutely new world opened up to me where I understood how our minds and brains work—how what I was doing and striving for was not the key to happiness.

That is what the term “woke” has meant to me, until more recently when I hear it used in the way most use it now.

True happiness does not come from things, vacations, relationships, or experiences. True happiness comes from the way we choose to see the world.

It’s that simple. It doesn’t sound possible to a scientifically minded, left-brain thinker. But when I let go and allowed myself to be turned over to the will of the universe, the answers came to me, just as many spiritual teachings suggest.

Knowing was great, but remembering and using the principles were not a habit yet formed. It’s a lot easier said than done. Ten years later, I’m at a place where I remember more than I forget. It’s hard. So how do you just change the way you see the world, and why does that make a difference in your life?

What do words and “spells” have to do with it?

A simple way to put it is that every single thing in our universe has a vibrational frequency—even thoughts.

Vibrations attract other vibrations. You can’t see or experience something in a vibration that you are not aligned with, the same way we can’t hear a dog whistle or see ultraviolet rays. Humans do not have senses that vibrate at those levels.

Also, the whole universe works in the same way life does, in that it is manifested through various mixes of the five elements.

From densest to lightest (also lower to higher in frequency), those elements are:

Earth
Water
Fire
Air
Ether

A seed goes into the dirt, and the dirt doesn’t care if it’s a watermelon seed or a carrot seed. Given the right conditions and mix of elements, that seed will grow into what it was intended to be.

The seed has potential and a code (watermelon/carrot/hydrangea). That code is the vibration or the intention—the thing with a lot of power that we cannot see. The dirt is the womb that holds and brings that seed to fruition.

The other elements play a role too—air (wind), water, and fire (sun). The way they all mix will determine if and how that seed reaches its potential. Animal and human life is created the same way.

And so it’s said is the manifestation of everything else.

Thoughts are like seeds, and our mind is the womb in which they grow. We manifest what we think, either intentionally or unintentionally. The mind doesn’t know or care if it’s a watermelon seed or a pansy seed—it just nurtures the magic code in it to life.

That is why it is so important to be mindful of your thoughts. That isn’t easy without practice. The practice of meditation is one of the most helpful ways to remember to monitor your thoughts off the mat too.

BUT—and this is a big one—all thoughts have a vibrational frequency, and even if you think you are manifesting something you want, if the intention behind it is not something you would want in your own life, you will get just what you asked for.

Huh???

Yes—your thoughts have a frequency, and they send out a magnetic energy that attracts that frequency.

Perhaps you want money. You put that thought in your mind and wait. But you don’t get it—you get the same life you’ve been living. “This crap doesn’t work,” you say. It won’t if your intentions are not clear or different from the way you live now. The intention (potential, like the code or ether in the seed) is what really matters.

What is the intention behind the desire for money? Is it to buy food and just survive? Is it to get drugs to get high? Is it to buy a big house or fancy car and ignore those who have nothing? Or is it to do good in the world? Is it a mix?

You will get what you intend.

Like the line in the Lord’s Prayer about forgiving trespasses as you forgive, the simple truth is that when you don’t forgive, you will not be forgiven. It’s the intention, the frequency, the code in what you are thinking that is the driver.

When you want something that will be harmful to others, you will, in some way, be harmed. When you just want to get by, you will get that. If you want to make a difference in the world and do good, opportunities will come your way to do that. Your vibration will attract similar vibrations.

It’s not things we manifest (car, money, house); we manifest our intentions.

Whether we think them through or not—“Whose head do I need to trample to get a raise and buy the new car?” or “Who should I put down to feel better about myself?”—you will experience that which you wish.

You may get the car, but you will not be happy for long, because something equally as uncaring in the way it was obtained will happen to you, and you ultimately will not enjoy that car.

And we cannot not consider the spoken word. Words have more power than thoughts. That is why chanting is so powerful. I’ve written about mantra before and why Sanskrit (which is not a spoken language) is used. It’s so the intention of the mantra stays clear without your own individual bias on what a word means being accidentally infused into what you are asking for.

Before the universe, before the Big Bang, there was something immensely powerful all balled up and ready to explode. It had within it the intention of the entire universe—like a seed. When the bang happened and the universe began to spread out, the same law of seed, dirt, and conditions were applied to all that were in that pre-explosion dense object.

The Christian Bible uses God as the activator, but whatever higher power you believe in (it could just be the universe itself), when this power made the decision to come into being and gave the command (spoke the “word”), action followed. Whatever it is you believe in, it really is the word.

There is a very real truth to what people say about words being more powerful than the atomic bomb. Being mindful of what you say begins with being mindful of what you think.

It’s easier said than done. It takes practice to catch yourself and be sure to keep replacing your thoughts with things you want to see and experience—things that will do no harm.

Meditation is a great practice.

Before you think, “My mind can’t meditate, it doesn’t work for me,” consider this:

Just by being quiet, you will very quickly hear what is going on in your mind. As things come up, contemplate whether it’s a thought you want, a thought that does no harm, or a thought that is positive and uplifting.

I promise, a moment later, you will forget and your mind will take over with either the same old thought or something new. It’s normal. It’s the human condition—it’s not you.

Your mind will keep chattering, but try to keep interrupting it. Keep asking yourself if that’s a keeper thought or if it should be plucked out like a weed.

Five minutes of meditation a day is a good start because that practice will help you notice what repetitive strings of thoughts come up the rest of the day that will either serve or not serve you.

Keep at it. It takes very little work, but the payoff is the life you want. It’s not a miracle—you have to practice it. Only with time will it work.

That is what it means to wake up—to be aware of yourself, your thoughts, and your intentions, and not asleep at the wheel.

So be “woke” (not in the politically charged way) and change your life ☺️

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On Rainbows

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

This morning I was doing mantras on my beloved mala beads off the Exuma Islands in the Bahamas on our good friend’s catamaran.

It suddenly started to drizzle, then rain—quite abruptly and hard. My husband, who was doing his own yoga on the other hull, and I ran to the back of the boat, where we were greeted with a beautiful rainbow.

Wow… it stopped me in my tracks. How beautiful. And how beautiful to see a full rainbow on the horizon. We are so lucky.

I couldn’t help but think of the state of Ukraine and her beautiful human citizens, who are not so lucky. These past few days I have instinctively wanted to use personal mantra to will something positive or hopeful for the outcome of this unnecessary war. But I also remembered that mantra is personal and will not work for anyone outside yourself. I briefly wondered, just then—as I have for the past several mornings—why we use group mantra to raise consciousness or send faith outward.

The answer was in front of me.

The rainbow. I marveled at the colors. The anagram of ROY G BIV that I learned around kindergarten. The order holds true no matter where you are.

About 10 years ago, while listening to a song, I contemplated the term “ultraviolet.” I then researched the meaning of colors and the length of their spectrums. As I started to get back into art a few years later, I considered the meaning of colors even more—the way they blend, and how a color wheel can seem continuous from red to purple, when it really is not. Purple to red is the only place on the wheel that isn’t quite part of nature. What happens between those two? Is there a real place between them?

White light contains it all. The earth bends the sun’s rays and we get the rainbow to the visible eye. But what is beyond that? We know about infrared and ultraviolet, but what is there that we can’t see or detect with the combination of instruments and our five senses?

Universally, red is considered basic and instinctive, while purple is considered spiritual and highly conscious. Red is larger and takes up more space on the rainbow. Purple is smaller and is only accessed by passing all of the rainbow’s outer colors.

What lies past purple, going inward?

What can’t we see?

I stared at this gem that appears when the elements of fire (sun) and water mix into the element of air, seemingly right into the element of the earth’s horizon.

The purple color starts to go within.

Going within is the key. It’s the path to something deeper, meaningful—not what is just a mirage or hologram, but what is real and cannot be seen or detected with our eyes.

We can all go within and quiet the mind of excuses, fears, worries, selfish desires, and so on, to find the right answer to anything—the answer that is ultimately right for the world, not just the human who is asking.

Those fears, excuses, and desires are the other “colors” you need to pass through in order to find the peace within.

The place within where the field—or maybe plane of existence—of the personal self does not matter. What matters is what is real and what is for the greater good.

So perhaps the question I wondered about—mantras for personal matters versus mantras for others—was right there in the rainbow. It is the bridge between the personal self and the greater good. I can do mantra to seek my own higher consciousness, which is ultimately for the greater good. Or I can chant with others in community for the greater good.

It all works if the intention is to leave all the material and selfish behind and pray for peace and harmony for all.

All.

Regardless of species, race, skin or hair color, or beliefs anyone was taught.

If you truly, truly go within, you too will know that none of anything material or visible matters if what you wish for others is what you want for yourself.

Just some of my deeper thoughts this morning.

Namaste.

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Chinese New Year and the Magic of Your Thoughts

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Last year, right around this time, a trip to the post office may have changed my life.

I was online and noticed a sign for stamps celebrating Chinese New Year. I picked up my phone to look up the date—Friday, February 12, 2021. I wondered why Chinese New Year wasn’t based on the calendar. Later, at home, I popped that very question into Google. I learned Chinese New Year was based on the new moon, and I read quite a bit about the traditions and celebration. Still, I wondered—why this time of year?

A few days later, during my morning meditation routine, I had some interesting thoughts. This time last year, I set an intention during my morning meditation to quit drinking. I would do some EFT (tapping) and imagine burning up the energies getting in the way of doing so.

For the New Year of 2021, I placed a Shiva statue on my meditation table and switched my daily mala mantra to “Om Namah Shivaya.” I also placed a wooden sign I painted above the door frame of my meditation space with this same mantra. Each morning felt fresh and new. I optimistically thought, “Today is the day I don’t drink.” By mid-day, I’d decide to drink, but that would be the last day. It was a futile merry-go-round, and I couldn’t seem to make it stop or find the exit back into the amusement park.

I needed a push. I chose Shiva for that push. Stick with me about why…

In yoga teacher training, I learned a little about Hinduism and the three main deities of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. They are the Creator, Sustainer, and Destroyer. In Ayurveda, they can be likened to spring, summer, and fall/winter. Shiva destroys the season of summer each year and ushers in fall, then winter. At some point, Brahma takes over and creation starts over. Spring begins. Simple enough concept.

This particular morning of 2/8, on my meditation cushion, I looked up at this piece I created in 2019. It may literally look like “Chinese” to anyone but me; however, it represents my own conglomeration of beliefs and knowledge regarding Taoism, Hinduism, Ayurveda, the seasons, the directions of the earth, time, and the color wheel. I thought about Shiva and my question of why Chinese New Year falls during this time of year.

While looking at my art, I saw how I incorporated the three primary colors with the three Ayurvedic doshas into four seasons. Was there a distinct point at which spring really begins and winter ends? A time when Shiva’s work ends and Brahma’s begins? How could it not be at this very time of year?

While the ground is frozen and the leaves are long gone, it’s only three or so weeks away from crocuses coming up. Clearly, flowers can’t pop up above ground without some underground work happening first. Buds are already on the trees at the equinox. Mother Nature silently begins her work as the days become noticeably longer, but it’s still very much winter. She must start around now, and why not with a mid-winter new moon? It seems like good timing to me. Perhaps that is when the bulk of Shiva’s work is done for the season.

Still with my conglomerate story?

Shiva is a “destroyer,” but is simultaneously known as a change agent or transformer. When Shiva is involved, it is apparent. In this famous statue, Shiva is shown dancing. He is known as the cosmic dancer, stomping and keeping the beat of the universe moving. The stomping and dancing represent moving things along, transforming life and matter, keeping it all going, and preventing it from being stuck. It’s why I was meditating and attempting to tap into this energy.

Side note: In Christianity, do you know who else is known as the Lord of the Dance?

This particular Monday morning of 2/8, I lamented how another weekend went by and I did not stop drinking. Chinese New Year was that Friday, 2/12—a new start, a new beginning. I would stop by that Friday with the Chinese New Year, no matter what.

I went through my morning routine—meditate, tap, mantra—with the strong intention of quitting the drink woven in. Be careful what you wish for, and even more importantly, how you wish for it.

That Friday did not arrive, at least not in the way I had planned. I wanted to stop by then, and by golly, some forces came in like a lion and made certain that by Friday I was not to be drinking.

I drank that Monday. Forces were with me. There were four very irritating things taking place around me—four really tough things that would irritate and worry just about anyone. Did I face them? No, I didn’t. I drank instead.

What happened next was immediate and undeniable. I had a strong and violent PTSD episode. It wasn’t the first time. I ended up in the emergency room until the early hours of the morning because I couldn’t stop hyperventilating during a panic attack. I was on a gurney, alone, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a pandemic, with a mask on and the future completely uncertain.

In that moment, I knew. What had happened would not have happened if I hadn’t been drinking. There could be no more “tomorrows” where I planned to quit. It had to be now.

I looked up a service I had seen advertised, where professionals come into your home to help with addiction. I submitted a request for information and began enrollment the next day.

The following days and weeks were incredibly difficult. I made a mess of my life. I didn’t live in my home again until April, and my husband and I didn’t live together again until June.

It was the worst of times. It was also the best of times.

I had asked for a Shiva-like intervention, and that is what I received. Not in the way I would have imagined, but in a way that forced me to stop and take a real look at my life.

I don’t know if anything else would have created the kind of pause needed to truly reflect, to understand how I got there, and to take responsibility for the mistakes I had made along the way.

At the same time, I realized that I had been preparing for this moment for years. Through therapy, spirituality, yoga, and self-reflection, I had built tools I didn’t fully realize I had. I knew how to breathe through discomfort, how to seek support, how to rest when needed, and how to process difficult emotions without avoiding them.

I had learned that life continues, that everything changes, and that acceptance is not the same as giving up. It is simply acknowledging what is.

It wasn’t easy, but it was easier than I thought it would be. I knew, deep down, that no matter what happened next, I would be okay—and eventually better.

There were also ripple effects. Others in my life began to respond differently, to reflect on their own choices, and to shift in healthier ways. The impact extended beyond just me.

Not everyone sees it that way, and that’s okay. I trust that there is something for everyone to take from these experiences, even if it’s not immediately clear.

The idea that what we are searching for may already exist within us resonates deeply with me. The universe doesn’t necessarily give us what we want in the way we expect. It responds to the intention behind it.

If the intention is grounded and sincere, the outcome reflects that. If it’s driven by fear or imbalance, that shows up too.

I’ve learned that being clear about what I want—and being honest about why I want it—matters. There’s a difference between wanting something and needing it to feel whole.

This past year has taught me how much easier life feels when my thinking is clear. Good and bad things still happen, but my response to them has changed.

I’m still learning. I still have instincts that pull me in different directions. But I’m more aware now that my experience of life is shaped by how I respond to what happens, not just what happens itself.

Namaste.

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On Being Middle Aged

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

When I was a teenager, then a twenty-something, I thought middle age—or (gasp) older—was an absolutely dreadful place to be. Like many younger adults, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I knew better. I was always right. I did things the best way. Older people were out of touch.

I don’t want to be younger, nor do I look back at my own life or the younger beings around me with envy. I like where I am. I will even go to the mat and say I think middle age is the best part of life—after the crisis part, of course, if you are “lucky” enough to have a midlife crisis at all.

I’m 45. To some, that sounds like “only 45?” and to others it might sound like “45??? Gulp.”

The crisis was the worst and best part of coming to terms with life on life’s terms and with who I am. Not everyone will have one, and many who do will not change. With that aside, I believe that even without one, midlife is an awesome part of life.

The best thing is a combination of experience and health. If you reasonably take care of yourself, you can be fairly healthy during midlife. With almost 30 years of driving and workplace experience, these years are a sweet spot of cruising with confidence through otherwise tricky or unknown areas. There is no major physical decline yet, combined with good reflexes, memory, and the ability to pick up and respond to life’s surroundings.

By middle age, most people (not all, of course) are financially comfortable. There are fewer worries about paying bills, less interest in having more, staying fashionable, or climbing the ladder. It allows me to live and work with comfort. I’m old enough to be taken seriously, experienced enough to understand life and work dynamics, and still young enough to switch on a dime to learn new programs, policies, software, and phone apps.

Aside from my farsightedness slightly declining each year at my annual optometry visit, I’m in the best physical health of my life. I’ve learned to make sleep important, exercise a routine part of life, and make wise food decisions for the sake of my health.

Mental hygiene takes a front seat as well. I’m no longer embarrassed about having human responses to stress and pressure, so I don’t pretend they don’t exist. I take an active stance in dealing with those things. I no longer view self-care or downtime as a reward or something reserved for others, but as a necessity to keep myself fresh, healthy, and useful to society.

Speaking of embarrassment, caring about what other people think just isn’t a thing anymore. I’m not afraid to be myself or of failing. I know it’s a part of life, and if anyone else judges that, it’s none of my business. As long as my intentions are pure, I have nothing to hide or be ashamed of. I actually enjoy realizing when I’ve messed up or been wrong—it feels good to acknowledge that to myself and to others.

I have enough years of cooking experience to cobble things together from my pantry that taste phenomenal. I try all kinds of art projects I would have once felt like a poser attempting. I love the way I dress, decorate, garden, clean, cook, love others, and live my life. I have go-to recipes, outfits, and ways to entertain that work. I am comfortable with the skills I have and aware of my limitations in the skills I don’t. I am completely okay with what I lack. No one can have everything.

When it comes to taking risks, I am excited to try new things. What’s the worst that can happen if I don’t like it? I just won’t do it again.

I believe I can now live life with a good balance of safety and risk. Being young is often accompanied by an irrational sense of invincibility. I see many older people living with too much fear of too many things. I might get to that point too, but right now I know I do not like the way fear feels. It makes me feel small and trapped rather than safe. Instead of succumbing to it, I live safely in my actions but am courageous enough to push through what a rational mind knows will be okay. That was not my experience in my younger days.

There is so much more to say, but I’ll stop here. Honestly, the midlife crisis and coming into what Richard Rohr calls “the second half” is what brought me to a really beautiful place where acceptance of what is is how I want to live. It was about 8–10 years of chaos, and something for another blog.

I do not know better. I am absolutely not always right. There are so many ways to do things, and different ways work for different people. Older people have wisdom, and our elders are our teachers.

So I will ride the tides and adjust the sails instead of fighting the waves and expecting days of perfection. And I will enjoy this moment—which will pass too—where I am grateful to be healthy and middle-aged.

Namaste.

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On how what you pay attention to, pays attention

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

The first time I heard the line, “What you pay attention to pays attention,” I was sitting in a yoga teacher training session. The line felt so meaningful to me that I wrote it down immediately. Something in me understood it and knew it to be true.

At a surface level, it makes sense. If you pay attention to your pets, your spouse, or even someone you barely know, they tend to pay attention back. It could even be a stranger behind the coffee counter each morning—positive or negative, attention has a way of being returned. It doesn’t really discriminate.

But what about things that aren’t alive? Can they “pay attention” too? That’s where my curiosity was piqued, because I feel that in some way, they do.

This idea brought me back to a time in 2001, when my ex-husband, our two children, and I moved from Cape Cod to Naugatuck, Connecticut. At the time, I had my first real sense that there might be something to the idea of energy we can’t see.

We had been living in military housing, and after the movers packed up our belongings, we stayed for a couple of weeks in temporary housing on the base. The units were identical, clean, and fully furnished. When we first arrived, we were able to look at all four units and choose the one we wanted.

Around that same time, while staying with my brothers on Long Island, I picked up a book on Feng Shui from a bargain table at a bookstore. I had heard of it before, mostly in passing, but didn’t really know what it meant. As I read about the concept of “chi,” something clicked for me.

I started thinking about the temporary housing unit we had just left. Even though all four units were the same, I had a strong sense that the one we had lived in would feel different to the next family. It would still be clean, but something about it would carry the imprint of our time there.

When I mentioned this to others, they had more practical explanations—air flow, dust, things that couldn’t be seen but could be detected. That made sense, but I still felt there was something more to it.

Over the years, I’ve come back to that idea in different ways. What I’ve consistently noticed is how often things I pay attention to seem to be noticed by others shortly after.

I’ve always liked to keep a clean home. Even when I was busy, I made time for it, sometimes with help and sometimes on my own. When I had the time, I would focus on small, specific areas—corners, drawers, the tops of door frames—places that weren’t obvious but still felt important to tend to.

What struck me as odd was that later, without me saying anything, someone in my family would comment on that exact area. Not always the surface, but the object itself—a desk, a table, something I had quietly given attention to. It was as if the attention I gave it somehow made it more noticeable.

The same thing has happened in other ways. I’ve had moments where I noticed something about myself—like a pair of shoes I had worn many times but suddenly appreciated in a new way—and then someone else would comment on them that same day.

One of the more personal examples goes back to when I was younger. As my features were changing, I became very self-conscious about my nose. Many of the women in my family had a similar shape, and I didn’t like it. I focused on it in a negative way, and it seemed to draw negative attention.

Years later, I saw a woman with a similar nose, and it looked beautiful on her. It fit her face perfectly. That shifted something for me. I started to see my own features differently, and over time, others began to reflect that back to me in a more positive way.

It felt like I was being seen in the same way I was seeing myself.

To me, attention feels like a direction of energy. We can’t see it, but we experience it. It shapes how we move through the world and how the world seems to respond to us. Whether we are aware of it or not, it is always there.

What we focus on—what we think about, what we give time to—becomes part of the way we experience life. It also becomes part of how we are perceived.

I don’t always remember this, and I don’t always believe it in the moment. Just yesterday I had an experience that brought it back to the surface again.

I was out for a long walk in my neighborhood and passed a dog barking loudly behind an invisible fence. I knew I would have to pass the same dog again on my way back. The barking was disruptive to what had otherwise been a peaceful walk, and the dog itself seemed agitated.

I started thinking about energy and what it might mean to approach the situation differently. As I walked by again, I intentionally shifted my focus toward a sense of calm and openness. Almost immediately, the barking stopped.

For a moment, I felt like I had figured something out. But then the dog started barking again. It made me laugh, because I realized I had shifted from calm to control. I had changed the energy I was bringing into the situation.

When I returned to a more open, relaxed state, the barking stopped again and stayed that way as I continued down the street.

It was a simple moment, but a good reminder.

Life is a series of experiences like that—different situations, different “streets,” all offering something to learn. The way we approach them shapes what we experience in return.

If we move through the world with curiosity, openness, and a sense of care, it tends to feel different than when we approach it with tension or resistance.

What you pay attention to pays attention.

So it may be worth paying attention to what you’re paying attention to.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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