The idea of a vision board is that you look at it every day and subconsciously you see yourself in that role, living the life of your dreams, until it becomes reality.  The idea was popularized in the book and DVD The Secret by Rhonda Byrnes.

I was updating my vision board about once a year and found it very helpful in staying on task with the direction of my life.  But a few weeks ago my vision board fell off the wall (it was attached with poster putty).  I thought it was strange since the weather was not particularly humid and there were no windows open so I reapplied the poster putty and hung it back on the wall.  Two days later it fell again.

Hmmmm, I think the Universe was trying to tell me something.  I had no idea what it was all about so I stored it away in the back of my mind for a few days.  Then I had a very sad day where everything I thought was important to me just went away.  I received a disappointing email, a letter rejecting one of my speaker proposals, and didn't get the support I had hoped for to publicize The Autism Spirit.  

It was a long and very healing conversation with my good friend that finally put it all together for me.  She very simply said, "surrender who you thought you should become".  The words struck me right in the heart as I thought of very image and label on my vision board which screamed, "this is who you should be!"  OMG, if I can't be who I thought I should be, then who am I?

Just the awareness of how much pressure I had put on myself to be HER, that woman who fulfills all the roles she's supposed to with ease and grace, had allowed the responsibility to lift from my shoulders.  A sense of relief washed over me, filling me with the ease and grace I had worked so hard to "achieve" through my actions.  And there it was, already within me, requiring no action on my part whatsoever.

Now I am not trying to become HER, I know that I already am.

Then the answer came, allowing me a gush of relief, in the words of Marianne Williamson, "an emotion is not dangerous until it's disowned, for that's when it commonly gets projected onto others and/or compressed into your own flesh".  

Wow, it doesn't get much clearer than that.  And that's one of the reasons why I like to read her books.  She writes in very practical, down-to-earth language.  Either own it and let it go or it will remain in your body, eventually taking physical form as illness, weight change or disease.

I guess there's nothing wrong with getting angry, it's when we stay angry that causes the trouble.  So I'll continue to pay attention to those little triggers in my emotional system that tell me it's time to pay attention to this issue, then I can release it.  One thing I do know, the payoff to doing this internal work is priceless.  I have never felt such bliss as when my heart lets go of old, negative energy. 

Well, I got more than I bargained for.  I had been getting annoyed and bugged by little things lately so I decided to start with that and see where it goes.  Within a few minutes I started getting flashbacks of every person who ever wronged me in one way or another.  I saw every mean person, every betrayal, every person who dissed me, tried to control me, or just didn't like me for whatever reason.

Suddenly, Miss Avenger showed up.  She was my shadow self, the persona that wanted revenge on every person who was mean to me or hurt me.  I pictured her in a sexy cat suit like Jessica Alba in Dark Angel facing each person one by one and saying all the things I wanted to say at the time.  Then she decided how to take her revenge.  The punishment should fit the crime.. so some people got a slap in the face, some were punched or kicked, and some just told off in colorful language.  (This all happened in my imagination, I didn't hurt anyone.  It was my system releasing all that negativity.)

Even though Miss Avenger was sexy, I clearly saw how ugly she got when the rage erupted within me.  I couldn't believe it had been stored within me all these years (I'm 41 now) and so many incidents that I had forgotten felt like it was happening again in that instant.  The intense rage lasted for about 20-30 minutes and then it was done.  I was exhausted but completely cleared of all that toxic anger that was stored within me.

Finally, as Miss Avenger stood in front of me, I thanked her for protecting me all those years and said I didn't need her anymore.  Then she drifted off into the light, waving goodbye. 

Meet me at the EMARC Family Center in Reading, MA on Monday, September 26th at 7:00 PM!

The autism community is flooded with information about the science and behavioral aspects of this prevalent disorder but there’s something missing.  The Autism Spirit fills the gap and brings a new aspect to a deeper, more loving connection with the autistic person in your life.

In this presentation, you’ll learn:

• ·               Why it’s important to have a deeper connection with your loved one
• ·               Easy ways to understand what’s behind autistic behaviors
• ·               How to create pathways for communication that go beyond verbal or written words
• ·               The most important thing that your child with autism is here to teach YOU!

You’ll leave with practical tools that you can implement right away!

Tickets are $20 prepaid online at www.LeaMHill.com/Events or $25 at the door. 

*The Autism Spirit is open to those of all spiritual and religious practices and beliefs.  The information presented is in no way meant to be a substitute for traditional therapies and treatment for autism. The information provided does not constitute legal, psychological, medical, business, or financial advice. The attendee assumes responsibility for all of his/her own choices and/or actions.

Below is a short story by Amy Singer, age 15, of Massachusetts who submitted this piece for admission to Grub Street's YAWP program and was accepted.  Her writing is fluid and so very real that I couldn't wait to post it on The Sylph Society site.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!

Lea

A Short Story

by Amy Singer

I was once told that when your life falls apart, there are two paths to take. One that twists and turns and vanishes into the distance, the place lying past its sunlit trail distant and hidden, and one that looks exactly the same but only runs you into a wall.

Everyone tries to pick up the pieces of their life and fashion them together into a misshapen jigsaw puzzle full of traffic and scars, hoping the picture they make is almost the same as it was before it fell from their grasp and shattered on the floor. But it never works. I should have realized that sooner.

I was in a car when my life was broken into a million shards that pierced through the windshield I thought would keep me safe.

When I drove I felt nothing could stop me. The car was a bullet; a shell of metal that prevented anyone from touching me. I flew down roads like a diving hawk because I knew that the sound of a finger tapping a button on a stopwatch and the finish line on the track in front of me would never stop me from running away. I was free to fly beyond the clouds and nothing could catch me.

Except for a truck.

Smashing into a wall of steel and rubber at fifty miles an hour is enough to kill someone. All I was aware of was the crunch of metal that told me to stop running and the balloon of blood that burst from my nose when the airbag greeted my face. For once in my life I obeyed when someone told me to stand still and I lay there, head snapped back into the seat and legs trapped under the crushed dashboard.

I couldn’t feel them at all. Almost as if they had just been detached from me and vanished into thin air.

At some point I was taken away from the car. The instant that I was freed from the crash that would forever mark my soul, I knew that I was being taken away from my whole life. I could see my legs as I was dragged onto a stretcher. Not even in my own mind did I call them legs. These flattened, twisted things dangling from my hips were no longer human.

I began to cry as I was taken away from the place that had ruined everything I'd ever known. No one could look at me now and say with a straight face that I was the star runner of the school, capable of hurtling past the other sprinters and taking flight into first place. My wings had been clipped and the little bird inside me had fallen into a locked cage.

Everything I had been ceased to be.

The hospital was a mix of bleach and formaldehyde. Everything was colorless, smoother than glass and slicker than oil. Shoes squeaked on the tiled floor no matter the weather and all I could smell was the stench of clean.

I felt like a slab of meat being preserved in an enormous refrigerator. I lay helpless, on a cot, with what used to be my legs locked up in casts thicker than telephone poles. I could barely move, barely breathe, and barely believe that I was here, now, like this. I wanted to break free of these bonds and fly away again.

But all I could manage was twitch a finger. Anything else hurt too much.

The doctors surrounded me for a long time, asking too many questions for me to keep up with. They poked and prodded at my face and arms and all over, telling me to say when it hurt the most. I lost awareness of everything that was happening and just let them do what they needed to do. Eventually just a slender man was left standing there, staring sympathetically at my broken self.

Then he left.

And I stared at the blank white ceiling, surrounded by blank white walls and a blank white floor and blank white sheets. I could easily imagine the only color in the room was the red of my eyes.

My parents came next, bearing tissues and two times the grief I was holding back. Their soggy faces and smiles had kindhearted intentions but all I saw between their wrinkles was the pain of seeing their only daughter splayed, vulnerable, across a hospital bed. I tried not to cry and my throat burned from the effort. I didn't know why I was making myself hurt more; I had already proven that I was just a rag tossed to the side of the road. Letting my tears out now wouldn't change anything.

"Jenna," my father said. Our gazes met and it took all my strength not to look away. "They'll fix you up. They said they can do something if the x-rays look good. It may take a long time, Jenna, but they'll do it. You'll be as good as new when you leave this place."

"Daddy," I said. My voice was barely louder than a cold breeze. "Did you see my legs?"

He did not answer. Mom took my hand and kissed my fingertips, telling me everything was going to be fine and work out for the better.

For their sake I hoped it would too. But I did not express my doubts. I didn't want to break their hearts any more than I already had.

The doctor who came in with the x-rays reminded me of a dragon, his breath like a curl of smoke scratching through the reek of the polished hospital floors and his fingers clutching the sleek photograph like gnarled claws. I thought quietly to myself that if anyone were to deliver bad news, it shouldn’t be this man. The pack of Marlboros in his pocket agreed with me.

"Hello," he said, his voice like tires rolling over a gravel driveway. "Jenna, is it?"

"Yes."

"How are you feeling?"

"I hurt."

"They have you on painkillers?"

"Yes." I wanted to skip this useless, monotonous exchange of questions and answers. I knew deep down that Dr. Dragon didn't care about me in particular. To his lizard eyes I was just another patient who would come and go, leaving a spray of money behind in his claw-like hands.

"Can you feel your legs?"

"No."

He blinked slowly. "Jenna, I'm going to show you why."

In the boundaries of each x-ray's frame was a spatter-painted collage of white on black, a snowstorm on a square bruise. Dr. Dragon, despite the nickname he had in my mind, kept his nails neatly trimmed. They tapped the white shapes that he said were bits of bone and left behind tiny, glossy scratches over the photograph of what used to be legs. He described what we were looking at, explained what was going to happen, named the different stages of recovery and procedures I would undoubtedly have to go through. The words came from his mouth like fire.

I listened.

And when he left I cried. Even though almost all of me had given up and fallen back against the bars of the cage, there had been a small spark of hope that I would be able to walk again. Maybe not run, but at least be able to walk.

The doctor had crushed that tiny candle flame with his dragon's paw when he told me my spine just wouldn’t be able to mend back into place. My legs wouldn't move. Couldn't move.

I told my parents and saw their disheartened expressions. Somewhere in their saddened scowls and hopeless gazes I could see that they had known what was going to happen all along.

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Don't be, Jenna. Don't be sorry. None of this is your fault." Mom took my hand and held it between her palms. I could feel her heart racing beneath her pale skin, blue veins spread out like spider webs. Whenever she was troubled she needed to hold onto someone else, to stabilize herself and burrow her roots into the ground as a brace for whatever could be coming her way. "The man in the truck ran a red light. He shouldn't have been there."

"What are you talking about?" I pulled my fingers away and clenched them up against my heart. "I was going too fast. Didn't they tell you? I was being reckless and racing down the road at a million miles an hour and I didn't see the truck and I crashed—" I broke off, salty tears falling down the corners of my eyes. "I crashed, mom. I did this to myself."

"You didn’t, Jenna."

"I did," I said angrily. "I did everything! I destroyed my life and I don't want you being dragged down by it."

"Jenna—"

"I just want to be alone for a while."

They left. I kept my eyes on the tree-trunk casts that sealed my legs away. I tried to move my toes. All I ended up doing was screaming at myself in my head, screaming at my feet to move at least an inch.

But Dr. Dragon, in his smoky breath, hadn't lied.

I was given a wheelchair. The doctors in the rehabilitation clinic told me they were determined to help me adjust my life around the simple change of using my arms to push myself forward instead of my legs. The chair itself was uncomfortable, with spurs and trinkets and bars poking into me, and painful to look at. When I saw it, sat in it, felt its cold metal rims, all I could think of was the car I had smashed my life with.

My instructor wore blindingly pink scrubs that hurt more than the chair. I winced every time she crossed in front of me and told me to slow down. "You're moving too quickly, Jenna," she said. "We have to take it step by step. I don't want you putting too much strain on your arms."

She pushed me back to where I'd started. "Go slower this time."

Everything she said to me was a contradiction of all I'd ever heard from anyone else. My parents always shoved me forward with promises of success during the school year. Once the track season came my coaches would howl their complaints when I didn't shave milliseconds off my personal record. "Faster, faster," everyone said to me.

Then the barricade of the crash prevented me from going anywhere down the path of speed.

I hated this stupid wheelchair. With every thrust of my arms I felt like I was sprinting down the track, heart pumping fast, but only moving a single meter.

"Great job!" my instructor said. "That's a perfect pace."

"I won't be able to drive anymore," I said. I rolled to a stop and looked at my hands. Blisters were forming on my thumbs.

I looked over my shoulder when I noticed she hadn't answered. Dr. Dragon was clutching a cracked clipboard and conversing intently with my instructor. Slightly irritated at just about everything around me, I wheeled myself into the next room, where the patients who were farther along in their recoveries were flicking their wrists at the ease of their exercises. They were all older than I and crippled, faces full of wrinkles like my parents'. Their stares as I came into the room were nonexistent. For the first time since the crash no one looked at my legs before my face.

It was almost a relief.

Then I noticed a young man, skin smooth as plastic, watching me from his seat on the other side of the room. He couldn't have been more than two years older than I, his eyes still lit with the youth that everyone else around me lacked.

He didn't have a right hand. In its place was a thick bandage that wound up his forearm like a papier-mâché tornado.

A smile flitted quickly across his face before he went back to writing in the notebook on his lap. I noticed that his pencil moved slowly across the paper, stumbling over the tiny creases. I realized as I watched that he wasn't writing, but drawing instead.

Some of the rehab patients turned their heads as I squeaked by on my way to the boy. He seemed startled when I bumped lightly into his bare feet and dropped the pencil. Its lead snapped and disappeared under the feet of marching surgeons prancing by in the hallway.

I apologized but he just gave me another small smile.

"I was drawing you," he said. "But I guess it's finished as it is." He turned the notebook—the sketchbook—around on his knees and brushed away the blackened curls of eraser that dotted the page. The drawing the paper bore was clearly me, despite its roughness; the features of my face carved out with the graphite and the slope of my shoulders relaxed as I rested my hands on my lap. The lines were shaky and imperfect, the shading clumsy, my expression distorted: but what made me like it most was that he hadn't drawn my legs and called it "finished."

"You can have it if you like," he said. "I'm just practicing. It's no big deal."

I let him tear it carefully from the spiral binding and place it in my hands. The edges poked at my swollen fingertips. I thanked him.

Introducing myself, I found, was the hardest part. I couldn't find the words to explain who I was and what I did to earn myself a room at this hospital. He seemed at ease when he described the explosion that took his hand and I envied that.

"It was a stupid mistake, really. I was fooling around in the garage with a pal of mine and blew out most of my hand. They had to amputate up to my wrist and the rest of my arm is still recovering. The worst part was that it was my dominant hand, and now I have to relearn to write and draw with my left." He then said his name was Lev.

I simply stated my name. So far I'd only said four words to him.

He studied my face quizzically, as if trying to guess what I was thinking.

"You're very good at drawing with your left hand," I blurted. "I really like this."

"Thanks," he said.

And induced another awkward silence.

"What happened to you?" he asked.

I looked down at the drawing. The sketched lips were curved into a smile, one that I hadn't been wearing. "I blew out my passion too," I said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What was your passion?" He was resting his head on his hand, continuously noting the nuances of my face as I thought of how to answer.

My eyes found comfort in looking at the drawing as I described my fame as the top sprinter on my school's track team. "I could push to just over eleven seconds. My goal by the end of the season was to break under that, but...that's never going to happen now."

"Why not?" he asked. "Your legs will heal over time. Bone mends, and your doctors are trying everything they can to set them straight."

"It wasn't just my legs that broke." I covered the empty space of the drawing where my legs were supposed to be with my hand. "Some nerves in my spine got damaged, or something like that. I can't even wiggle my toes anymore." His gaze was sympathetic. "You're lucky, Lev, to still have one hand. You can just relearn everything you used to know. I have to start all over, with this awful chair and bindings over my feet."

"Sometimes starting over completely is better than learning to cope with a hand that was never used."

"I don't think this is one of those times," I said, regretting my morbid tone of voice. I folded the drawing carefully and tucked it away in my pocket.

Lev shook his head to disagree but did not argue. Something about that made me feel a little better. If I wasn't going to have faith in myself maybe it was a good thing someone else did.

And maybe it was useless.

The wheelchair jerked suddenly and I felt the hot breath of my instructor against my ear. "Running off, were you?" she said. Her lips smacked obnoxiously when she saw Lev. "Sorry to interrupt, dear. Jenna and I need to finish her session for the day. You two can talk afterwards, alright?"

Without waiting for a response, she took the handlebars of the chair in her firm, French-manicured grip and rolled me back into the other room. As the floor tiles brushed by, slick and tainted with the footprints of a dozen other amputees and broken lives, I began to realize my situation wasn't any more unique than the thousands of people who'd passed through this room before me.

An hour passed by, tiny ticking hands slowly waving good-bye to the time. My instructor was careful in releasing me from her grasp, constantly asking if I was fine or if I hurt. I did hurt, but my wish to be left alone was dominant over my pain.

When she had finally left, I felt a tap on my shoulder. Lev's left hand, smudged with a storm of graphite, left a mark on my bare skin. "Hi," he greeted, taking a seat in one of the empty wheelchairs near the door.

I returned the remark.

"You know that you're a pessimist?"

"I wasn't before," I said.

"Before what? Before you did something stupid like me and said good-bye to your passion?"

I glared at him, disliking the arrogance in his voice. "Before I crashed my car and hurt my spine and made it impossible for me to run again, that's what."

"So crashing wasn't stupid? Running wasn't your passion?"

"What are you getting at, Lev? You're being a jerk." I rolled away from him. My arms were sore and I moved slowly enough for him stand, take three steps, and catch the handlebars on the back of my chair, keeping me from moving anywhere.

"I'm just saying it's not the end of the world."

"But it is!" I shouted. My yell attracted stares from all around the room. Swallowing the anger I could taste on my teeth, I said softly, "Everything I lived for isn't worth a cent now without my legs. Everything I lived for is just gone, and so is my life. It's gone."

Though I couldn't see him, I could feel his smile on the back of my neck. "Your life is not gone, Jenna."

"How would you know?" I was fighting back tears of frustration. "You still have a hand. You can still draw, write, feel your way around in the world—I, me, I can't. I can't, Lev."

The wheels on my chair suddenly erupted into a chorus of squeaky cheers as they spun violently over the floor. I began to move, faster than my instructor would have ever let me. The armrests at my sides became subject to my white-knuckled clutch and I realized that Lev was pushing me. The constant taptaptap of his sneakers on the tile mimicked the pattern of sound my own feet used to make on the track.

He wasn't just pushing me: he was running.

"What are you doing? Lev, what are you doing?" I cried, trying to press myself against the back of the chair. If I could shrink into the curves of the rough canvas I was sitting on maybe I'd be safer.

"I'm showing you another path," he answered.

We took flight out of the rehab clinic and soared through the corridors of the hospital, making papers flutter in our wake and doctors rush to the walls to avoid meeting the wrath of the thin rubber wheels buzzing across the floor. Somehow Lev was able to control the chair with one hand, steering me around tables and carts and around corners with surprising ease.

It didn't take long for me to notice I wasn't scared anymore. My initial shock had faded, blown away in the soft breeze that slid by my face as we raced through the hospital, and the strength of my laughter was rivaled only by Lev's.

The little bird was flying again.

Lev let the wheelchair settle itself near an unused emergency exit, far from the stressed groans of the nurses and patients we'd shoved to the side in our rampage through the halls. He swung himself around to face me, his eyes smiling.

"There's no such thing as gone unless you want there to be."

I watched him lean against the doors. It was surprising that they didn't split under his weight and shriek with their alarms. "What do you mean?" I asked.

He tapped the door to his left with his palm. "Jenna, you can sit here and wait forever for these doors to open. Or..." He swept past me again and backed me out of the dark dead-end, pulling me backwards all the way back to the hall that led to the entrance to the rehab clinic. I was turned around to face the main entrance of the building, shining glass doors creating sunlit patterns on a rug bearing the hospital's logo.

"...or you can walk back to the start and take another path. Go a different way. Because those other doors are never going to open."

"Oh." I was overcome by a powerful inclination to just sit and be silent. What Lev said struck down my defiance and inability to accept the uselessness of my legs. I could already feel myself opening up, letting the feathers I had painted on my skin wash away to make room for new ones. But I wasn't ready for this yet. I needed a little time.

"Do you see it now, Jenna? You can fight all you want to get your legs back but it's never going to happen. You have to clean your slate and someday you'll find your way again."

A clean slate. I couldn't even begin to imagine the concept. I thought of the rehab session, the drawing in my pocket, the sprint across the only track I'd ever run on that was blank white instead of shredded black tar. Somehow it was too much to make sense of at this point.

I just needed a little time.

"Do you see?"

"I will," I said.

"Here," he said, holding the handlebar of the wheelchair with his single hand for a final time. "I'll take you back to your room."

First of all, the most exciting news is that The Society of Sylphs is complete and being reviewed by publishers.  I'll let you all know as soon as I get a pub date as I'm planning a big party and lots of promotional events!

Other news is that I've been getting involved with some amazing autism advocacy programs such as Autism Tomorrow, which is a handbook for parents of autistic children to help their child get ready for adult living.  It includes important topics such as career, living arrangements, and dating.  

And if you're in the vicinity of Bristol, Connecticut, please join me at Sheriden Woods Health Care Center on Sunday, Dec. 5th at 2pm for my talk about autism and the spiritual work that I do.  I'm excited to have the opportunity to combine both my passion for autism advocacy and my spiritual work all in one presenation.

Hope to see you soon!

Lea

I'm not exactly sure what's in store for us on that date, but I do know that it's a special day spiritually and energetically.  

Some friends of mine heard the call of the earth for help and have organized a very special event that night.  It will be an evening of energetic cleansing and healing for all.  I will be taking part as well, leading the group in a sacred geometry meditation.

The event is taking place in Marblehead, MA, but if you're not in the area, that's okay.  You can get together with a group of friends and help, too.  All you really have to do is send love energy to the earth and all humanity. That will be a huge contribution.

If you're interested in learning more about it, please visit: www.MeetUp.com/HealOurWorld

It only takes a small fraction of the population to create a positive energetic shift.  Be a part of the change and Heal Our World!

I've received so much positive feedback from my interview with William Stillman, who spoke about the spirit of autism and "Demystifying Autism from the Inside Out", that I'm posting the link here so you can listen to the show.  It will be on the main page until March 23rd and after that, can be found in the Archives listing.  

But I am enjoying the weekend here with SCBWI (the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators) at the Winter Conference.  I was fortunate to have the opportunity yesterday to read a small section of my young adult fantasy novel to a couple of editors and got good feedback.  Now I'm ready to submit queries to literary agents and make this dream into a reality. 

I have some fill in work to do on the manuscript, but I'm about ready to let some friends and family read it.  Not sure if I'm ready for the critiques though!  Oh well, I'll have to face up to it sooner or later.

Off to do some networking now and meet other writers.  Back home tomorrow night, but so far I'm loving New York!

I’m seeing clues come to me from a variety of directions, but not sure which ones are most important for me to spend time and/or money on. 

One thing that’s come together recently is my new radio show called, The Spirit Connection, on WebTalkRadio.net.  I love the experience of interviewing fascinating guests who can offer easy, practical advice for people looking to expand their spiritual connection. 

I have lots of ideas as to where The Spirit Connection can take me, but also want to continue promoting the Sylph Society site as well.  I have a strong desire to continue my work with people on the autism spectrum and to fulfill my role as an autism advocate.  There are so many things I can do, but just need to find the right outlet(s) for them.

I’m hoping that soon Spirit will nudge me in the direction (or directions) that I need to take to move forward.  Until then, I’ll continue living in joy while waiting to be launched out of limbo.

Happy New Year and best wishes to all!