"In the arid foothills of the Wasatch Mountains, the Milky Way arched over us. This was my personal universe, with its own inherent truths," Terry Tempest Williams writes in her newest book, When Women Were Birds.

In those foothills, summer days offered a buffet for exploration, imagination and discovery. Places where creativity is birthed with secret maps and codes, currency from found shards of colored glass, and time in tree-house hideouts.

For most of us, from such childhood years (if we are lucky), there is a reservoir we draw upon for wonderment and resilience and curiosity and the love of mystery.

Terry's inspiration was winged. Magpies, evening grosbeaks, and scrub jays were family.

One day, sitting in the tree house, she spotted a white bird perched directly above. Unlike anything she had ever seen, she ran to the house to telephone her grandmother, still able to watch the ghost bird from the sliding doors. She described the mysterious bird as the size and shape of a robin, only without a brown back, black head, and red breast. Her Grandmother listened, both enthusiasts with bird books in hand. "Perhaps it is an albino. A bird without pigmentation."

"She might as well have said of the spirit world," Terry remembers.

As it turns out it was indeed a robin, "the most common of birds, free of its prescribed dressings, white with red eyes. I was inspired and called her 'the Holy Ghost.'"

When she reported this finding to the local Audubon chapter--as an eight-year-old bird-watcher--the president said that because of her age, he could not legitimately count it as "a credible sighting."

Which begs the question. How old do you have to be before something is real?

Thankfully, her Grandmother knew better. "You know what you saw. The bird doesn't need to be counted, and neither do you."

It begins early doesn't it?

We internalize--and discern--what score is being kept...  

What counts. Or what matters.    

And by extension, what doesn't.

And yes; more often than not, we take someone else's word for it. Because for whatever reason, we do not believe we have been given the freedom to trust our own discovery.

Terry's story touches me. At some time in our lives, every one of us have experienced what it means to feel (or be) dismissed. As if we have no voice. And as a result, we internalize--or bury--our discovery, our opinion, and our passion.  Or we learn to stay silent. Lord knows it would not be helpful to rock any boat. And, we hold our heart back, because there is a question mark before we can enter any moment, encounter or connection wholehearted.

The insidious part is that we are now susceptible to odd ways of measuring, and of assigning value. As if every experience--moment of discovery and passion--requires a pop quiz in order to weigh and justify.

It may not even be conscious. Chances are, it is not. It is as if something inside is making up for an absence of affirmation, or value, or voice. 

In Terry's grandmother's wisdom, this is not about self-worth. This is about a paradigm shift. Because we live in a world with invented price tags.

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes  

but in having new eyes. Marcel Proust

For me, the paradigm shift is from scarcity to sufficiency.

As a child, I begin living from sufficiency. I'm not looking for meaning. Because I am alive in the wonder of it all. And then one day, I am told I need to pass muster (to be credible, to be believable, to be important). And I work overtime at giving meaning to my days and encounters.

Am I credible now? 

Here's the deal: Once I've internalized that my experience--my perception of the world--is not credible, I over exert myself, becoming overly conscious about finding meaning. As a result, I question everything. Is it enough? Of course, the answer is always, No. Whatever I do is never enough. Because I have been trained not to value my own voice.

Whenever I lead a retreat, Crayolas and coloring are mandatory. It is an unwritten spiritual principle: Thou Shalt Color. It is remarkable how many adults--otherwise very confident and secure people--who will say, "Do I have to? Because I'm not very good at coloring." And I ask, "Who said anything about the need to be good at it?"  

Somewhere along the way, we give up our voice.

So I invite you: Take back your voice.

Live this day through the eyes of an eight-year-old bird enthusiast, and see the day filled with wonder, elation and connection... and extraordinary ordinary creatures. 

Try this.

When you see a moment filled with wonder, elation and connection, consider it a deposit made in a "savings account" for your well-being.

Today I can... speak, notice, wonder, celebrate, savor, give without need for return, and receive without being stingy with my heart.

Enlightenment is expressed by being just where you are (says
Zen master Suzuki Roshi). A woman told Roshi she found it difficult to mix Zen practice with the demands of being a householder, "I feel I am trying to climb a ladder, but for every step upward I slip backward two steps."

"Forget the ladder," the Roshi told her, "when you awaken everything is right here on the ground."

It is another way of saying that resilience involves inviting all of life in... the longing, hunger, wildness, energy, appetite, hope, humor, beauty and irony.  

Only when we embrace, do we see.

If I hide or bury, I do not honor.  

If I do not honor, I do not allow for the space  

that enables me to give, receive, move, and grow.

Lynne Twist writes, "My friend Janie was visiting the home of an old potter at Santa Clara pueblo. She was admiring the enormous collection of pots her host had on display throughout his home. 'How many do you have?' my friend innocently inquired. Her host lowered his eyes. 'We do not count such things,' he replied quietly."

Summer arrives here in Pacific Northwest with July. We have the heat--well, our version of heat, mid 90s--and are already missing the comforts of a grey cloud cover. The gardens are beckoning, but the afternoon is best spent in a lounge chair with a cold beer and good book in hand. I look up at the bird feeders. And I smile. There is a lone goldfinch. Not that I'm counting.