Came home today. Tonight, walked out into the dark drizzle, knew I didn't need a timer on this night to let myself relax into my time outside. Called gently down to the yard, and walked out away from the house. Passed the apple tree, paused outside the coop, listening to the rain on the compost bin, the blackberry leaves. Directed to the fire pit my husband and son built for me last week, ringed with the angular, broken rocks dug up over time from under the earth of our yard. A beautiful pit. One large, flat stone laid in the ground on the eastern edge as a stepping stone, an altar. Walked to the pit, carrying the sage and lighter I'd known to carry out with me. Smudged the pit, myself, giving thanks to the sage, to the fire. Crawled into the circle in the ground, knowing that this is counter to my relationship with fire places but feeling clearly and powerfully that this was what I was to do.
I curled myself within the ring of the fire pit, smelling both the chickens who love to visit the raw earth there and the ashes of the fire my family shared in it last week. On my side, the ring of rocks around me, I felt as safe as if I were in the earth itself, safe as a baby in its womb. I remembered our sweats down south with our spiritual community there, our Teoshpe, the power and sure safety of our sacred fires within the dome of the lodge. I felt cradled by Creator, cradled by the earth, in the center of all light and goodness.
*My time away from them has dimmed my memory of the term. Will enter it when it returns to me.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Clearing
Couldn't post this writing last night, as I didn't have access to the computer.
Walked out tonight once the boy was asleep and I was ready to rouse myself from the bed. Phone rang, husband calling to report one chicken missing from our coop when he shut them in for the night. After we hung up, I settled myself on the cushion on the porch. My comfortable sense of security was stirred up from the small touch of uncontrollable loss - potential, at least; our chickens have gone missing once before only to have turned up roosting in the branches of the forest.
Listening again to the buzzing, chirring, clicking insects of the night, it was abundantly clear why we humans were more in touch with nature when we all lived our lives out of houses. When we went to sleep each night surrounded by such choruses, it was a matter of course that we would know who calls in what season, etc. It is only now, when most of us shut our wooden doors and glass windows to the heat, the cold, the bugs, the dark, that we find it remarkable for someone to be familiar with the nuances of the seasons.
Looking up to the shimmying ends of branches above me, the moon's hazy glow through the clouds, my mind almost quiet, I felt myself talking directly with Creator, open to the world, to messages, to my source, to my depths. Felt like a sudden openness, welcome relief from my small, personal world of worries and desires.
A child's cry drifted out the windows of the neighbors' house, then a man's hard voice. I was again shown my recent vacation from the hard realities, the lull I've been living in, magical days spent with my son and my mother, sheltered from any direct exposure to most forms of suffering. I thought of my husband's days, spent as a social worker, and silently tried to conjure an image of what kind of work I could do now, what kind of help I can offer. And into my head came my midwives' invitation to teach a class on fertility awareness, a woman's way of becoming in touch with her body's cycles which I have found hugely empowering and which, I have told the midwives, I feel every one of us deserves to learn in adolescence. Perhaps this, then, is where my work lies.
Looking up at the trees, smelling the wind, feeling the closeness of the dwellings, the adventures everywhere, the strangers everywhere, drifting through my heart came mists of my years spent in the city, my friendships and relationships from those times.
Walked out tonight once the boy was asleep and I was ready to rouse myself from the bed. Phone rang, husband calling to report one chicken missing from our coop when he shut them in for the night. After we hung up, I settled myself on the cushion on the porch. My comfortable sense of security was stirred up from the small touch of uncontrollable loss - potential, at least; our chickens have gone missing once before only to have turned up roosting in the branches of the forest.
Listening again to the buzzing, chirring, clicking insects of the night, it was abundantly clear why we humans were more in touch with nature when we all lived our lives out of houses. When we went to sleep each night surrounded by such choruses, it was a matter of course that we would know who calls in what season, etc. It is only now, when most of us shut our wooden doors and glass windows to the heat, the cold, the bugs, the dark, that we find it remarkable for someone to be familiar with the nuances of the seasons.
Looking up to the shimmying ends of branches above me, the moon's hazy glow through the clouds, my mind almost quiet, I felt myself talking directly with Creator, open to the world, to messages, to my source, to my depths. Felt like a sudden openness, welcome relief from my small, personal world of worries and desires.
A child's cry drifted out the windows of the neighbors' house, then a man's hard voice. I was again shown my recent vacation from the hard realities, the lull I've been living in, magical days spent with my son and my mother, sheltered from any direct exposure to most forms of suffering. I thought of my husband's days, spent as a social worker, and silently tried to conjure an image of what kind of work I could do now, what kind of help I can offer. And into my head came my midwives' invitation to teach a class on fertility awareness, a woman's way of becoming in touch with her body's cycles which I have found hugely empowering and which, I have told the midwives, I feel every one of us deserves to learn in adolescence. Perhaps this, then, is where my work lies.
Looking up at the trees, smelling the wind, feeling the closeness of the dwellings, the adventures everywhere, the strangers everywhere, drifting through my heart came mists of my years spent in the city, my friendships and relationships from those times.
Friday, August 20, 2010
The Path
Staying at my mom's in the city. Rough time putting the boy down, my impatience, exhaustion, need to be alone thwarting any attempts he made to distract me into playfulness.
Slept for a bit after he drifted off. Woke up and knew I needed to sit, but rested a bit more, on the edge of sleep. A few minutes later, it was suddenly entirely clear to me that either I get up and go outside in that moment or I would fall asleep and miss my sit for the night. Up I got.
I've been remembering that I have the option to follow these messages, this guidance, daily. One could, I know, follow them every moment, walk the path Creator lays for us, live as "God's hands" in the world. I have been friends with a woman who strives to do so, to see and to let go of her own personal desires, opinions, anger. To release her ego's control over her choices and instead follow the guidance she receives in every matter. To live following her Inner Vision, as Tom Brown would put it. I feel that to make this choice is part of the ultimate fulfillment of my own path. I know already that the guidance is available to me in nearly every moment, from whether to have a second helping of food to how to comport myself in disagreements with my husband for our mutual benefit. When I give it a moment, the path is usually made clear to me, but until very recently I have been forgetting to even consult this guidance, and have instead been giving priority to only my own wants and opinions.
To live this way, with this discipline, is so contrary to our wider culture - the mainstream, at least - which makes it seem more out of reach, more difficult to attain. And yet I know that people on spiritual paths of all kinds have been living in such a way for much of human history. The Iroquois maxim to consider the impact of every decision on the seventh generation into the future is part of this path. Walking the path of awareness in the meditative sense is part of it. Yet seeing people in my life who are actually living in this way is the most powerful frame of reference for me. My friend, in particular. I can see her personal sacrifices, I have benefitted from her resulting generosity, and I have witnessed the power she is gifted in return for her labors. As she is naturally in communication with Creator all throughout the day, she is a seer, and has helped to guide many people with the insights and comprehension granted her by Creator, the universe. I think that perhaps we all are equal tools for Creator in life, each with her or his own sort of powers. I believe that the day will not come that I am able to offer my own highest gifts until I have undertaken this path, the path of following my guidance far more than I do now, following it by second nature.
Sat out tonight on my mother's porch. Four different kinds of buzzing, clicking insects filled every space with sound. The hum of cars and trucks in the background. Electronic voices and music seeping out into the night through open windows. My belly full and round with the baby, my mood still tight with residual irritation from the bedtime struggle. The moon lifted herself gently above the branches as I sat. The trees in neighbors' yards tower over my mother's house and yard, so much taller than ours in the country.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Trading
I made a deal with the spirit world, Creator, the universe today. A small one, but significant to me.
On a recent canoe trip with my father and my boy, I found, half buried in a sandy portion of the riverbed, a small, smooth, flat shard of clay. I cannot help but believe that the clay is a broken piece of pottery that was shaped by human hands ages ago, that people used it beside or in that river, that somehow it found its way beneath the sands of the riverbed. I came upon it a few days after very heavy rains, which had, perhaps, unearthed it from where it had been resting.
The veracity of my beliefs aside, this flat little triangle of rust-colored clay holds great weight for me. In its presence on the windowsill above my sink, in the experience of holding it in my hands, I feel graced by tangible evidence of our past. Of our old connection to the earth, from the days when we used the gifts she provided easily, building our vessels, our belongings, from resources that did not harm her either in their making or in their decaying. I feel connected to the person - most likely a woman, if our histories are correct - who fashioned that particular vessel out of that clay. To her family, to her village, to the plants and animals they knew and understood. It helps me to believe, to truly trust, that there was a time when all humans knew how to live off the earth. To envision our people knowing how to survive, raise our children, pass on our cultures to future generations, independent of everything but our local communities and the earth.
I questioned, that day, my decision to bring it home with me. Was its rightful place not there in the river, where its original owner had left it? And yet, what a gift it is to me to hold it and look at it, to have an ancient scrap of my species' history in my own home, reminding me of who we have been, who we can be.
We returned to the river today, and as I packed for the trip, I took it off the windowsill in preparation to return it to the sands I'd taken it from. In holding it again, I again felt its significance to me, the medicine in it for me, and I longed to keep it in the house. So I offered to trade for it. I touched the earth, waited for a feeling, a knowing of what would be a fair offer.
In exchange for this piece of our past, I have committed to sit outside and to write here every day for a week. Perhaps these will be the hearty, shapely writings I prefer to post, or perhaps they will more resemble notes or vague impressions. But I will do it for a week, in thanks for the pottery.
Tonight, after a long day riding on the gentle waters of that river, I sat out in our back yard under a bright moon, beside the little cherry sapling we planted two years ago. I lay back on the ground in the dark, listening to an urge that I generally dismiss out of hand, not wanting the dew to moisten my clothing. I have been lately humoring these little urges more, these whims, so vibrant in childhood, that add so much to our lives and that so often are silenced and ignored, to our detriment, in our honed, convenience-seeking adulthood. I lay back on the grass, felt the moisture on my back, and gazed up from my new vantage point. I found myself looking up through the cherry, where I have only ever looked down at the little thing. The night sky and moon shone beyond the darkness of its leaves.
The branches it now feeds and raises to the sky are the same that it will hold up in twenty years, with any luck. Today they seem so haphazard, as such small amounts of growth have generated each, but they are the shape of what is to come. They already tell us the tree's plans for growth, for shape; they have only to change in size, weight, shadow.
On a recent canoe trip with my father and my boy, I found, half buried in a sandy portion of the riverbed, a small, smooth, flat shard of clay. I cannot help but believe that the clay is a broken piece of pottery that was shaped by human hands ages ago, that people used it beside or in that river, that somehow it found its way beneath the sands of the riverbed. I came upon it a few days after very heavy rains, which had, perhaps, unearthed it from where it had been resting.
The veracity of my beliefs aside, this flat little triangle of rust-colored clay holds great weight for me. In its presence on the windowsill above my sink, in the experience of holding it in my hands, I feel graced by tangible evidence of our past. Of our old connection to the earth, from the days when we used the gifts she provided easily, building our vessels, our belongings, from resources that did not harm her either in their making or in their decaying. I feel connected to the person - most likely a woman, if our histories are correct - who fashioned that particular vessel out of that clay. To her family, to her village, to the plants and animals they knew and understood. It helps me to believe, to truly trust, that there was a time when all humans knew how to live off the earth. To envision our people knowing how to survive, raise our children, pass on our cultures to future generations, independent of everything but our local communities and the earth.
I questioned, that day, my decision to bring it home with me. Was its rightful place not there in the river, where its original owner had left it? And yet, what a gift it is to me to hold it and look at it, to have an ancient scrap of my species' history in my own home, reminding me of who we have been, who we can be.
We returned to the river today, and as I packed for the trip, I took it off the windowsill in preparation to return it to the sands I'd taken it from. In holding it again, I again felt its significance to me, the medicine in it for me, and I longed to keep it in the house. So I offered to trade for it. I touched the earth, waited for a feeling, a knowing of what would be a fair offer.
In exchange for this piece of our past, I have committed to sit outside and to write here every day for a week. Perhaps these will be the hearty, shapely writings I prefer to post, or perhaps they will more resemble notes or vague impressions. But I will do it for a week, in thanks for the pottery.
Tonight, after a long day riding on the gentle waters of that river, I sat out in our back yard under a bright moon, beside the little cherry sapling we planted two years ago. I lay back on the ground in the dark, listening to an urge that I generally dismiss out of hand, not wanting the dew to moisten my clothing. I have been lately humoring these little urges more, these whims, so vibrant in childhood, that add so much to our lives and that so often are silenced and ignored, to our detriment, in our honed, convenience-seeking adulthood. I lay back on the grass, felt the moisture on my back, and gazed up from my new vantage point. I found myself looking up through the cherry, where I have only ever looked down at the little thing. The night sky and moon shone beyond the darkness of its leaves.
The branches it now feeds and raises to the sky are the same that it will hold up in twenty years, with any luck. Today they seem so haphazard, as such small amounts of growth have generated each, but they are the shape of what is to come. They already tell us the tree's plans for growth, for shape; they have only to change in size, weight, shadow.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Shimmers
Up this morning with the boy. Instead of our usual routine of letting the chickens out and coming back in to start breakfast and do cleaning, I brought my coffee out and we sat together under the apple tree, the chickens off searching the neighbors' yards for bugs. The sun was still just coming up, flickering on and off our faces as the apple's leaves danced in the breeze. Dew on the grass, the yard shimmering, like the first morning in the world.
The light Sunday traffic left the world quiet, room enough for birdsong and wind. Knowing how many other folks were also enjoying a day of free time lifted the dampening effect I sometimes experience from knowing that the blessing of leisure time is so unevenly allotted among humans.
Dismissing my invitation for him to "mow" so I could sit in the chair and enjoy my coffee in stillness, the boy preferred to snuggle on my lap and watch the day come. He discovered the tiny black and gold beads sewn to my skirt, but, to his chagrin, could not convince me to let him pull them off and play with them. So we sat quietly together in the perfect morning, he fingering his little discovered treasures, I stroking his clean, soft hair that glowed golden-white in the morning sun, both of us adoring the beauty we beheld.
Later in the morning, we joined friends and their family at a beach to celebrate the 2nd birthday of their daughter, our boy's playmate. A friend of the family, an avid kite-flyer, had made simple mylar kites for each of the children. He set them up in the sand behind our gathering in a loose zig-zag, their strings buried in the sand to anchor them. The effect was a marvel to behold. Seven shimmering splashes of color hovering above us, golden tails dancing and jumping in the wind, rustling their kite-music above us all day. It was such an announcement of celebration, of joy in being alive, that flurry of kites in the sky.
My parter and our boy spent much of the morning together, and I found myself with a rare opportunity to be alone. Our gathering was in full swing, everyone enjoying each other, and all of the children well-accompanied. I brought my then-damp towel out behind our bags and kiddie tents and laid it on the hot sand under the kites. I lay back on the ground, the sun warming me after my chilly swim, and looked up at the kites. They'd been given more slack to help them catch the wind and were higher up above us than when they'd started, just small patches of color speckling the blue sky. I closed my eyes, listening to their fluttering, to the family talking, laughing, happy together, the gulls crying their songs. The sun was like a hot blanket on my chilly skin, and the baby shifted in my belly. I thought back to the early morning under the apple tree, such perfect stillness and contentment, and loved the equivalent perfection of this boisterous moment in the world.
Later, I walked down to the water to join my family. They were sitting, the boy wet and chilled and perfectly content in his father's lap, at the edge of the water, both of them delighted in a game they'd invented. The boy's little wrinkled hands were cupped within my husband's cupped hands, both of them laughing as they tried to catch the water as the waves washed up and around them.
The light Sunday traffic left the world quiet, room enough for birdsong and wind. Knowing how many other folks were also enjoying a day of free time lifted the dampening effect I sometimes experience from knowing that the blessing of leisure time is so unevenly allotted among humans.
Dismissing my invitation for him to "mow" so I could sit in the chair and enjoy my coffee in stillness, the boy preferred to snuggle on my lap and watch the day come. He discovered the tiny black and gold beads sewn to my skirt, but, to his chagrin, could not convince me to let him pull them off and play with them. So we sat quietly together in the perfect morning, he fingering his little discovered treasures, I stroking his clean, soft hair that glowed golden-white in the morning sun, both of us adoring the beauty we beheld.
Later in the morning, we joined friends and their family at a beach to celebrate the 2nd birthday of their daughter, our boy's playmate. A friend of the family, an avid kite-flyer, had made simple mylar kites for each of the children. He set them up in the sand behind our gathering in a loose zig-zag, their strings buried in the sand to anchor them. The effect was a marvel to behold. Seven shimmering splashes of color hovering above us, golden tails dancing and jumping in the wind, rustling their kite-music above us all day. It was such an announcement of celebration, of joy in being alive, that flurry of kites in the sky.
My parter and our boy spent much of the morning together, and I found myself with a rare opportunity to be alone. Our gathering was in full swing, everyone enjoying each other, and all of the children well-accompanied. I brought my then-damp towel out behind our bags and kiddie tents and laid it on the hot sand under the kites. I lay back on the ground, the sun warming me after my chilly swim, and looked up at the kites. They'd been given more slack to help them catch the wind and were higher up above us than when they'd started, just small patches of color speckling the blue sky. I closed my eyes, listening to their fluttering, to the family talking, laughing, happy together, the gulls crying their songs. The sun was like a hot blanket on my chilly skin, and the baby shifted in my belly. I thought back to the early morning under the apple tree, such perfect stillness and contentment, and loved the equivalent perfection of this boisterous moment in the world.
Later, I walked down to the water to join my family. They were sitting, the boy wet and chilled and perfectly content in his father's lap, at the edge of the water, both of them delighted in a game they'd invented. The boy's little wrinkled hands were cupped within my husband's cupped hands, both of them laughing as they tried to catch the water as the waves washed up and around them.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Kaleidoscope
harvested another twenty minutes of sitting tonight.
greeted again by the busy chickens on my way to the tree, their paths following mine toward the tree and then turning to the sandbox as i ascended.
gentle wind on my face as i sat. something in its quality made it feel just like the ocean breezes i grew up with, but the scent was bland, lacking the distinction of saltiness.
worked on my vision tonight, my focus dancing between the expanse of my peripheral vision to the left, right, top, and bottom of my visual field and my running list of things that need doing.
i was surprised at how easily i was able to reclaim my focus and direct it again toward my vision. as i gradually combined my awareness of all the edges of my visual field so that i was focusing attention on all of them at once, not focusing on any one point as we tend to do in daily life, the scene before me changed. first it appeared as a kaleidoscope, divisions of triangles and trapezoids in the pine branches and needles and sky. then it appeared to me as a collage that slowly became three-dimensional, each small movement of my breathing revealing the depth of the vision, the images beyond the images. every space formed by crossing branches - ten thousand bits of sky held between tiny pine branches and twigs - formed a piece of the artwork.
greeted again by the busy chickens on my way to the tree, their paths following mine toward the tree and then turning to the sandbox as i ascended.
gentle wind on my face as i sat. something in its quality made it feel just like the ocean breezes i grew up with, but the scent was bland, lacking the distinction of saltiness.
worked on my vision tonight, my focus dancing between the expanse of my peripheral vision to the left, right, top, and bottom of my visual field and my running list of things that need doing.
i was surprised at how easily i was able to reclaim my focus and direct it again toward my vision. as i gradually combined my awareness of all the edges of my visual field so that i was focusing attention on all of them at once, not focusing on any one point as we tend to do in daily life, the scene before me changed. first it appeared as a kaleidoscope, divisions of triangles and trapezoids in the pine branches and needles and sky. then it appeared to me as a collage that slowly became three-dimensional, each small movement of my breathing revealing the depth of the vision, the images beyond the images. every space formed by crossing branches - ten thousand bits of sky held between tiny pine branches and twigs - formed a piece of the artwork.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Drought
sat tonight, first time in a long drought of solitude.
husband spoke today of his need to have some time alone at some point today, which reminded me of my own right to claim time to myself when his presence makes it feasible.
walked out toward the tree after putting the boy down for the night, and was greeted with not just the usual one or two friendlies, but our whole dear flock of chickens running to me. hadn't been out in the yard today; were they wanting for entertainment other than each others' company? no one was missing, so i don't believe it was for protection. i knelt by them and fed the bold ones clover, then walked on.
i greeted the tree and ascended to my sitting branch, avoiding the short strips of blue/purple sap that decorated the trunks. i sat, thinking about the companionable chickens, noting the growth of the little maple and of our garden since my last sit. after a few minutes of sitting in thought, a large black and white bird, a little smaller than a crow, glided past me, just below the branch i was sitting on, presumably unaware of my presence in its flight path. i heard its body cutting through the still air, but too quick and too peripheral to my vision to get a clear sighting. it brought to mind the flicker who careened into the tree when i was first starting the 30-day challenge this spring; a big treat right at the start of my sitting. it motivated me to continue on, but i expected a treat every few days and was disappointed when it turned out to be a one-time deal. glad to have the memory of that lesson, reminding me to temper my excitement and keep an even keel in my expectations of sits.
the baby moved, a soft little jerk of a feeling in my abdomen.
started to tune in to all the sounds i could hear, then my mind drifted around: perhaps i can give myself 20 minutes a night on the porch to practice fire by friction, after the boy goes down every night. a month's commitment to this should get me somewhere with this practice i've longed to pick up for years. but i'll need to finally find myself a good set of tools, which is always what slows me down...
remembered that i'd been tuning in to my hearing, and closed my eyes again. a cricket to the south, as well as a bird chirping away at some distance and another singing intermittently close by. the neighbors' mower, and cars on the road. a constant insect buzz, one i hear in tall grasses in the summer and used to assume were crickets until finally realizing it doesn't actually start and stop like crickets, leaving me at a loss after three decades of sharing the summer with these insects close by.
the baby moved again.
opened my eyes. wondered what time it was, how soon i could stop trying to be alert and just go inside. felt a fleeting frustration about my resistance to attempting to stay awake, then remembered writing about this frustration during the challenge. how after two or three weeks of effort this spring, i suddenly moved into a state of much more active awareness.
it is achievable.
husband spoke today of his need to have some time alone at some point today, which reminded me of my own right to claim time to myself when his presence makes it feasible.
walked out toward the tree after putting the boy down for the night, and was greeted with not just the usual one or two friendlies, but our whole dear flock of chickens running to me. hadn't been out in the yard today; were they wanting for entertainment other than each others' company? no one was missing, so i don't believe it was for protection. i knelt by them and fed the bold ones clover, then walked on.
i greeted the tree and ascended to my sitting branch, avoiding the short strips of blue/purple sap that decorated the trunks. i sat, thinking about the companionable chickens, noting the growth of the little maple and of our garden since my last sit. after a few minutes of sitting in thought, a large black and white bird, a little smaller than a crow, glided past me, just below the branch i was sitting on, presumably unaware of my presence in its flight path. i heard its body cutting through the still air, but too quick and too peripheral to my vision to get a clear sighting. it brought to mind the flicker who careened into the tree when i was first starting the 30-day challenge this spring; a big treat right at the start of my sitting. it motivated me to continue on, but i expected a treat every few days and was disappointed when it turned out to be a one-time deal. glad to have the memory of that lesson, reminding me to temper my excitement and keep an even keel in my expectations of sits.
the baby moved, a soft little jerk of a feeling in my abdomen.
started to tune in to all the sounds i could hear, then my mind drifted around: perhaps i can give myself 20 minutes a night on the porch to practice fire by friction, after the boy goes down every night. a month's commitment to this should get me somewhere with this practice i've longed to pick up for years. but i'll need to finally find myself a good set of tools, which is always what slows me down...
remembered that i'd been tuning in to my hearing, and closed my eyes again. a cricket to the south, as well as a bird chirping away at some distance and another singing intermittently close by. the neighbors' mower, and cars on the road. a constant insect buzz, one i hear in tall grasses in the summer and used to assume were crickets until finally realizing it doesn't actually start and stop like crickets, leaving me at a loss after three decades of sharing the summer with these insects close by.
the baby moved again.
opened my eyes. wondered what time it was, how soon i could stop trying to be alert and just go inside. felt a fleeting frustration about my resistance to attempting to stay awake, then remembered writing about this frustration during the challenge. how after two or three weeks of effort this spring, i suddenly moved into a state of much more active awareness.
it is achievable.
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