Outside tonight, I felt called to step off my comfortable spot on the porch and put my hands on the wet grass, put my face down to smell the wet earth. When I looked up, I glimpsed the moon for a moment through the swiftly moving clouds. A shudder passed through me at the sight of it; the glowing center in an otherwise dark landscape of clouds, and then to see the full outline of the moon beyond the clouds was delicious.
In moments like this, witnessing pure beauty, I have learned recently that I have a choice. I can let that shudder run through me, physically feel the delicious sensation of whatever I am witnessing. Or, as I newly discovered, I can open myself up as a channel of sorts, letting the wonder and appreciation flow through me and then out of me, out into the universe. By doing this, I forgo the physical pleasure, but then a deeper appreciation comes, an understanding of the meaning of the moment that grounds me, matures me. I sacrifice a fleeting pleasure for an understanding that invariably connects me more fully to the earth, helps me to grow in my relation to things.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Fine Lines
there is a fine line between always striving to improve oneself and always being disappointed with oneself. a fine line between living cautiously and living fearfully. i stumble on these lines, generally tending to walk on the less pleasant side.
when the boy asks "moon?" on cloudy nights, i tell him she's hiding behind the clouds. tonight he finally got a glimpse of what i've been trying to relay in words. we watched the skies outside tonight, and he was delighted, as usual, to see and talk about the moon. clouds moved in, obscuring the moon from time to time, and i explained to him what was happening. he fell silent and watched it all.
when the boy asks "moon?" on cloudy nights, i tell him she's hiding behind the clouds. tonight he finally got a glimpse of what i've been trying to relay in words. we watched the skies outside tonight, and he was delighted, as usual, to see and talk about the moon. clouds moved in, obscuring the moon from time to time, and i explained to him what was happening. he fell silent and watched it all.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Water
rain.
i've been praying outside for ten minutes each day. i usually go out at night, the time not presenting itself readily during the day.
tonight, grieving the dog, i felt the impulse to step off the porch and put my hand on the earth. on the way down the steps, the impulse shifted to touching the earth where the dog is buried, under the little magnolia we planted for him. once there, an impulse not only to touch the earth with my hand, but to kneel on it, lie on the cold, rain-soaked grass (in my warm, dry, cozy pyjamas). felt the cold water soaking into my pyjamas, the rain beginning to fall harder on my face, my hands. the water under the tree a little frightening, the way dark reflections can be. i looked in when i felt called to, saw only a silhouette of a figure looking out at me - another part of creation, i knew, another part of me, as we are all part of this whole. a person from another place, perhaps another time, another era, this being observing me in the water under it's tree.
gave thanks for the reminder, the understanding that we are all one and the same thing, in the end. began to ascend the steps to go inside, wanting to dry and change and get in my bed, but knew that i wasn't done with my learning yet for tonight. walked back down the steps and to the tree, lay on my side on the earth, then flat on my back. cold, cold water, cold air. rested my hand beyond my head, in the puddle under the tree. felt the raindrops, the quick shivering of my body, the icy water about my hand. then i gave in, remembered how to let go of my striving - striving to be warm, to be dry, to be elsewhere - and just swallowed this experience of being under the tree in the dark, wet night. the shivering stopped, the icy water surrounding my hand became not a discomfort but simply a sensation to be experienced, and i felt entirely peaceful. i saw with new eyes - the eyes that can comprehend the interconnections, that sees that we all live this life believing ourselves to be separate from one another, but that we all pass through the veil upon our bodily death and recover our knowing that we are all part of one. this is the supreme peace that is spoken of during "near death" experiences, is it not? this peace, when we return to the arms of creation and know our place there.
a fellow on the playground the other day said, on speaking of children's understanding of the world, "you're another me."
i've been praying outside for ten minutes each day. i usually go out at night, the time not presenting itself readily during the day.
tonight, grieving the dog, i felt the impulse to step off the porch and put my hand on the earth. on the way down the steps, the impulse shifted to touching the earth where the dog is buried, under the little magnolia we planted for him. once there, an impulse not only to touch the earth with my hand, but to kneel on it, lie on the cold, rain-soaked grass (in my warm, dry, cozy pyjamas). felt the cold water soaking into my pyjamas, the rain beginning to fall harder on my face, my hands. the water under the tree a little frightening, the way dark reflections can be. i looked in when i felt called to, saw only a silhouette of a figure looking out at me - another part of creation, i knew, another part of me, as we are all part of this whole. a person from another place, perhaps another time, another era, this being observing me in the water under it's tree.
gave thanks for the reminder, the understanding that we are all one and the same thing, in the end. began to ascend the steps to go inside, wanting to dry and change and get in my bed, but knew that i wasn't done with my learning yet for tonight. walked back down the steps and to the tree, lay on my side on the earth, then flat on my back. cold, cold water, cold air. rested my hand beyond my head, in the puddle under the tree. felt the raindrops, the quick shivering of my body, the icy water about my hand. then i gave in, remembered how to let go of my striving - striving to be warm, to be dry, to be elsewhere - and just swallowed this experience of being under the tree in the dark, wet night. the shivering stopped, the icy water surrounding my hand became not a discomfort but simply a sensation to be experienced, and i felt entirely peaceful. i saw with new eyes - the eyes that can comprehend the interconnections, that sees that we all live this life believing ourselves to be separate from one another, but that we all pass through the veil upon our bodily death and recover our knowing that we are all part of one. this is the supreme peace that is spoken of during "near death" experiences, is it not? this peace, when we return to the arms of creation and know our place there.
a fellow on the playground the other day said, on speaking of children's understanding of the world, "you're another me."
Monday, August 17, 2009
Coccoon
I've been sick. Found a tick on me a month ago that tested positive for a nasty illness. Three weeks of antibiotics have now landed me with my first case of bronchitis. For days now I've had energy only to rise for 15 minutes at a time, then back to bed for a couple more hours.
It's been gradually sinking in to me that this can be a renewal process for me, if I choose to make it be. My base instinct is to bemoan my inability to go out, play with the boy, spend time with my husband, soak in the summer and the world. But there is also the option of learning all during this time. Opening myself up to what messages are coming through to me, what lessons come from the weakness, the rattled breathing, the infirmity, the physical restrictions.
What came today, as I lay flat, listening to my husband goofing around with our boy, was that I am being directed to move into a scary new lifestyle of being open and public with my spirituality, and that this illness is my rest before my new way of living. The idea of ceasing to hide my prayerful self has frightened me ever since I was a child; as I prayed outside with the trees and the earth at night, I believed fully that what I was doing was not something to share - I don't believe I ever even told anyone about it until years later, when I visited the Cherokee and learned that I am not alone.
So, though this post is not a lovely one, it being written quickly before I retire again, I am using it to further cement my decision to live myself fully, my life fully. To allow others to see me offer my prayers when I am called to offer them, whatever scorn, pity, judgment comes as a result. I am strong enough to face turned backs, and am stronger -and a better force in the world - when I heed my calling.
It's been gradually sinking in to me that this can be a renewal process for me, if I choose to make it be. My base instinct is to bemoan my inability to go out, play with the boy, spend time with my husband, soak in the summer and the world. But there is also the option of learning all during this time. Opening myself up to what messages are coming through to me, what lessons come from the weakness, the rattled breathing, the infirmity, the physical restrictions.
What came today, as I lay flat, listening to my husband goofing around with our boy, was that I am being directed to move into a scary new lifestyle of being open and public with my spirituality, and that this illness is my rest before my new way of living. The idea of ceasing to hide my prayerful self has frightened me ever since I was a child; as I prayed outside with the trees and the earth at night, I believed fully that what I was doing was not something to share - I don't believe I ever even told anyone about it until years later, when I visited the Cherokee and learned that I am not alone.
So, though this post is not a lovely one, it being written quickly before I retire again, I am using it to further cement my decision to live myself fully, my life fully. To allow others to see me offer my prayers when I am called to offer them, whatever scorn, pity, judgment comes as a result. I am strong enough to face turned backs, and am stronger -and a better force in the world - when I heed my calling.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Lessons from Prayer
Giving thanks tonight, in the dark and the quiet under the stars, I gave thanks for a recent resurgence I've had in my belief in myself, in my commitment to live out my spiritual directions to their fullest, despite my worries about how I will be seen and judged by other people. I'd gone outside on an urge to give thanks to the cow whose meat - or rather, a quarter of whose meat - has been feeding my family since last Autumn. I was thanking it for its sacrifice, from which we have all been benefiting.
I was reminded that creatures and plants the world over sacrifice themselves, their bodies and lives, so that others can be fed and nourished by them, and I gave thanks to all of the beings who offer themselves up in such a way, who share what they have so that others may benefit. And it settled upon me that my strong connection to the Earth, to spirits, to energy, to Creator is the gift that I have to give, and that the sacrifice I must make in order to be able to live and share this gift is my ego's control.
When I choose that my personality, my ego, will decide my actions, I abide by our culture's rules about what is considered normal behavior, what is considered healthy behavior. When I let my ego down a notch or two and allow my spirit to move me more, I become sensitive to the callings I don't otherwise hear. These are the tugs of Spirits who have messages for me, of Creator who has lessons for me, of nights in which I am supposed to be out of bed, listening and learning. It is in these communications that I learn the lessons I need. It is from this commitment, this willingness to sacrifice in a way that makes me feel vulnerable and exposed, that my strength rises up. On the heels of the praying comes a creative wave that washes away the monotony into which I've settled and opens up endless possibilities for how I respond to my world and my life. On the heels of my embarrassment and sense of exposure comes a foundation of strength, a firm belief in my right to be who and how I am, nothing less. On the heels of going out into the dark when what I want is to go to bed comes a reconnection with Creator, with the spirits who live around me, with my ability to bring new things, good things, to the world. Things that only I can bring.
I took this picture tonight of our soup pot after simmering short ribs.
Yes, the sides of the pot are a little gross, but what I see in it that thrills me is a planet, or a dark sun, or a fertilized egg about to explode into growing. What else? What else? What else do we find when we allow ourselves to be fully, completely ourselves?
I was reminded that creatures and plants the world over sacrifice themselves, their bodies and lives, so that others can be fed and nourished by them, and I gave thanks to all of the beings who offer themselves up in such a way, who share what they have so that others may benefit. And it settled upon me that my strong connection to the Earth, to spirits, to energy, to Creator is the gift that I have to give, and that the sacrifice I must make in order to be able to live and share this gift is my ego's control.
When I choose that my personality, my ego, will decide my actions, I abide by our culture's rules about what is considered normal behavior, what is considered healthy behavior. When I let my ego down a notch or two and allow my spirit to move me more, I become sensitive to the callings I don't otherwise hear. These are the tugs of Spirits who have messages for me, of Creator who has lessons for me, of nights in which I am supposed to be out of bed, listening and learning. It is in these communications that I learn the lessons I need. It is from this commitment, this willingness to sacrifice in a way that makes me feel vulnerable and exposed, that my strength rises up. On the heels of the praying comes a creative wave that washes away the monotony into which I've settled and opens up endless possibilities for how I respond to my world and my life. On the heels of my embarrassment and sense of exposure comes a foundation of strength, a firm belief in my right to be who and how I am, nothing less. On the heels of going out into the dark when what I want is to go to bed comes a reconnection with Creator, with the spirits who live around me, with my ability to bring new things, good things, to the world. Things that only I can bring.
I took this picture tonight of our soup pot after simmering short ribs.
Yes, the sides of the pot are a little gross, but what I see in it that thrills me is a planet, or a dark sun, or a fertilized egg about to explode into growing. What else? What else? What else do we find when we allow ourselves to be fully, completely ourselves?
Monday, June 22, 2009
A Duck
stayed the weekend at a much-loved farmhouse inn with my family. horses, chickens, a large garden, a jungle gym, and a small pond with four resident ducks. every day, the ducks were let out of their barn and waddled their way to the pond, where they would spend their day, swimming, bathing, nibbling the grass, steering clear of us and our young ones. at the end of the day, a person would come and walk them to the barn, they all waddling quickly in a line behind her, into their barn.
this morning, i sat on the porch with my mom, drinking coffee, enjoying the lovely clouds and breeze together. as we talked, i watched as the foursome appeared from their barn and made their way to the water. later on, as we prepared to go, we learned that one of them had been struck by a car and killed. i went over to it with my sister and our little ones, and i stroked its still body as we sang it a song together. i told the other ducks that i was sorry for them, and one of them quacked and quacked, the long ones they do when they're fussing about something, and we all said it was grieving.
everything is so fragile. days come and days go and things seem to stay the same, and yet each of these days is a gift. the friend we make behind the counter at the post office, the children our little ones play with, our sisters and brothers, our parents, our dogs. all of us are walking a precious life together, so dependent on so much, on so many moments. i see myself wanting to smooth all of this over, to push away this lesson and return to the comforting numbness, return to taking it all for granted. how do we hold these lessons we are offered? how do we make these changes, let go of the habits we are ready to lose, incorporate new, more vivid understandings into our choices?
this morning, i sat on the porch with my mom, drinking coffee, enjoying the lovely clouds and breeze together. as we talked, i watched as the foursome appeared from their barn and made their way to the water. later on, as we prepared to go, we learned that one of them had been struck by a car and killed. i went over to it with my sister and our little ones, and i stroked its still body as we sang it a song together. i told the other ducks that i was sorry for them, and one of them quacked and quacked, the long ones they do when they're fussing about something, and we all said it was grieving.
everything is so fragile. days come and days go and things seem to stay the same, and yet each of these days is a gift. the friend we make behind the counter at the post office, the children our little ones play with, our sisters and brothers, our parents, our dogs. all of us are walking a precious life together, so dependent on so much, on so many moments. i see myself wanting to smooth all of this over, to push away this lesson and return to the comforting numbness, return to taking it all for granted. how do we hold these lessons we are offered? how do we make these changes, let go of the habits we are ready to lose, incorporate new, more vivid understandings into our choices?
Friday, May 29, 2009
Loss
we lost my dad's dog today, and then we found him.
searching for a house for my dad on back roads, we found a promising one for sale. we got out, walked around, discussed things, and then the dog was gone. we always let him out to run around, and always he is right there when it's time to go. for five hours we called for him, drove around, called the police station, the humane society, talked to neighbors there, to the corner store, all to no avail. this dog is my dad's partner, and my dad'd life is pretty much scheduled around tenn's needs, as my dad is retired and has no set schedule of his own. they walk for hours together, bushwhacking through the woods, every day. they are a great pair, and facing the possibility that my dad might go home tonight alone was heartbreaking.
on our final departure from the house, posters in hand to hang up all around town, there he was, standing alert but confused in the neighbor's yard. there was a great homecoming, then my dad declared that he hated him and was going to take a shotgun to him, and then he wiped tears from his eyes.
during the time that he was missing, i felt myself again in that nightmare limbo, the same feeling as the day i put fritz down: "something awful may well happen today, and all i can do is sit and wait for it to happen," holding my breath, not able to pay attention to any one thing, just wishing and wishing. when he showed up, he glowed, in my eyes, with the aura of one who is precious, of one who was torn from our arms and then restored to the place in our life where he belongs. i was confused, in a way, for quite a while. i had grown so accustomed to looking for him and not finding him and reminding myself that he was lost that even when he was back, i kept reminding myself that he was lost. my brain was stuck on remembering the loss. when i finally accepted that he really was back, the expectation and hope arose in me that fritz would come back, too. if tenn was lost and dad's heart was broken and then tenn came back and they're happy, then fritz can come back, too! now, tonight, i am settling back into my reality that fritz is not coming back, which i continue to resist.
when tenn returned and was safe in the car and i was aware of how much he means to our family, it brought to mind the knowledge that people in past times and people in other countries face loss much more than we do, whether from illness, injuries, animal attacks, war, or whatever. loss of loved ones has been more prevalent than it is for us, and the resulting sense of appreciation for what we have when our loved ones are with us must, i imagine, have been felt more acutely and been more a part of everyday reality. what would it mean to hold our loss daily, to remember what it feels like to lose ones we love as we go about our lives? already my feelings from today are drifting away, being covered up by the knowledge that everything is fine, everything is back to normal. but what if held that pain, that fear, that celebration from today? how would that change my attitude toward other people who are in the midst of loss? toward those who are dear to me? how would that change the choices i make, what i choose to do with my time.
while tenn was still glowing with his recent return and i was still melting with appreciation for the simple fact that he was with us again, i felt myself at a crossroads: whether to love and risk losing, or whether to maintain a distance for the rest of my life, thereby protecting myself from ever experiencing sharp pain again. it is a possibility - one that i chose when i was younger, and then worked years with my husband to reverse so that i could open up again and bare my heart to the world and him. but how tempting to close all the doors, try to take control over our hearts in this way. and how devastating for us, our souls, dried up and alone.
searching for a house for my dad on back roads, we found a promising one for sale. we got out, walked around, discussed things, and then the dog was gone. we always let him out to run around, and always he is right there when it's time to go. for five hours we called for him, drove around, called the police station, the humane society, talked to neighbors there, to the corner store, all to no avail. this dog is my dad's partner, and my dad'd life is pretty much scheduled around tenn's needs, as my dad is retired and has no set schedule of his own. they walk for hours together, bushwhacking through the woods, every day. they are a great pair, and facing the possibility that my dad might go home tonight alone was heartbreaking.
on our final departure from the house, posters in hand to hang up all around town, there he was, standing alert but confused in the neighbor's yard. there was a great homecoming, then my dad declared that he hated him and was going to take a shotgun to him, and then he wiped tears from his eyes.
during the time that he was missing, i felt myself again in that nightmare limbo, the same feeling as the day i put fritz down: "something awful may well happen today, and all i can do is sit and wait for it to happen," holding my breath, not able to pay attention to any one thing, just wishing and wishing. when he showed up, he glowed, in my eyes, with the aura of one who is precious, of one who was torn from our arms and then restored to the place in our life where he belongs. i was confused, in a way, for quite a while. i had grown so accustomed to looking for him and not finding him and reminding myself that he was lost that even when he was back, i kept reminding myself that he was lost. my brain was stuck on remembering the loss. when i finally accepted that he really was back, the expectation and hope arose in me that fritz would come back, too. if tenn was lost and dad's heart was broken and then tenn came back and they're happy, then fritz can come back, too! now, tonight, i am settling back into my reality that fritz is not coming back, which i continue to resist.
when tenn returned and was safe in the car and i was aware of how much he means to our family, it brought to mind the knowledge that people in past times and people in other countries face loss much more than we do, whether from illness, injuries, animal attacks, war, or whatever. loss of loved ones has been more prevalent than it is for us, and the resulting sense of appreciation for what we have when our loved ones are with us must, i imagine, have been felt more acutely and been more a part of everyday reality. what would it mean to hold our loss daily, to remember what it feels like to lose ones we love as we go about our lives? already my feelings from today are drifting away, being covered up by the knowledge that everything is fine, everything is back to normal. but what if held that pain, that fear, that celebration from today? how would that change my attitude toward other people who are in the midst of loss? toward those who are dear to me? how would that change the choices i make, what i choose to do with my time.
while tenn was still glowing with his recent return and i was still melting with appreciation for the simple fact that he was with us again, i felt myself at a crossroads: whether to love and risk losing, or whether to maintain a distance for the rest of my life, thereby protecting myself from ever experiencing sharp pain again. it is a possibility - one that i chose when i was younger, and then worked years with my husband to reverse so that i could open up again and bare my heart to the world and him. but how tempting to close all the doors, try to take control over our hearts in this way. and how devastating for us, our souls, dried up and alone.
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