Sat out tonight on the front porch. Car and snow plows gliding by, nearly silent on the snowy road. Tracks we made playing on the front lawn today are muted by the new inch of powdery snow upon them. Today's tracks, the tracks of this lifetime, covered by changes, time, the happenings of the present.
Felt the cold seep past my clothes to my skin, and thought of how many creatures and people have died on cold, snowy nights. If humans died en masse, not only our individual lives would be lost,but also our particular community, our family culture.
As animals pass over, do they see their family's history ending, or only their own lives?
Friday, January 1, 2010
Monday, November 2, 2009
Frost
Four lessons tonight, under what looks like a full moon.
I reflected on being a member of a species that can rest unconcerned about predators. I imagined that the only other creatures that might have this privilege are those at the top of the food chain. But then, doesn't a mountain lion have to beware of other mountain lions? Yes, just as we humans have other humans to fear.
Kneeling on the ground, I imagined a raccoon near me. I didn't want to stand (in this imaginary scenario), lest I frighten the raccoon. Yet what if it were rabid and posed a danger to me? Likewise, why do we crouch around others, hide our full strength and stature, when doing so may invite unpleasantness upon us?
Didn't want to pray tonight, so late already that I just wanted to get into bed. But a feeling came to me of my relationship with my body, with having birthed my son, and how sacred that is to me. How sacred that must be to all women, to their own degree, and how so many women in Africa and around the world have been raped by men, had that precious history of their bodies overwritten by violence and degredation. This reminded me that my selfish desire for sleeping sooner rather than later is not as important as it feels to me sometimes, relative to others' needs and the importance of me doing the work that I can do through prayer.
I prayed for gentle but firm guidance so that I may do what I can to help women, especially in southern Africa, where so many men are committing rapes that it is being referred to as an "epidemic." The question then came to me: "If I were in their shoes - if I were one of the women experiencing this cultural trauma, what would I want someone in my shoes to do?"
I reflected on being a member of a species that can rest unconcerned about predators. I imagined that the only other creatures that might have this privilege are those at the top of the food chain. But then, doesn't a mountain lion have to beware of other mountain lions? Yes, just as we humans have other humans to fear.
Kneeling on the ground, I imagined a raccoon near me. I didn't want to stand (in this imaginary scenario), lest I frighten the raccoon. Yet what if it were rabid and posed a danger to me? Likewise, why do we crouch around others, hide our full strength and stature, when doing so may invite unpleasantness upon us?
Didn't want to pray tonight, so late already that I just wanted to get into bed. But a feeling came to me of my relationship with my body, with having birthed my son, and how sacred that is to me. How sacred that must be to all women, to their own degree, and how so many women in Africa and around the world have been raped by men, had that precious history of their bodies overwritten by violence and degredation. This reminded me that my selfish desire for sleeping sooner rather than later is not as important as it feels to me sometimes, relative to others' needs and the importance of me doing the work that I can do through prayer.
I prayed for gentle but firm guidance so that I may do what I can to help women, especially in southern Africa, where so many men are committing rapes that it is being referred to as an "epidemic." The question then came to me: "If I were in their shoes - if I were one of the women experiencing this cultural trauma, what would I want someone in my shoes to do?"
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Growth
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.
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.
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?
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