The Dance is Enough

She is called a Blue Moon. The last one for a few years.  Labels and names can be so deceiving.  She graces the drought stricken trees, stripped of their leaves before Fall, with the brilliance of yellow they will not know this year. Bearing their naked imprint, she fills them with splendor as they dance.

I clasp my hands to my heart, with a smile and sweet tear, I bow to her gentleness and wonder if anyone else will notice the simple, wonder, of nature's love and embrace.  And then I smile again, capturing the tiny stream of tears.  She needs no applause. She needs no audience.  The dance is enough.

Falling Movement

Thich Nhat Hanh observed that we only call rain, "rain" because it is falling and wind, "wind" because it is blowing. That led my simple brain to ponder the thread, that we have names for waves, rain and wind but think how different the words can be.  At night the sound of crashing waves or rain can lull you to sleep. The same sounds terrifying to one lost at sea or in the mountains.  And to ponder, is not nature's breath, the wind, always present, but we only give it a name when it moves? Is not her life sustaining moisture always present but we only give it a name when it falls?  And are not the waves, rain and wind the same but we call them storms when we think them strong?  And when your day is planned outdoors, a "nice" day means no rain but to a farmer looking at his parched fields, a "nice" perhaps even miraculous, day would be for the rain to fall.  And finally, all the words we use have movement - rain, wind, waves, stormy.  But a day of non-movement, stillness, blue skies and calm, we simply call 'nice' yet the movement of life is still there. 

And so, I leave my simple thread, to know the buffeting storms against my heart as nothing more than movement.  Movement, without which life ceases to exist. Like the moisture in the air and natures breath, the pain is simply falling.

Sweet Hands of Life

In a pile of abandoned limbs and branches it caught the eyes of my breath.  One could even think it sculpted by nature, two hands clasped that look like weathered and worn wood. A wooden lighthouse for all who travel the hardened sun baked earthen ocean... reach out, I am here.

Sweet, sweet Hands of Life.... 

Reaching.

Thread for the Body

"May you keep faith with your body,

learning to see it as a holy sanctuary

which can bring this night wound

gradually towards the healing and freedom of dawn."

~John O'Donohue 

Remembering the Reason

As the body whispers no more, my heart recites the Bodhisattva prayer with an even softer whisper

"May all the pain of every living being  Be wholly scattered and destroyed. For all those ailing in the world, Until their every sickness has been healed, May I myself become for them The doctor, nurse and medicine itself. My body, thus, and all my goods besides, And all my merits gained and to be gained, I give them all away withholding nothing To bring about the benefit of beings. May I be a guard for those who are protectorless, A guide for those who journey on the road. For those who wish to go across the water, May I be a boat, a raft, a bridge."

And cradles the body with a reason to believe.

Shadow Thread

The morning sun painted a whisper, 'Look and tell me what you see.'  My mind told my eyes a mountain they saw, just like the mountain in the photograph above.  My eyes whispered back, 'no, both are flat, touch them and you can see.'  My little mind sighed.

The mind can create realities from shadows, seeing textures and towering mountains where there is only a flat painted wall.  It is not wrong, bad, or even misguided. She simply reflects and causes shadows to come to life, calling them real, as they cast their image on an painted wall.

The sky is now blue, the sun has moved on and there is naught but the wall.  But I find my eyes still turning my head to the space where mountains were framed in a walled window of light.  I had a thought, a thread, when I began, but like the shadowed mountains, it has gone. I am simple and not so wise.  I only know no matter what the eyes, mine or others, think they see, no matter what the mind creates from the vision of eyes, no matter all else, the truth within, the whisper of Life, knows the touch of the mountain was real.

Threads Untied

Time for my walk, but I could not tie my shoes. My tremor stutter hand would not work. Shoe in my lap, eyes closed, I asked the little one inside my spirit if she remembered learning to tie her shoes. I didn't always know how to tie shoes. Perhaps if I remembered how I learned I could figure a way to tie my shoes now.  

Resting upon the water windows of time I floated back through all the images and albums. I remember the sound of sea gulls and waves at sunrise. I remember once, just once, feeling cute. I remember being loved. I remember love. I remember when to awake meant another day to love and share. I remember the sound of my father's voice. I remember running for miles and miles. I remember the sound of 'hello.' I remember my grandfather teaching me to honor and bow to the forest before you enter. I remember hands that danced with words and eyes that could read. I remember laughter and songs that left me breathless. I remember the feel of my knees as I bowed in awe, wonder and grace. I remember the squeaking sound of feet walking along the beach at night and the sound of unseen waves. I could not, however, remember how I learned to tie my shoes. 

As I put my shoes away, a promise to the little one inside and to my heart, we shall never take for granted the precious moments of 'I remember.' I didn't always know beauty, love, waves and grace. But I learned and I remember. Bowing my head, I gave thanks for the grace of having known, and in knowing, to remember. And so my little one and I walked barefoot in the yard instead, a walk I will remember.

To Taunt a Dance

And as the storm moves in, the soon to be ended day taunts one last dance. Somewhere in the light beams playing I know my Own knows the tune. One day to perhaps taunt a dance and then rest upon the mountains like a mother's hand gently caressing her sleeping child.

"it will always be like this,

each of us going on

in our inexplicable ways

building the universe.

~Mary Oliver

I am the Child

For the grace to see fear as a child that begs a hand to hold hers,  I say thank you.

For the grace to see hopelessness as a child that begs an embrace, I say thank you.

For the grace to see uncertainty as a child awaiting an unlimited future yet to arrive, I say thank you.

For the grace to feel pain, and to know sweet Hands of Life, I am the child, I say thank you.

Old Soul's Embrace

The soul's deepened sigh flutters and lands upon the small heart.  Awakened touch throbs in her whispered embrace.

Gnarled and lifeless how old are their souls? How long have they stood in their splendored green dance and then  the stillness of standing unmasked?

How deep the roots to hold them still. Does life still flow and only the mask is removed? If you cut them would they bleed?

Upon the earth's loom the standing threads call. My spine against the old soul's spine. The soul's deepened sigh and quivered touch caresses spine against spine.  Awakened touch throbs in her whispered embraced.  Gnarled and lifeless how old are our souls? Sitting unmasked we are encircled by splendored green grass. The answer is yes, we will bleed. We will stand.

Riding through Windows

The anticipation made my body quiver.  Trying to figure out a way to keep my jeans on my disappearing body made me laugh. Too excited to wait, I left almost an hour early for the one hour drive. Windows down, sun roof open and the iPod playing new songs.  The car and I danced through the curved mountain roads, singing and remembering.  I was on my way to ride a horse through the mountains.  Remembering my horse from childhood, I tried to remember the feel of my foot in the stirrup, grasping the saddle and pulling myself up, swinging my other leg until I nested into the saddle, into the embrace of gentle power. I would ride across mythical plains and mountains, chasing dragons, racing the wind. More often than not, I would just sit, letting the sun warm my body, feeling the breathing of the horse beneath my body, and knowing an unknowable peace.

After a cup of cafe coffee, my body and heart  quivering even more, the cell phone went off as I got into the car. Just five minutes from riding my wind horse, they called to cancel.  Too much rain last night, upon the parched earth, unsafe for the horses, reschedule for tomorrow.  My heart eagerly agreed, knowing how dangerous the mud would be for the horses. But, still.....

Putting the car in reverse, a direction I know too well, a smile gathered the gentle sweet tear.  Pausing, I opened the windows and sunroof, caressed the steering wheel and clicked my tongue. "Giddyup" I whispered, "Tomorrow. Maybe. For now, my little horse of steel, time to ride."

Upon my horse of steel I rounded the mountain curves with gravity pulling me towards her body. I traveled mythical plains, raced the dragons and with windblown hair I sang....

"Sometimes a dream is just like a window

Like a window that opens on blue.

Some windows are just made for looking

Some windows for climbing through..."

~Deidra McCalla "Some Windows"

No Other Ending

I remember reading a book that glued my page turning fingers to the paper, daring not to leave a gap and cause a pause.  Anticipation had a strong enough grip upon my heart and breath, I could not afford even the tiniest pause to turn the page.  And when the ending came, it was not what I wanted or expected. To have held me so entranced and entwined and then abandon me at the end - the book went flying across the room. I confess later, as I tried to understand, even parts of the book were torn.  And yet, it remains with me to this day, even after over three decades have passed.

What did the author see that I did not? How could our hearts and spirits be so far apart?  I knew it was not of spite, a writer's trick to deceive, no it was not that for there was far too much tenderness, hope and blatant honesty woven on every page. How could the ending, then, be so unexpected and almost cruel that I could not see it coming? There was no sequel to explain or describe the life afterwards. It was, as it ended.

After three or so decades the book whispered again to me as I labored to walk this morning. The whisper gave my body the reprieve it needed as it stopped me mid step.  And to the whisper, my own replied, I was wrong, it could not have ended any other way.  The very ending, in fact, mirrored and spoke to my reaction - 

You cannot deny the beauty and sweetness of a story simply because of the ending.

Since there was no sequel, the reader does not know if that truly was the ending or events conspired to bring about another. Who knows? Maybe. Perhaps the thread, the bookmark is that until you truly grasp the truth and breath of the first ending, the possibility of the beauty and sweetness of another cannot be, you cannot see the tiny sprig of growth, of hope, of life.

Held by Grace

For all the have nots, cannots, the pain that grows worse with trying to heal, eyes that cannot see and one hand that cannot hold or write, and the quietness each one brings to my heart, knowing Your sweet Hands, o Life, are strong enough,  I say thank you.

Simple truths trying to find the loom that will weave them together, a tapestry of beauty, love, faithfulness and belief in destiny and forever, this moment alone is worthy of the journey and for that hope, I say thank you

Undaunted Blue

Walking around the park lake yesterday, I pondered the morning's excursion to another lake and a path blanketed from the sun by trees and the sound of a river dancing.  In the midst of the tree limb'd canopy, a small opening filled with the sun pointing to a tiny blue flower, in solitude amidst the green fir fingers of new fir trees reaching for the sun.

As I walked and remembered, a tiny voice yelled at me, "I'll race you!" Stopping I saw a young boy on his Hot Wheel tricycle, his face fixed in anticipation. His mother and grandmother giggled in embarrassment. I knelt beside him and asked if he thought he could win. His tiny feet danced on the pedals and his eyes grew big. Assuming a runner's starting pose, I looked at him and counted us down.... We reached the tree's finish line the Hot Wheel and a boy's laughter crossed first.  Kneeling beside him I raised my arms in the air and told him to feel his strength. Timid at first, his arms flew up. The grandmother's hands likewise flew clasped to her heart. His mother laughed so hard I do not know if the picture she took with her phone was steady. I whispered, "Well done!" and bowed as I left.  Never has defeat tasted so sweet.

A tiny blue flower, defiant and determined, embraced by a sliver of sun. Tiny arms that felt the power of their courage. The joy of defeat. Simple fragments of a day, the threads of life.

Blessed Day

A morning like fall, only fifty eight degrees. The day whispered to come to her and see a different nature. I walked to the downtown main street and the morning whispered 'Worry not about the pain.' Sitting outside a small town cafe, I tasted the sounds and morning breeze beneath a canopy pretending to hide the sun. 

Coffee and breakfast ordered with the crispness of the morning air. 

A shop keeper came out to tend the petunias.  She taught me about pruning, the energy of plants and invited me in for coffee when breakfast was done.  

As I looked at the plate, even the sun seemed to smile. The morning air and the energy of the plants told my body there would be no pain.  The empty plate a witness to hope for my fading body. 

The shopkeeper shared her Native American treasures and talked of the mountains and how they too had drawn her here.  Taking my hand in hers, her voice quiet and soft, 'Welcome and blessings' she bid me as I readied to leave.  I paused at the door, partly to savor the morning nectar and partly from embarrassment, I had failed to introduce myself.  She gifted me her name, and with a smile, "And yours?"  "My name is Beth" I replied with hands to my heart as I bowed.

Walking back, I paused by the river to give thanks, and savor a bit longer, the morning breeze.  To drink and taste again the coffee, quiche and fresh fruit partaken with no thought but their delight.   To wish a blessed day to a stranger friend and celebrate the river'd dance of Life.

Namaste to all who see, Welcome and Blessings on this gifted day.

Nectar's Bitterness

John Burroughs described the simple wisdom of nature. The fruit of trees so lush, sweet, and juicy beckons us to eat, indeed, the delight may even be said to taunt us.  Yet in the center of such heavenly nectar awaits a seed or pit that is as bitter as the fruit is sweet.  What do we do with the nectarless hard pit? We toss it aside and throw it away and nature laughs.  In so doing, we have become a co-creator, joining the circle of life. For in throwing away the seed or pit we have cast forth nature's new life, awaiting to be transformed and born in places she, as a single tree and branch, could not have reached.

Would I, with the same wisdom, drink deeply the nectar of life and giggle and savor when the sweet juices trickle from the corner of my mouth and down my chin.  And when my teeth and lips, as they surely will at times, rest against the bitter pits and hardness of pain, loss and lostness, abandonment and confusion, may my heart smile as she releases the pit back to the sweet Hands of Life to be transformed into another sweet juicy tree of Life.  And as the pit, a seed, is willingly released and planted, to let my tongue dance upon my lips, gathering the drops of nectar still clinging.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie to deep for tears.

~Wordsworth

Humming prayer

I am so much a child. The morning coffee, the birds and the sun.  I had to share. Having no one I brought outside my impulse buy of a toy horse, posed standing up with the feel of power his feet pawing the air.

Holding the image up to the morning sun just seemed the thing to do. And then I giggled at myself, with a whisper of 'my gosh you are a dork.'

A car went flying by, way too fast, probably late for work. Open neighbors' windows released the sound of a husband yelling at his wife and another the sound of a child and mother not very pleased with other. I recalled the young man standing in front of the house last night screaming at his girl friend on the cell phone and bad words flying through my open windows. I thought of the clerk who despite my best efforts simply refused to smile. I felt the holes in the wholeness of my heart and body. 

As I pondered, the little horse danced in the air, and upon the porch windowsill. The birds and wind chime became his orchestra accompanied by my soft gentle hum and prayer of peace to all whose images and voices I felt and saw.  Another hum for any who might see my little scrich, a hummed prayer that in the midst of your busy day, you could come and play with life, pause to hold up the silliness and wonder in your heart, and giggle to yourself, 'my gosh I am a dork.'  I'll leave my little horse here, in case you need a friend to play.

Shedded Gifts

I am not wise. I struggle to see. No Arthurian sword sways in my hands. I see only little things, and listen to the whispers of nature's beauty, with a prayer that my presence and words honor sweet Life.

Perhaps that is why I gather feathers. Reminders of wings that continue to fly even in shedding their gifts of flight.

Gifted Sky

I have never wondered whether there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  The treasure was in the gift, the possibility that exists with each drop of rain and the delight when potential is gifted reality.

I know what my day has held... as you think of your day and the night awaiting.... from my sky to yours, it is the same sky and likewise, my friend, so is the rainbow.

And should you doubt, that the rainbow is yours, a gentle reminder, look and see.... she has gifted two.

Waiting Eyes

Sometimes it takes all my willpower to stop myself from going to the local shelter and bringing home every abandoned dog and cat.  In Minnesota my friends would call on Sundays, between 2-4pm, to make sure I was home - that was when the local shelter would have an open house near my house.  I look at my little Dibley, and think of how she fit in my coat pocket when I went with the rescue group to a puppy mill and I carried her out...and home with me.  I think of how, though abandoned, neglected and abused the animals are, they look through their cages, eyes filled with hope and their tails wagging every time someone walks by- despite being ignored and abandoned, they still.... simply want to love and give.

And if my heart can be so tender, and if nature has created such unselfish, loving and forgiving hearts in these small creatures.... what must the heart of the sweet Hands of Life feel when She waits, abandoned and forgotten behind the mind's cage of fear or unworthiness.

The Constant Darkened Light

I sat in my little chair looking to the sky, hoping to see the meteors. The neighborhood was totally quiet while all others were sleeping. It was, after all, just after 2 a.m. I stared and stared and not a one.  Soon my eyes wandered and I noticed an almost perfect circle of stars around the moon. A mandala of black drawing your eyes to the center where the luminous glow beckoned you to enter.  Lingering in the mandala, contentment made a gentle bookmark. The true beauty and wonder is not in the fleeting moment of meteors passing by, but in the faithful constancy of the moon and stars, always present, always there, no matter if you bother to look or seek, their light always waits to bathe you in soft.

After an hour or so I packed up my little chair, coffee time was calling.  Pausing I lifted my hand to block the brightness of the street light.  For one who cannot see to drive in the dark, street lights are surely a gift.  The blocking of my hand made the night sky even darker, and there, ever so quickly, a meteor danced across the sky.  My heart gently created a bookmark - sometimes you need the dark to see the light.

"Inside every human chest is a  hand, but it has nothing to write with [until] Love moves further in...."  ~ Rumi

Ginger Snap Thread

To know or be around me is to know or be with a child playing dress up in a tattered weary and old body. Sometimes I think I am like Peter Pan and have refused to grow up. With a giggle, Life conspired to make me an adult first and then I became a child.  I think, perhaps, I appreciate the gift more having received it in reverse.

And so the child dips her Ginger Snap cookie into the adult's cup of coffee. The adult sighs as her eyes refuse to see the words she needs to read.  The child giggles and slurps the soaked Ginger Snap cookie and while talking with her mouth full, observes to the adult, "You can see...maybe you're just learning to read."

“Sometimes,' said Pooh, 'the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”  - A.A. Milne

Reflecting Choice

And if everything is a reflection of myself, my soul and heart, a part of all I see....

Then let my body dance like the waving fern limbs, supple, bending, swaying in the breeze.

Then let my spirit simply stretch her wings with no thought of how, and soar towards the heavens.

Then let my heart crack open like the butterfly's cocoon, the oak's acorn, the earth to blade of grass, and life pour forth.

So many images, aspirations and affirmations of what I could be and perhaps am.  My blurred eyes gently remind me... a reflection requires you to see.  Aspirations, affirmations and desires are the nectar but first you have to open your eyes, look and choose what you see.

To Breathe the Dawn

The night held on to the ecstasy of dawn waiting to release. They danced as the hush of the darkness surrender quivered in the yielding.  The wind danced through the trees like ocean waves in the distance. In quiet stillness my eyes closed, my body anticipating the touch. Her footsteps drew closer, my breath slowed awaiting her arrival.  At last, the touch pushed against my body.  I inhaled the wind. Her coolness chilled my lungs. The freshness of her breath filled with the fragrance of all the leaves she had touched filled my heart.  And when I could inhale no more, I released my breath.  Exhaling, Life and my soul gave birth to a new breath, that of my heart joined with the Wind and accepted into the sweet Hands of Life. Opening my eyes I saw the dawn's blush and sighed to think that the wind now carried our breath through the trees, to touch nature and life with the whisper'd  exhale of 'Peace.'

Thorns and souls

Quietly I ponder the difference between the thorns of a rose bush and those of a cactus. You know how quickly the delicate petals of a rose fall to the ground.  Once opened so quickly they drop.  The thorns of a rose bush point downward, as if to point to their gentle loss and beauty so brief.  The cactus with its long defiant thorns point upwards. The cactus thorns point upward defying anyone or anything to touch either the gentle bloom or their petals which hold the precious water.  Rose bushes require tending and depend upon the rains of life to sustain them, and they grow into full bushes.  The cactus has learned to survive in drought, heat and hardened waterless earth, so often in a solitary stance.

Perhaps the rose offers such a lasting sweet fragrance, wide long arms, and downward pointing thorns, to remind us how precious and sweet, yet brief, life can be.  That we must tend, water and prune, yet, even with the tending, the delicate petals will fall.  Acceptance. The cactus in drought, with its oasis of water filled green petals and upward pointing thorns, remind us to look upward and mindful of where we walk but fearing not the heated hardened earth and drought nor the quite solitude of presence, life is green and even dryness yields a flower. Faithfulness.

To walk mindfully knowing both the brevity and steadfastness of Life. To walk mindfully seeing both the upward thorns of the cactus and the fallen petals of the rose.  To look upward towards the sun of Life that sometimes feels as if it is baking and drying up our souls, and yet we see the blooms and our thirst is quenched.  And, with a giggle and smile, should we lose our walk lose its mindfulness, Life sends a sharp poke through our "soles" to bring us back to attention.  

I heard her whisper

A simple bookmarked thread, so I will remember.

To remember sitting upon the earth with my feet dancing in the lake's water

And a bubble asked a leaf if she could come out and play.

And a shell, appeared, a treasured gift to remind me of those I used to collect, while walking with the sand and waves along the precious Gulf.

With the shell upon my heart, I laid upon the earth and felt her warmth caress my back. Looking up the sun was playing hide and seek with the clouds and trees.

I am a simple woman who sees such simple things. I have nothing profound to say, just a simple afternoon when the little child in me, like the bubble, just wanted to play.

Seek the sun

I knelt down upon the ground and stared at the oak leaf with its clinging cluster of three acorns. Looking up at all the oak trees I wondered which one was planting her seeds.  They were all oak trees yet not one was an exact replica of the other.  Within each acorn was thousands of years of the essence of oak trees yet how they grew, the dance of their limbs and the bending or straightness of their trunks would reflect their own uniqueness that would develop as they responded to life and the seasons of change. I pondered the seasons awaiting the acorns, so much awaited their cracking open until at last, neither shell nor earth could keep them from knowing the sun ...and change.

Standing up the flower's petals whispered. Delicate, soft and gentle unlike the solid oaks. Both flower and oak will forever hold their essence, their choices, change and loss inflicted and change and loss chosen.  One cannot cut out the past or what was.  But in the strength of the tall oaks and the defiance of their tiny acorns who thought themselves to be mighty oaks, and the gentle folding of a flower's petals, one lesson, one whisper, one thread would forever be constant... Life is unfolding, seek the sun.

For the Rains to Come

I need to go to the store. I am almost out of coffee and creamer.  I cannot blame the coffee for being bitter.  I cannot blame the cup for being empty.  If I do not reach, walk towards while opening my hands to receive the gifts, I cannot blame the sweet Hands of Life for not hearing the longings of my heart and soul.

And as I walked a new mountain path, beyond my path, lay a forest and earth ravaged by fire. The earth dry and parched needing rain knowing even that need will cause more scarring upon the scorched earth, but rain it needs. There, clinging to a barren branch, ever so tiny in size, was a small clinging red thread. Like the scorched earth, my body made the journey seeking healing knowing in the granting of hope would come the rain.  

Every choice I make is a choice of regret, grievance and hopelessness or a miracle. Today I let get go of regret, grievance and hopelessness and choose the miracle. [paraphrased from "A Course in Miracles"]

Come Morning

 Wisdom be thou my Lover. Understanding my Partner. You have called my eyes to see. In fear, they were shut and later closed. I open them now for you. Disrobe whatever fear remains so that I may stand before you naked, as I am. As I was. Wisdom be thou my Lover. Understanding my Partner.
     I shall not be arrayed in white. Long ago innocence and I parted ways. But be not deceived by what you do not see. Fear not, my Lover, that I have given away that which was yours. Uncovered and undressed, my eyes, though shut and closed have never lost sight of thee.
     Come morning, may my eyes be opened by Wisdom’s kiss. May my body be lifted by Understanding’s outstretched hands. Awakened and alive I greet the day and bathe in the ocean of Love.
     Wisdom be thou my Lover. Understanding my Partner. And Love the breath of both.

Racing to the Starting Line

I remember my first marathon.  Because I was a competitor, only against myself, I stood at the rear of hundreds of runners who were competing against time.  I had to strain to see the Starting Line, waiting for the gun to go off.  The first couple of minutes of the run were spent trying to get to the Starting Line so time and the marathon would begin. You could feel the heart beats and energy of hundreds of others racing faster than their legs could ever hope to carry them. Heart beats that would soon settle into the rhythm of solitude, their pounding feet and the ticking of the stop watch.


I was racing against myself, my own weaknesses and fear, my own will that said "I can" and the same will that said "I cannot."  I didn't need a starting gun booming through the air. The sound of the gun exploded when I made the decision one day, to run just a mile, trusting the Starting Line would be there.


Why the picture of an old barn standing out in the mesa's plateau and a worn dirt path? Even though I cannot see the Starting Line, and feel somehow I am now racing against myself and time, a reminder, a thread, a whisper that someone, another presence was here, no matter the solitude of the run or time.... it whispers, "I'm still here."  The Starting Line.

To Steer the Wind

Have you ever felt a house sigh? The summer has been quite hot, and the un-air conditioned house has only one east facing window to let air in. The wind seldom blows from the east.  This morning, before dawn, as I opened the window, the curtains danced and a morning breeze streamed through the house, and I heard her sigh. Such a little gift, unseen, offering a release that made her sigh.


I will never be a Mother Teresa, Ghandi nor wise and all loving.  But even mud puddles can become a canvas for dropped petals of blue.  Some gifts people offer are magnificent.   Others offer simple gentle acts of presence, a touch to say 'I am here,' a soft exhale to breathe another's name in prayer and thought ....  and like the gentle Hand that turned the breeze towards the East, such simple gifts cause the house, the heart, and Life to sigh.

Tadpole heart

They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. But what creates the first step?  Have you ever pondered the act of walking? You get up from the table and walk to the kitchen, you walk to the copier, you walk to your car, you walk to this and from that.  You do not tell your legs, 'ok, let's go, time to walk, left, right, left, right.' You simply get up and go. Somewhere, without thinking, you mind had a thought that created a message to your legs and off you go. The mind didn't say, 'Would you like to start with the left or right leg this time?' 'Would you like to do a bit of the hokey pokey first?' 'Walk forward or backwards?' You had a thought, and without thinking the body obeyed. Sometimes we walk into a wall, like a battery operated car, forgetting to tell our legs to turn.  And then there are those walks that the emotions and events are so heavy that you literally do have to consciously tell your legs to move.  You almost have to will them 'left, right, left, right.'  Back to the original thread...what creates the first step? A thought? But I thought "kitchen" not "walk" and yet off I went, walking. Tis not the destination, it is the intent.  


Sometimes I picture the heart like a little tadpole squirting around in the lake with only a tiny tail propelling it. Later you see tiny little legs and then they begin to grow. Eventually the entire body changes and a frog is now squirting about the surface and on the bank.  To let my heart legs emerge so, like my physical legs, the unconscious and knowing intent begins the journey .... to love, to awaken, to be compassionate, to trust, to dare, to leap and risk, to reach out and to reach in... to simply carry me there. And then I smile, the legs are there.......... awaiting the intent. Should my heart, like my legs, lead me into a wall, freeze and immobilize in fear, to not blame the heart, but reawaken my intent. 


“Don't give in to your fears. If you do, you won't be able to talk to your heart.” 
― Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Sundogs

Sundogs. I do not know where the name came from or what it means. They are called sundogs in Minnesota, rainbows or prisms floating inside a cloud. Some have been so spectacular that they literally pulled my car to the road's shoulder so I could stare in wonder.  The morning's coffee outside gifted such a sight.  First one I've seen since I left Minnesota. I scurried inside to get my camera only to find it gone.  Their presence is fleeting, a simple gift, then gone.


After my muttered "rats" I pondered, how sundogs are like so many experiences in life. We want to capture them, hold on to them, have proof we really did overcome or for a brief moment felt ourselves to be alive.  In our hurry to understand, analyze, figure it out, gather the proof, and file it away in a scrapbook under "I remember when..." we fail to sit and simply accept the gift, to drink the morning coffee and actually taste and feel the warmth, fragrance and steam instead of guzzling or making a dusty scrapbook fat with frozen memories.  We want to share and in sharing find the words themselves are so inadequate as to bore the other....unless they too have seen a sundog.   We do not trust the same Giver that gifted the sundog to also gift another who understands, has seen, and needs only glimpse the look of wonder in your eyes without words, to see the sundog in your heart. And if there is no one to share the wonder, to join my heart in celebration of the unseen who also saw, and humbly accept the prism'd thread, for now, meant just for me.




"Why am I here?" "To create the world in every moment." ~ Deepak Chopra, The Book of Secrets

Paths no more

And when choices made for me or those I make - whether intentional or not - send me to the path on the left and all else moves forward on the other path, know that in the realm where hearts of light meet, in the absence of fear, there are no paths.  Forever the journey together.