Faces of the Moon

She called from Missouri because she knew the moon is precious to me. The moon there, an hour ahead of mountain time, was full and red and almost caused her to drive off the road so amazing was the sight.  I stood at the picture window, watching my moon tree. The tree that always gently holds the moon as she rises and lifts her into the night sky. The clouds were too many. Her face I would not see.

And as I pondered how the same moon has one face elsewhere and another here, my eye caught the reflection of the prism in the window touched by the street light.  The prism that in the morning dances with the sun creating rainbows on my walls.  Tonight, I could not see the moon but the Light, timeless, never hidden, shown through to gift the gift of light and sight.  The sweet sweet Hands of Life.... Love and Light.

Perhaps

Perhaps it is what the artist or sculptor feels to see their Heart unveiled upon the canvas or a block of marble redefined. Perhaps it is what the poet feels as their heart flows through their fingers and squiggles of ink become the voice of the soul. Perhaps it is..... but I am neither an artist, sculptor nor poet. Perhaps their message to all is to simply reach and release...Love will meet you there.

Site of Sight

Often considered the windows of the soul, perhaps the eyes are not so much windows through which we see but mirrors reflecting what we feel and believe.  Through the eyes we scribe labels, see challenges, cannots, objects to fear and treasure, walls and doors all framed and colored by the iris of our mind.

To take these eyes of mine, growing more blurred and teasing shadows of floaters, to walk the mountain and lake's path, a broken bottle whispered to my heart that my eyes did not see. Using the camera to see, the image of tiny twigs reflected in the glass mirrored my sight.  Sitting I pondered the image, blurred yet somehow distinct.

As the calming warmed my heart, I realized the whisper was not a voice but the eyes of the heart.  Unconditioned by language, beliefs, labels or perceptions, knowing only unconditional Love, tis only the eyes of the Heart that truly see.  The timeless, perfect eyes of the Heart were the whisper.  And as I left the image of glass, earth and reflection, I pondered the thread of abiding in the Heart and the Eyes of Clarity, Vision and Infinity. To abide in the Site of Sight. SOS. Not a call of distress.  A Being. A call of de-stress. The Site of Sight. Abiding in the Heart to see through the Eyes of Love.

"Her eyes are homes of silent prayers" ~ Alfred Tennyson

Just Another Day

When one lives alone what makes one day a holiday compared to other days? If stores were not closed, traffic perhaps heavier and no mail delivery, would one day be different from another?

As the moon slipped beneath the mountains and the sun began to ascend, I gathered my little dog and we went to the mountains' lake. Walking in the silence of our footsteps upon the gravel, the silkened night sheet was gently covered by the blue dawn's quilt and the day, just another day, awakened.  Amazed at the magical blue of the sky and whiteness of the clouds the sound of geese turned my eyes.  A flock of geese flew down towards the lake but did not land.  Flying just above the water, suspended in the air, the morning sun gifted a sight I had never seen in all the seasons of migration I have watched.  There, upon the surface were the shadows of the geese.  I have seen the water splash and ripple as their wings and feet touched and danced but I have never seen the shadows move between the water and the geese.  Having seen the shadows fly without creating a single ripple, at last, with songs of joy the geese landed and found their rest.

When one lives alone what makes one day a holiday compared to other days? The sun's touch warming your cold cheeks and nose. The sound of graveled foot stepped silence. The sight of shadows dancing beneath water and winged geese.  The feel of the earth as you fall to your knees with your hands to your heart as your neck bends so your head can join your hands. The whispered voice of 'thank you' as tears fall and dance upon the earth.  Just another day. Another day of giving thanks.

Namaste to all. Happy Thanksgiving

"Men must live and create. Live to the point of tears." ~ Albert Camus

Thread of Night

A magical day, no matter its contents, the magic rests in that you were present and part of it. And now, as the moon dances her way across the star glittered sky, the Magic prepares to turn the page to yet another day, first kissing Her fingers which are placed upon your eyes for sleep and then quietly to turn the page as you dream. To awaken in the morn to another page scribed in magic contained in a book that bears not the words, "The End."

Filling Choice

"Your joy can fill you only as deeply as your sorrow has carved you" (K. Gibran).

As deeply as I treasure Gibran's writings, innately this passage has troubled me for it seemed to suggest that in order to know joy we had to be carved by sorrow. Were we not born to know joy? Why then must sorrow cut and hollow our souls?

Watching a child reach for what she wants, pondering that one of the first muscular movements an infant learns is reaching, falling to my knees upon the lake path reaching in tear'd joy towards the gifted feathers, Life whispered the quote in a different voice. All spiritual, religious and inspirational wisdoms speak of being filled. Even enlightenment is a filling.  One cannot fill what is full. The vessel must be emptied. In its emptiness the vessel reaches and draws in its filling. It is not a carving. It is the hands of yearning reaching into the clay of my heart and soul's vessel, emptying all else so that the rivers, the blush of sun and moon, the dance of wind and grass, the touch of another's heart and eyes, the One Song of Love may stream in and fill. 

Two threads remain. In emptiness we reach...in reaching we are filled.  In emptiness we reach...in reaching we are filled...by what we choose.  

A Child

And the sacred whispers I have no off limits, no proper or must nots. Climb upon my window sills and look with wonder. Come my Child, be a child and look with awe, delight, innocence and delight upon my stained glass windows and know you are loved. Know, you are loved. Come my Child, be a child.............

One Song

The word "universe" can be divided into "uni" which means "one" and "verse" which means "song."  We look around the universe and 'see' what our eyes have been trained and conditioned to see, attaching labels and perceptions.  In truth, the universe is but One Song... Love.  If you think of the ripples a stone cast into a lake creates, rippling outward are circles from the center, such is the universe. One song emanating from the center...Love.  To begin there with the eyes of the Heart and behold the essence of creation, the only 'label' that in truth exists, is to sing the song of creation, to know our breath as the Breath of Life. Love.  

As simple as that.

Vacant Fullness

Perhaps to enter a house empty of life, presence, filled with dust and memories, vacated of all who created the memories is the same as entering one's heart in meditation.  Your thoughts ramble, dart and zoom, some quiet, others making your heart race and then you find your breath, your stillness, your centering peace.  To look around at what was created and to know in your centering thoughts the key is that all was created.  What is not, however, created, but existed even before creation is Love, compassion, the desire and yearning to be known, dwell and abide in communion.  To see the unseen. To touch the invisible. And in doing so, to be wrapped in the very tapestry that created all.  To meditate and return to the heart absent of all "things" created knowing only the source....Love.  I wanted to go somewhere with this thought but yet another bookmark, a thread for the Loom.  Til then.... Keeper of my Heart and Breath.... for the Love you gifted and taught, thank you, still.

The Man

My father today, began his new journey. His work upon this earth was done.  And yet, it is not my father that calls forth this thread, it is the man.  It is the man, imperfect yet undaunted by his imperfections that gave me a strength I might not have known and in a way taught me to be gentle with my own. It is the man he was, though often not eye to eye did we see, but somehow we managed still to see.  A father yes, who will be missed, but it was the man, imperfect, loving, flawed yet true to himself that taught my heart to forgive, love, and the sweet sadness of missing another. One can say we only have one father..... but it was the man he was that taught me to see and seek 'fathers' and 'mothers' and 'brothers' and 'sisters' in all others. And so to the man, Namaste my friend, my Dad.... I bow my body and my neck, with open hands to my heart in gratitude for the man who shaped the woman that I am.  I will miss you.

Love,
your proud daughter
Monday November 12, 2012
p.s. you are free

Dervish'd Certainty

Perhaps when life doesn't make sense, we do not feel we are moving forward and yet we know we are.... maybe, giggle, it means like Rumi, or a child in ecstatic joy, we are simply caught up in the spinning dervish, twirling, and dancing joyfully with Life and Light. And what we think is fear or feel as 'confusion' or 'uncertainty' is nothing more than our eyes unable to catch up with our dancing hearts and spirits.

cherish the dance............

Mountain paths

The paths of the mountains weave and turn flowing upward like the rivers down to nurture the mesas. The rhythm of Life.  Setting the dream, the intent surrenders the how.  I only have to continue the path. The best trees and beauty are often found on the unplanned paths of nature. What will BE, what IS, remains unbound by time, calendars and unforeseen events. Love is boundless. I choose Love. I choose Flow worrying not about the path.

There is no such thing as being blindsided, disruptions, detours, nor denial. They are simply whispers to look around and discover the unseen flower, tree or the reflection of the sun streaming through the dense forest or mountain path. A gentle whisper...."Here." Choose Love. Choose Life. Choose abundance. Choose Laughter. Sweet mercy, choose to See.

To answer

When someone calls our name, it is common for us to respond, almost unconsciously, "Yes."
When you think of it, Life, God, Source, the Sweet Hands of Life, whatever name you attach to the source and creator of Life, has put everyone, you, and I, here for a reason. And with our arrival into this world, our first cry trying to find our breath... called our name. Our response was our first breath, we said "yes" and we became Life.  Yes. Life. ...The Voice has never ceased to call our name ... with every breath.  To be an infant again, and in total surrender, answer "yes."

Grace of Soft

It seems sometimes that so much of what we see, reactions, conversations, beliefs, media, whatever, challenges even the most determined heart too remain soft. So much easier, it would seem, to just go with the "flow." But... still....

This morning a whisper to go and walk and take my little bag of corn meal. To walk, not in nature, but along the busy streets as commuters frantically rushed to work. You could see their eyes and faces, even the way they held the steering wheel. As they passed a whisper of 'soft.'   

After a bit I came to a large cemetery with patches of trees untouched, and little winding paths. Wandering through their maze, I came upon a pile of tree trunks, branches, and trees that had been cut and tossed out of sight. Standing and thinking of all the clearing to create such an area, I noticed a cloth flower from the cemetery had somehow found its way through the trees and rested upon the pile of weathered limbs and trunks.  A gentle branch held it in place. The ritual of leaving corn meal is a Native American tradition - when something from the earth is taken, corn meal is left as a gift of thanks. Kneeling I sprinkled my corn meal and offered my gift of thanks to the flower. 

A different kind of flow. One I can live with. I know many don't understand. Simply the grace of soft. 

This too

In all mythologies, creation stories and in every culture, stories of God/gods becoming human exist. They become human to experience only what these frail human bodies can feel. The touch of another's hand, the presence and voice of another. The experience of weariness, fear, uncertainty transformed into Love, Joy, Life, gratitude, abundance and Light.  And so we are here.... the Source of Light, Love, Joy and Creation journeying upon this earth.

No matter the storm that has brought destruction or loss, no matter whether from nature, our own mis-beliefs or those of others.... this too shall pass. More importantly... this too shall transform.

Perfected Senses

This morning, well before dawn, I stood outside and witnessed the moon encircled by a cloud of light. A perfect circle of luminosity around Her own.  Such a pondering the sight gifted. 

Time is not running out or down. Time is timeless and cannot, is not owned or defined.  For 58 years I have never smelled a fragrance not even my precious coffee brewing or a flower, food has no taste nor have I breathed through my nose and my eyes they do not see. 

These are not statements of lack. We can insert any "sense" of what is "not." But as I sit and ponder the dawn's timelessness, the whisper of Love's perfection called. And with each bead of the mala, in Love's perfection I knew the fragrance of rain upon the grass, wet earth, a rose and tasted earth's abundance inhaling Her breath. The senses communicate to our body. Their Perfection, however, is embodied in Love.  

And as I looked at the moon within the circle, to hear the whisper “can you sense the sun?”

To remember I have “no time”…. I am, Life IS timeless.  To remember my senses are perfected IN Love.  And IN my Timelessness and Perfection, I am BeComing.

All

To awaken shortly after midnight, not knowing why, and discovering during the two hours I had slept, giggle, I had gathered my gratitude stone in my stutter hand and was holding it.  This quote was my first “People usually consider walking on water or in thin air a miracle. But I think the real miracle is not to walk either on water or in thin air, but to walk on earth. Every day we are engaged in a miracle which we don't even recognize: a blue sky, white clouds, green leaves, the black, curious eyes of a child -- our own two eyes. All is a miracle ~ Thich Nhat Hanh.   And ALL includes me, you, All.

And this evening as tween time fell upon the earth, closing up the house a feather I should not have been able to see called to my eyes.  A perfect white feather, but you could see a faint hint of gray in the light.  I cannot think which of the birds could have left such a gift. 

“All is a miracle” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh.   And ALL includes me, you, All.

To Turn the Page

Sometimes in the vastness of everything, the comings and goings, the doings and demands, the texture of life can get lost.  A child will always make a bee line for the lake’s water with a frantic parent running behind calling their name.  An elderly person walking slowly with their four legged child speaking quietly and if you look you’ll see such softness in their eyes. The leaves, caught in autumn’s breeze dance and prepare to take flight only to crash against a metal fence. You can almost see, in their pause, their bewilderment, having taken flight, and then they rest upon the ground, content. 

So much life in front of us, and in Life’s infinity, never an end. There is no hand that writes “The End” only the gentle touch that turns the page and continues to whisper the next chapter. Winter is coming, and all retreat inside. The season of reflection and quiet.  Would that we carry the winter’s rhythm each day and see the textures of Life and Love.  Maybe, I wonder, if we did, the hurts and sorrows we cause or suffer might diminish …. Having learned to see Life’s little things, to turn the page.…the true tapestry of Life….Love.