Today I am on 24 hour call with the volunteer group for
domestic violence. Today two feedings for the birds and squirrels the blizzard
snow has not completely melted and they had a frigid night and early morning.
Today, during meditation, I asked the sweet Hands of Life, that the calls would
be silent, not because I do not want to respond, but that the need would not be
there. Today I longed to walk but will wait for warmth and better paths and
have to remain within a cell phone range.
Today I
wanted to honor last night’s longing to sit and write. So many threads waiting
the loom’s weaving. Little sprouts from seeds planted in clay pots, pushing
their way through the soil. I have been like a new parent, counting stems and
leaves instead of fingers and toes. Some have emerged through the earth’s
seams. Another, I call Atlas Shrugged, pushed up only to be weighted by a clod
of earth. I watched as the tiny stem lifted the clod on top of its clumped fist
of two leaves. The next morning, the clod was tossed to the side creating a
lean-too, beneath which was another tiny sprout ready to emerge. Courtesy of
Atlas, it would do so free of the clod. Do I write of the metaphors and threads
from such tiny growths? Do I write of these little miracles that make me laugh
and my heart sigh?
Do I
write of the wonder of how snow and ice melt when the temperature is 27 degrees
but the sun is shining? Below freezing… water freezes at 32 degrees… so why is
the blizzard’s snow and ice melting? If I fill the ice trays with water and put
them in the freezer the ice becomes water. Even colder outside and the ice and
snow are melting… beneath the presence of the sun.
Do I
write of the image that remains embedded in my mind, longing to be developed,
to push through the earthen mind and sprout? The image of becoming the chalice,
no longer the cup bearer. To see the transformation that I AM a chalice. I hold
the light of communion with the All That Is…the sweet Hands of Life. My body is
the chalice containing the light, love, joy and energy of Life, swirling and
spilling, rolling like waves as I move and experience each moment. No longer do
I see myself as simply the bearer of the cup, the sacred cup that must be
handed to another who is worthy. No longer am I simply the servant who bears
the cup. I AM the chalice. In truth, no one can carry the experiences of my
life, the lessons, the scars, the joys, the love learned, parted, renounced and
yet never absent that make up my chalice. No one can carry the gratitude nor
laugh the way I do. No one will see the
world or experience nature the way of this chalice. Only I AM worthy of
carrying this chalice. In carrying the chalice I become the chalice. That
union, that union alone creates the unique experience of Life expressed through
me. Servant and holder. Human and sacred. Bearer and embraced. The liturgy complete
only in the union of cupbearer and chalice, as me.
Or do I write,
as I sit and look out at melting snow and ice that should be frozen, and the
birds flocking to feed, of the shadowed Canadian Goose feather that fell behind
the white Pelican feather both from the lake which I would love to walk this
day? A squirrel hops across the snow that is melting, reaches with his tiny
little hands to place a peanut in his mouth. Now he scampers, with the peanut dangling
like an oversized cigar. Visually, he stops just above the white Pelican feather
at a mound of snow with slivers of grass fingers sticking up, and begins to
bury the peanut rather than eating. I do
not know about the writing part, but of all the threads, I shall sit with my
hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee and ponder shadow feathers of black
and white. I shall ponder a peanut buried into snow that should be frozen but
is giving drink to the earth, and see what little sprout will emerge in the
earthen chalice of my heart.
Namaste sweet Life…. I
bow to you.
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