Do not love me anyway

Surrounded by tires and car things, I waited while my car was serviced. I was suddenly jolted by the chorus sung on the radio station, "You love me anyway." Each time the chorus repeated I felt the same jolt. My little heart stomped her feet and I went aside and looked to the sky, the trees, felt the vibration of cars driving by and the wind and sun upon my face. That is wrong! "Anyway" implies judgment. "Anyway" smacks of there is a right or wrong, a good enough and not good enough. No, I do not want to be loved anyway.

The Sweet Hands of Life do not love me anyway. I do not want to be loved anyway. If there must be an adjective, then let it be out. I want to be loved out. I want to be loved out of my complacency. I want to be loved out of my fear, disbelief, sense of unworthiness. I want to be loved out of my comfort zone. I want to be loved out of my warm cozy house and walk in nature even the bitter cold in which she stands. I want to be loved out of comfortable air conditioning and feel the sun melt and drip upon my body during the heat. I want to be loved out of rigidness and shields. 

To be loved anyway is a condition and subject to change. To be loved out is a verb. To be loved out is to move to, move towards, it is flow, it is giving and receiving, it is unconditional. To be loved out, is the ultimate vulnerability. Do not love me anyway. Love me out. 

I will love myself out.

Uncapped

I opened a journal that has amazing photos of the sky for pages. Entries would be like writing in the sky. I open the journal and giggle. What would possess me to buy a journal when even to sign my name to papers or a check is an effort for eyes that cannot see and hands that tremor and stutter? To ponder a mystical path is to imagine a path of magic, images never seen, trees never touched, grasses and earth beckoning the souls of my feet, and plants reaching for the touch of my fingers. A mystical path that transforms illusion into reality. To step on the path is to leave the world of illusion - labels, fears, restrictions, judgment - and enter the reality of infinite possibilities from which one can choose.It is the path of choice. It is the path of sight. The pages whisper trust. The pen whispers embrace. My hands whisper dance, walk. My eyes whisper visible. I take off the cap and write but one word. Stroke the page. Close the journal. As I place the journal back on the shelf, my heart whispers "yes you are" and giggles. And so beginning week two I shall take with me the practical baby step of one word.....worthy.

Extremities Touching

Walking back to the car yesterday a whisper turned my head to see a rock. Not that unusual but it looked like an egg or a little image of the earth as viewed from outer space. I picked it up and could feel the sun's warmth it had gathered inside spreading into my hand. Together we shared our warmth as I finished my walk. This morning as I sat in meditation I placed it against my heart and could feel my heart beat through its shape against my hand. The two images bound in my mind. Holding it in my hand yesterday my finger tips could feel warmth. Holding it against my heart my finger tips could feel my heart beat. To hold nature close, gently and with gratitude my extremities touch, feel, circulate and pulse. Is that not the way of nature? Solid, liquid, vapor and in-between all dance together as one calling for our embrace. And when I embrace the union of wholeness, balance, rhythm, ritual fill my Self and in turn the Universe. My touch of nature touches the extremities of all about me. As Life, people, thoughts, situations, and choices encounter me, may I have the grace of the rock to offer only warmth and the pulse of the heart to each extremity reaching out.  May the world I offer every thing be like the world of nature. Extremities touching and going inward.

Life delicious

R - ritual. After an illness, I am having to re-train my body to eat...and giggle, at almost 59, I soooo do not know how to cook, but alas, that is another story. I have discovered oranges. My orange has become a treat. The explosion of juice, the dribbling down my fingers and chin, the juice, the freshness and drink it offers has delighted my soul and body these last two weeks. Eating my orange has become a ritual. A joy I look forward to like the fox and the Little Prince...I have been tamed. As I peeled one slice of the orange, and giggled to feel it squirt my face, I thought I noticed something but could not identify. By the second slice I could see. My eyes were, without awareness, looking at how many slices were left, three....two...and then one. As I ate the orange and delighted in each bite, my eyes were looking with a mix of fondness and yearning at the last slice when the explosion of fresh and juice would be over. 

I have always walked to the rhythm of the seasons. My age is equated to the seasons (232 1/3). The R of Ritual, the grace of nature today shall be to notice the deliciousness of Life that unfold. To be cognizant and aware of the squirts and dribbles, the rhythm and juice. To approach each moment with the ritual of my little orange.... and a soft eye always upon the slices yet to be knowing in Nature, there is no count down. Nature counts forward...always fresh. The R of Ritual and the delicious  freshness of Life. 

May all your chins dribble today with Life.

Where are my arms

The morning meditation, such giggles.The guided meditation was to extend your arms and feel/see Life/yourSelf/the Divine in front of you, seeing you, holding your hands.  This morning my hands extended, I realized the space between myself and Self, The Friend. My meditation with mala beads, so precious and dear, to follow my breath rise and fall with each bead and the space between inhale and exhale so infinite, and yet this space did not feel the same.  Was it the space or the position? Feeling the hands clasped together, I drew my arms in towards my body and felt the space closed. It was not the space, it was the position. The position had been one of reaching as if I had to ask, like Dicken's Oliver Twist, reaching out and asking "More porridge please...." No need to ask, no need to reach. I AM completely already, now, all that I would dare to reach for and more. 

And so  my practical steps upon this ever so mythical path, will be awareness of where are my arms.... Are they reaching not realizing they already have? Are they creating space between me and  the Sweet Hands of Life telling my heart it is not worthy? Are they creating space between myself and others thinking they could take from me, hurt me, or their judgments would create fear? To ask today, where are my arms.....and to remember the touch, the softness, the immersion I felt when I drew my arms in and felt the space of union. Oh sweet mercy, isn't this path amazing?

Migration's Rest

The sound of the geese thundered around the hills and mountains surrounding the lake. Long before my eyes saw the flock you could hear them approaching. Like a train rumbling in the distance you could feel them and hear their signal'd chorus encouraging each other in flight. At last the flock, tiny like butterflies then growing in size and becoming geese with wings and necks stretched towards the lake. I stood as frozen as the layered lake watching.

As they landed the hush eclipsed the thunder of their calls in flight. Silence. As their winged bodies touched the tiny patch of water encircled with eyes there was nothing but silence. Their journey was, for now, at rest. In silence only the energy and communion of their bodies floating in the tiny patch of water was all that spoke. Only the whisper of my heart breathing aloud could be heard... "To know the silence of the migration's rest."

"Wisdom is knowing that I am nothing,

Love is knowing that I am everything,

and in between the two my life moves"

~Nisargadatta

Fresh

Thank you Sweet Life for the lady at the store who taught me how to pick our oranges. So long since I experienced cutting open an orange. The juice dripping down my fingers, lips and chin. Fresh. To feel fresh swirling and dribbling. The explosion of taste and sensations.

Thank you for the walk despite... No. I will not write DESPITE the weather. I will not write despite the weather. Why would I write despite the weather? Is not the weather the same as the orange? Is not the wind and cold embodied within the orange? Did not the tree drink deeply of the wind and cold and imprint the sound and texture within the same explosion of taste, freshness and joy? Is not the juice that dribbled down my lips, chin and fingers the same as the wind and cold that numbed my lips, chin, and fingers? Why would I write despite as if part of your creation was succulent and another part to be confronted in "despite"? No, I will not write despite.

For the juice of life, for the joy of cutting open a slice of life, peeling back the texture of every season past, and the fresh release upon my body, my heart, and my spirit. For the joy of Life dribbling upon my body and the taste of eternity. Thank you.

Gifts for Why

I ponder the "why" Life and Light chose this body. Did it wonder the touch of a cloud's shadow upon the flesh? Did it long to hear the song of gravel beneath these feet? Did it imagine looking up to see a hawk in flight or the dance of trees with the wind? Maybe, the yearning was to feel the body prone upon both earth and ice, eyes and arms stretched as far as they could daring to reach for the tunnel,. The gentle defiance of a rock nestled in the cave between the body's ribs. Perchance the desire to feel the vibration of earth, water, and ice as the laughter thundered and the earth laughed. 

Whatever your reason, Sweet Life... my gifts I offer to you. And in Your Oneness, but a finger has to touch the rock, and the body is again stretched upon ice and water and the voice of the tunnel echoes with laughter.

Surrender to the Tension

What is it about a blank page that can intimidate us? What is it about sitting in meditation, silence, or shutting the world out that makes us edgy, antsy and our minds jump into warp speed trying to fill the void? Oh, yes, a day of "nothing" is often ever so welcomed. String those days together and we suddenly find ourselves asking "what shall I do?" as if we had to have a target or goal, a purpose.

This morning I sat and looked at the blank page. I could feel the tension to write, to say something, to "release."  Instead, I surrendered and looked at the page and let my heart write as the pen remained capped. I could see the script, the words and some that had no alphabet squiggle simply feelings. The page was filled.

Sitting there in the stillness I noticed my heart went silent. Puzzled at first, my brain started to engage. The brain quieted and the heart began to sing.... as the page began to write back to me.

May I see this day before me like the blank page. To surrender to the tension of Love and Life...knowing when to write with my hands, when to write with my heart, and always to read the handwriting of Life writing back to me.

Tis

I can ponder, seek, and stand in childlike awe of Life, Love, Becoming, reaching, and growing. Or... I can simply let the chalk find the heart's fingers, laugh when a feather dances from a shelf to the paper... and whisper 

tis.

Last Placed Looked

There's an old riddle about why is the lost item always in the last place you look? Answer: you stop looking.

A simple thread keeps weaving. The "Who" I am is constantly evolving, changing, growing, and is a reflection of my choices and perceptions. The "What" I AM, is changeless, timeless, and is forever, an expression of Love, Joy, Compassion, and Life.  

We work so hard on the Who, do this, don't do that, well, maybe one day, someday, if nothing else there's always heaven where maybe all will be found and right. Constantly looking.  The reality is...it IS the What we are looking for, praying  for, buying lottery tickets hoping the numbers match. It is always there, waiting. The process becomes allowing and awareness so that the Who rests in and through the What. 

Why is the lost item always in the last place you look?  You stop looking. 

Bouncing Laughter

Some mornings you just have to wonder. Oh, not "wonder" as a question and scratching your head. True wonder.... We all know "sleep hair." Well, this morning I woke up to sleep hair that would rival Woody Woodpecker and I just bellowed...  and the laughter, sweet mercy, bounced back.

In the Field of all vibrations where we align with All That IS, like a child standing in front of the Universe's playground, with impish eyes, I shall simply run in without abandon and throughout the web of Life, in my best southern childlike drawl, giggle

"Hey Yall!.... What's Happen'n?"

It Remains

A morning reflection. A perfect heart. A perfect heart with a heart light within. The light switch will make it seem to disappear. The camera cannot capture its reflection. 

And yet, having been seen, it remains.

Soft Eyes

The morning image whispered was that of the old fashion alarm clocks before cell phones and digital clocks. The old timey clock with two bells that would shatter the world with their clanging. No snooze. Just metal banging against metal announcing it was time to wake up. With a shiver and wonder as to why this image, my small four legged angel sat next to me and the clanging melted into soft gentle eyes that were nothing but love and presence.

Truth is, every breath, every thought, every action and movement I make is a wake-up call. A wake-up call to my heart, my mind, to those around me, those distant, and even to the sweet sweet earth that is my sanctuary. My presence touches and awakens all around me including who and what I cannot see.

Sweet mercy...may I remember these eyes.

May I awaken my heart and mind with these eyes.

May I awaken and touch the world with these eyes.

May I simply be...soft eyes.