Knowing

You know when you sit with someone and hand them a gift, and you watch so softly but intently as your friend opens the gift and his or her eyes equally soft and intent wondering what they hold in their hands. The knower and the knowing unopened. Those  flashing moments just before the gift is opened, exploding like a sprout emerging from the soil.  The sprout cresting the earth to see the sun for the first time knowing, always knowing even in its shell, that the sun surely exists...and then to greet its knowing.

An odd night last night, giggle. When I took my little dog outside I could feel the wind. The sky was filled with dark night clouds. Checked the weather and saw thunderstorms coming. As I was saying good night to my hobbit house, the lights turned off, I heard a banging and the garage door, pushed by the wind trying to move the rock keeping it in place. I went outside to see if I could secure the garage door better and caught the force of the wind in my face, but was not so much the wind I felt as the dust. As I lay in bed, even my little dog seemed vigilant, unsure, and would not settle down. Usually with winds like that you hear the wind. Not last night. Did not hear the wind. You only heard the thud and banging of who knows what ... I will have to wait until the sun rises this morning to see.

I lay there listening and was carried back to my first memory of the Gulf's waves at night on a cloudy night without the moon. Sitting in darkness you hear the roar of the waves, the splash, the swooosh of the water lapping up on the shore, pulling back and crashing softly into the new rivers flowing in. You could not see the waves. You could not see the sand. You only saw darkness. And in the darkness you heard the waves. That sound is woven deep into my soul and even my body, it is tangible, palpable. I've listened to wave sounds thinking they would bring that same feeling, but for some reason they do not. Oh yes, comforting and make me smile, but it is not the same. It is not just the hearing, it is the power, the energy, the motion of waves in the air crashing upon you that creates the tapestry woven. Like the wind last night that could not be heard save for the motion of waves in the air crashing upon objects outside.

And so I ponder...is that the same experience of the seed? The knowing. Is there sound when the earth is moved with roots digging down and when the sprout pushes through? Is there sound we cannot hear...unless we listen to the breath of the earth carrying the whispers "Come and greet your knowing."

Earthen Clod of Joy

Last night, for some reason, the whispers of the moon's cycles called me to read. Farmers have long sought to join their planting with the cycles of the moon. Poets and mystics have likewise looked to the moon for the tilling of the earthen heart. When the moon is moving from full to new, is best to plant rooted plants or vegetables. The moon is drawing energy from the earth, and rooted plants would be deep in the earth where the energy abides. When the moon is moving from new moon to full is best to plant flowering or above ground plants for the moon is shining down her energy to nourish. And like the tides that move with the moon's cycle and pull, even the moisture within the earth moves like the tides drawing upward to nourish the seeds when the moon is full and ebbing back down when the fullness of her pull is slight. Within each cycle there are called barren days, when the earth simply needs to rest and abide in the energy that has been and is soon to be.

I remember years ago attending a Good Friday evening service. The service was somber. I looked around at an almost empty church and thought how odd knowing it would be packed come Easter morning. Those that did attend were elderly. Their presence was palpable and majestic as they listened to the somber service. At the end of the service the altar was stripped, all adornments were removed and the cross was cloaked in black. I know the power and touch of wind and storms, the warmth of the sun, the immersion of silence and yes, I know silence all too well. Never has silence held such presence as I watched the few elderly that were there as they moved about stripping the altar and not a word was said. When the last adornment was removed, the cross cloaked in black, they simply left into the night, again in silence, their presence adorning the sanctuary stripped of all else. Sunday the now stripped sanctuary would be filled with color, joy, and packed with people dressed in such finery and laughter.

We yearn for the glory of spring. We long for the abundance, warmth, growth and its folding into the busyness and play of summer. A week ago, in my own yearning of the seasons, I planted seeds. I watched the earth for their emergence. The earth and pots looked stripped like the sanctuary. Still I watered knowing the seeds were there. At night the moon shone through their window.  At last a sprout emerged but a clod of dirt weighted it down. I watched as the sprout pushed its way up, carrying the clod on its clumped fist of two leaves, lifting the earth, not to be denied.  The day after this picture was taken, the clod of earth had been tossed to the side and the sprout stood straight welcoming the touch of the sun and moon. And in its tossing of the clod, another tiny sprout waited to emerge ... and would do so free of the weight...the clod was perfectly placed.

May I learn the rhythm of Life, Love and nature. To know when to allow my roots to go deep. To know when to stand tall, blossom and flower. To know that barren days are but Hope's rest and silence, nurturing the strength within. To know when the weight seems heavy, to continue to push and then to toss aside so another may grow. To know the joy, the color, the beauty of being human and honor the days of feeling stripped of all adornments. May I, please sweet Life, never forego the rhythms of fullness, the celebration of Life's tides and pulls and attend Life only in the spring. May I be so wise. May I be so joyful. May I not deny myself the clod of earth...its joy, love, laughter and hope.

Recharging the Primitive

A world with its eye on the sacred altar of electrical sockets to recharge cell phones and computers so we can stay in touch. The mind forever registering, however subtle, whether in service, out of service, roaming and "can you hear me now? or "Why didn't you reply?" We have to be connected.  A world, yes, that has gifted awareness and knowledge of people and friends we could never have met without the technology. We have, indeed, extended our reach beyond belief. We are advanced.

And yet my heart ponders.... to know the twitter of birds and leaves in the wind. To see faces of dragons, dogs and dolphins on the pages of the sky. To feel the whole body, to use our senses, to touch the grass or the hand of another, or to look to see if there are messages or missed calls in another's eyes. To hit re-dial in our hearts and return to what now seems so primitive..the art of conversation drawing electric and passionate current from the heart of another. To simply lay down and recharge our souls. 

Shadowed Pondering

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.