Choosing Magic Choosing Grace

This morning on my walk I noticed a solitary deer as I walked back. She stood in the flat grasses as I stood and watched. My little heart opened. As I moved to walk on she slowly walked parallel to me. I stopped. She stopped and turned her head and watched me. Sometimes she would move in my direction, then pause and we would chat. A couple of times she pranced, not an escaping bound but a prancing like a thoroughbred horse. Sweet mercy so beautiful.  We walked parallel for a bit. I thought maybe she might like to be on the other side where the lake is, so I stopped and told her I would wait. She stared at me and then slowly walked ahead in my direction. Paused and looked at me and then crossed prancing to the other side. I watched until she was well on her way, and saw her look and we said good morning and good bye.

I thought of the morning. How my body not perky made me linger just a bit before I left. How my little dog and I stood for a few moments by the car to take in all we could see. And then on the walk, to linger against the Old One Trees. To stop briefly and touch the most amazing delicate blue flowers. Little pauses or speed ups here and there and was gifted my friend the doe who walked with me.

To another who may or may not have seen the doe, other explanations are easily offered. But perhaps, I ponder, that is indeed the thread…how we choose to see what we choose to see.

Freeing Shadows

               What is the difference between knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the sea and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. 

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I sang and chanted the Knowing of Love, being Love and giving Love. In the wind I heard a whisper and thought it only the sound of my feet slipping on the rocks. But I knew the voice. I was walking into the wind. It began as a whisper. Grew quietly into a cry. “I am unloved. I am not loveable. I will never be good enough for anyone or anything.” I knew the voice and the 237 seasons that had shaped the words and then silenced them. Even the Knowing had, in some ways, silenced the voice but always knew it was there.

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. And as I walked I listened as the voice became stronger lengthening my stride up the hills. As I walked with Knowing I sat the voice free to cry, to yell, to fly. I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. The voice, the silent fear flew ahead, soared above and hung like a bird in the sky, so effortless, suspended in time. I found the Knowing and my heart chuckling softly as we walked into the wind. Even shadows deserve to be free.

               What is the difference between Knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the se and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. The space where no voice is silenced. The space where you walk into the wind with Knowing, watch feeling soar and fly no longer afraid. The space where feeling and Knowing become trust. 

Grains of Sand

               To ponder all the things and people we move from, outgrow or replace. We spackle nail holes to hide where pictures and objects once were visible and had significance. We donate clothes that caught our attention in the store, adorned us for special occasions or perhaps hold memories of simply growing. We move from a home that made our hearts gasp the first time we entered and saw all the possibilities or even simply a place to feel safe. Or to ponder all the things or people that have left us, maybe or maybe not with spackling, re-gifting so others would enjoy, or leaving us feeling safe or breathless with possibility.

               The wise ones teach that change any one and the “me” that writes this scrich would not be the same. Better or worse? Who can say.  Victor Frankl’s experience in the holocaust concentration camps led him to observe between every stimulus and response there is a space called choice. Remove but one of the experiences and another choice would have opened that may possibly have changed all others. As the Buddha said, everything and everyone is our teacher, the grains of sands upon the path of choice.

               To ponder all these grains of sand overwhelms my little mind and heart. But to ponder the choice, that space in between humbles me. In the humbling I am lifted by one thought…the gift of choice. The power of choice. That the Sweet Hands of Life, the Universe, the Creator of all would trust me with choice. To think of such love leaves my heart with only one whisper…

I shall trust myself for I am the Divine’s trust.

Composite

Sometimes I marvel at the ability of the human mind to see only the pieces of shells lying upon the ocean or gulf shores. We scour for perfect shells, whole and complete.  To see only pieces, making even more as we walk over them never taking the time to look at their intricate colors or feel their texture and marvel at the intricacy of design and divine creation.

What makes this picture special is not the color or wholeness of the perfect shell.... it is the mosaic of the other shells in pieces or those so small they are unseen unless you bend down to look. The picture, the gift is a composite. It is not a portrait.

And so it is with my heart resting upon the shore of my life.

Why I Sit

               I walk. I walk a lot. Walking, especially within nature, is my sanctuary. I also sit. Sitting, unlike my walking, is simply that, I sit.

               I often think of life as the metaphor of a river effortlessly flowing. Fact is, I have seen not so beautiful and effortless rivers. I have seen muddy rivers, polluted and dying rivers. I have seen rivers overflowing their banks drenching and rotting crops. I have seen the power of rivers racing towards a mountain’s edge with the roar of an ocean hurricane. Yet, each one is a river at a different time, a different place and still a river.

               I sit because the metaphor of a river reminds me that life is not always a verb. Life is also a noun. Rivers, like a noun, can take on so many different adjectives and become verbs, but they remain a noun, a state of being. A state of being that is in time, space, colors, power, seen and unseen. Sitting is a noun. Sitting is my OAR with which I can navigate the rivers. The O is for openness. Sitting is simply a noun- a state of an open heart and Love. Nowhere to go, no verb to become, simply sitting open and loved. The A is for alignment. My body finds the posture that breathes and sits grounded upon the earth as an extension. The R is resilience. My body, 237 seasons old, learned too early to bend, slouch, and become small and unseen. The resilience of sitting reminds me of my essence which is long, extended, seen, and weighted with presence and life alive. I have withstood and now it sits forsaking the smallness.

               I sit because the rivers and the day do not. They move. They flow. I cannot sit all day. I must be about tending to life, love, light and being. I sit because I have to rise and leave the earth, floor or mat. I sit because the noun must become a verb and yet the root of the verb remains forever a noun. I sit because I must stand and walk. And when I arise, when I stand, I do so holding my OAR as my walking stick. I sit so that no matter the river and its verb, I stand open, aligned and resilient. I sit to hear the whispers of the oars of Love gliding through the rivers.

               May all beings be happy. May all beings be safe. May all beings everywhere be free. May all beings sit. And may all beings rise and stand holding their oar.