May I so Push

The morning greeting to the plants in the sun room and to turn on their gentle music for the day. As the curtains were pulled I explained had lots to do would not be able to sit and chat right now. Deadlines were awaiting. A gentle whisper to pause and look. An orchid's bud pressed against the stem. Sitting down, I did not rise until an hour later. To do what I must, push where required, but always to do so with the gentle strength of an unopened bud.

To Turn not Run

Sometimes when I read world events or others share the pain inflicted in their lives, I do confess my heart feels despair. I do not understand cruelty. This morning the sounds of nature gifted Kabir's words that we do not have to run and seek gardens to see a flower, the gardens and flowers are all contained within our hearts.

I flinched...giggle. My heart too contains cruelty? Eeek. But yes, it does. All hearts are one. All life within. And as I opened my eyes the sun rested upon a single flower stem and I laughed. Oh yes, to acknowledge and be mindful of the ability to hurt, but to choose what I focus upon. To see the flower bent towards the sun and the tiny buds waiting to unfold and know the touch. A twist upon Kabir's words to think I do not have to run from or seek either. I have only to turn towards the sun. Today, today, I shall leave sun warmed pink petals for all and nurture the tiny bud within. A grand day indeed!

Gifted Softness

No greater tip could be left for one who carried out the banquet for nature's small ones to eat. A soft reminder the feather is on the ground but the winged bird is still in flight. A gentle touch from nature to nature, a small blanket offering warmth to the snow and earth. May my touch upon the earth be so simple, be so gentle.

Global on a Micro Scale

Sometimes I wonder how it is possible in human nature to commit all the wars, abuse, and violence. This morning went into the local cell phone store to get a new case and to ask why my phone was not working. Watched as the young man was berated, yelled at, and threatened by people angry that the towers were down. He kindly put my phone in its new case as he continued to politely deal with those so angry. I thanked him and wished him a better day. His eyes looked so doubting but grateful. I returned with a cup of coffee and two cookies. As others continued in their anger, I sat the offering down and smiled. No one but him noticed.

Child to Child

We cherish the moments we walk with a child. Hands holding soft but firm. We adjust our stride to meet theirs. We look for danger. We give them strength but encourage their own. Time passes so slowly and life fills abundant and gentle. We change our voice so it is soft, gentle and encouraging. We remember how to laugh. We remember how to see. We notice. We listen. All because we walk with a child. Would that in all our walks, whatever the age of the one we are with, we would see the child. And with a soft whisper, reach out our hand, and say, “Come walk with me.”

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.

Backspaced

With a word or silence, a glance or turning away I give either Love or judgment, which is to say acceptance or rejection. Perhaps that is why busyness is a priority, and To Do lists the drivers, no time to notice the choice made.  Even technology can intensify the absence of the voice, the texture, the breath of the other, the time to write a complete word and sentence that lets you linger with the thought of the other, or it diminishes the physical other by putting them on pause to respond.  Technology gives a voice to my scriches but I know not where they go.  On both the macro and human level,  we've created ways to distance ourselves. Yet more and more books, programs, and get-a-ways are likewise created and purchased in answer to the longing “what is the meaning” or finding happiness or how to shut down and sleep.

There was a thread when I began but I've learned the art of backspacing. 

Sacred Stem

Beneath the bloom the lotus's roots lie entangled in mud.  Unbeautiful, invisible, their thin bodies not mistaken for delicate.  A slender stem joins the blossom to the roots. The beautiful and delicate blossom but the manifestation of the roots' innate yearning that the blossom unfold into its beauty. Separating the mud and beauty a mirrored reflection of beauty only, the mask of love worn by the roots. Only that so elegant, full of grace and softness should be seen. 

The soft and beautiful offering a gentle fragrance and dance to the world. The muddy and unseen, entombed in a darkened world. Separated by a reflection. Perhaps the true beauty, the sacred touch lies in the stem which knows both the crypt and birth of life. 



photo: URL and credit

Lotus Flowerby =George-kirk

Whispered calligraphy

Life's water colors across the canvased sky, embracing and cloaking the stoic mountain top.  My eyes thought they saw the illuminated sun dog where the peak should be.  Even now I look, and am not sure it was there.  And then I gaze upon the calligraphy left upon my heart from the sight. A love note that whispers, trust what you see.

The Constant Darkened Light

I sat in my little chair looking to the sky, hoping to see the meteors. The neighborhood was totally quiet while all others were sleeping. It was, after all, just after 2 a.m. I stared and stared and not a one.  Soon my eyes wandered and I noticed an almost perfect circle of stars around the moon. A mandala of black drawing your eyes to the center where the luminous glow beckoned you to enter.  Lingering in the mandala, contentment made a gentle bookmark. The true beauty and wonder is not in the fleeting moment of meteors passing by, but in the faithful constancy of the moon and stars, always present, always there, no matter if you bother to look or seek, their light always waits to bathe you in soft.

After an hour or so I packed up my little chair, coffee time was calling.  Pausing I lifted my hand to block the brightness of the street light.  For one who cannot see to drive in the dark, street lights are surely a gift.  The blocking of my hand made the night sky even darker, and there, ever so quickly, a meteor danced across the sky.  My heart gently created a bookmark - sometimes you need the dark to see the light.

"Inside every human chest is a  hand, but it has nothing to write with [until] Love moves further in...."  ~ Rumi

I will remember

Towards the end of lap one around the park, I watched the elderly couple get out of their car, carrying a plastic bag and holding hands.  They placed the bag on the picnic table and began to pick up the fallen limbs from the weekend’s winds.  I quickened my pace as I passed them, to see what unfolded next somehow gave strength to my body which did not want to walk.  On lap two I saw a plastic jar of what looked like granola or cereal on the table and watched them as they sat with the birds, the grass and sun eating their breakfast.  I giggled to myself, even their chewing was in sync.  Seeing me, they nodded their heads and smiled, a gift I quickly returned.  Lap three found them sitting, hands folded in their laps, their heads barely turning to see all about them, their bowls, spoons and arms quiet like the morning.  Lap four left me breathless.  I could see her standing before a plastic pan and jug of water on the table.  She was washing their dishes beneath the trees.

And when their last season has passed, will anyone recall and honor the way they sat together and ate their breakfast?  Will anyone remember the sun and wind dancing in their gray hair and upon their weathered faces?  Will anyone stand breathless, save for the sound of a sweet tear falling upon their face, and remember how she gently washed their morning dishes beneath the trees…as he quietly watched her….with a smile?