Clarity to See

I, who am never far, if ever, from my camera, passionately avoid all photos of self. But the email inquired as to how my failing eyes were doing and after giggling I could not resist. I know as long as they gift the sight of compassion I shall have clarity. For what is 20/20 if I cannot see the heart, pain, joy, and potential in either myself or another? And so I attached the picture with a little happy face icon and replied... Boo! I see you.

Gnarly Celebrated

Of all things held sacred and cherished, that I am not perfect is most dear. When I think of perfection and then the healing, joy, tears and sweat of growth of learning,and humanness, for now the latter is perhaps the sweetest. Giggle, like an orange it squirts you in the face.

Startled Soul

Sometimes I rub these precious failing eyes as they struggle to see and wonder how long the gift will be mine. Then to turn their gaze upward and see. Sweet mercy the gift, as it is, startles my soul with joy.

Threat of Love

On Monday a most glorious walk in nature. So peaceful and quiet except for the bulldozers and dump trucks working on the upper trail. I was able to tune them out except for one moment when the bulldozer went barreling down the path with its beeping back up sound blaring so loudly. I confess, I was miffed.

Yesterday on my walk the driver of the dump truck stopped beside me. He asked if I had been walking Monday afternoon with my dog. When I said yes he began to tell me he and the bulldozer driver watched from above as two coyotes were stalking behind my dog and I. They got within a hundred yards and went down into a crouched stalk walk. What I had interpreted as an unthinking driver of a bulldozer speeding too fast on the trail was their attempt to scare the coyotes away. It worked.

The same coyotes that thrill my heart, that I have seen on the path and offered blessings, were also a threat. How can that be? Nature is my sanctuary, my home. It is the chanting of my heart. Each tree, shrub, and drought hardened piece of earth I walk upon are honored and treasured, as are the coyotes. With my eyes I would never see such a threat. And so I smile as I write. My diminishing sight has taught me to see with my heart. Oh yes, I will be vigilant and not foolish. But I will also not accept fear. To love is to open to loss. To climb a mountain is to accept you will also slip and fall.  The gift of diminished sight is the clarity that the path is not meant to be smooth. It is, truly and simply, perfect imperfection. It is the “threat” of love…an open heart.

To Only Try

Some think me an idealist and offer a reality of burdens and cannots. I do not seek a perfect world. I seek only to see and love the imperfect as perfectly as I can.

The Perfect Friend

Still working with Lunacy, I sat with a stick of sage gently burning. Being curious, I moved my hand and watched the dance of sage fragrance bend, twist and weave against itself. Every action creates a reaction, whether seen or unseen. If the delicate stream of smoke had not been there, the invisible air would have still moved with my hand. And then to laugh, to think of how another’s hurtful actions were like a bellow blowing against me. No, not lunacy this time, it was indeed perfection. Their actions made visible what I had not seen within me. I waved my hand again to watch the dance then giggled – “You’re perfect my friend! Those who love me had not gifted the smoke so I could see! What greater friend than one who gifts the fragrant smoke of sage so I can see!” 

Perfected Senses

This morning, well before dawn, I stood outside and witnessed the moon encircled by a cloud of light. A perfect circle of luminosity around Her own.  Such a pondering the sight gifted. 

Time is not running out or down. Time is timeless and cannot, is not owned or defined.  For 58 years I have never smelled a fragrance not even my precious coffee brewing or a flower, food has no taste nor have I breathed through my nose and my eyes they do not see. 

These are not statements of lack. We can insert any "sense" of what is "not." But as I sit and ponder the dawn's timelessness, the whisper of Love's perfection called. And with each bead of the mala, in Love's perfection I knew the fragrance of rain upon the grass, wet earth, a rose and tasted earth's abundance inhaling Her breath. The senses communicate to our body. Their Perfection, however, is embodied in Love.  

And as I looked at the moon within the circle, to hear the whisper “can you sense the sun?”

To remember I have “no time”…. I am, Life IS timeless.  To remember my senses are perfected IN Love.  And IN my Timelessness and Perfection, I am BeComing.

Unseen's Dance

My right hand for 57 of my 58 years has grasped and carried things, written stories, poetry, and even my name. The last year a tremor has made those treasures all but impossible and it remains hidden in my pocket to keep others from staring. As my little heart unfolds, my spirit rises and dispels what the mind sees, I look at my hand and see not the tremor but her precious heart. And so a little paint set, sitting on a path against a tree, I whispered softly, "Dance."  And a little hand and wings soared from the mountain top to the clouds. A giggle spirit danced atop the lake below. 

Celebrate the glorious perfection that IS.

Unedited Peace

Readmitted to the hospital, a flurry of doctors and orders attend to her.  They cannot stop the pain or nausea, venting the tube that feeds chemical food no longer helps.  It was her greatest fear, that the end would be ugly, the two year fight spent devoted to laughter and joy of the moment. Her partner writes, “They have to stop the pain and nausea. She must let go in peace.”

Writers, poets, artists and sculptors spend hours, days even months perfecting their craft, each sentence, word, stroke and pause.  I would not think the birth of the heart’s pouring ever made it untouched, perfected and edited to those who would behold.  I giggle to think of the Christian creation story where God created the world and humanity, and pronounced, “It is good.”  God did not say perfect.  From birth, like the birth of the heart’s creativity, we feel perfection is the standard and edit, retouch, throw away, scrap, rewrite our lives to conform to that anonymous standard of perfection.  We forget that precious moment of birth when with the first cry, the newborn is recognized by heart, body, soul and mind as ‘simply perfect.’  We lose that moment and parents, child, society and institutions begin to edit.

With ports, shunts and god knows what else, she swam with the dolphins, dove into the sky from a plane with her brother holding her hand, she flew in a side car to sit by the waterfalls, friends four-wheeled her wheel chair to Lake Superior’s shore with a handmade grabber so she could gather agates, she planted perennials and trees that will not sprout til next year.  She did not edit neither has she allowed the cancer to edit.  Each moment, each pause, word and painted stroke perfect in itself.

“Hiiiii, thiiiis iiis my stuttre hadn taht yiiii do not see. Thiiiis iiis teh way my eys see adn my hadns wriiiet befoer Iiiii work throuuiiihg teh iiiniiital scriiihces of my heart to leaaev hre for any taht may seee.”

An unedited offering to the Sweet Hands of Life, naked and unshielded, that Annie may have her peace and that her courage to live unedited will continue in the lives she has touched. I take my stutter hand from its closeted pocket where it is hidden, and take yours in mine, Annie.  As you said, ‘We all have our cancers.’  “Lettiiiinng go iiiin peaec…….unedddiiiiide.”

Accepting the reward

According to the Tao – “When the world knows beauty as beauty, ugliness arises.  When it knows good as good, evil arises.”  To focus only upon beauty, you will see the imperfections.  To focus only upon good, you will see the failings.  I can look with eyes that knew the trees before the fire.  To do so, somehow the scars seem darker.  Or I can look with eyes that see beauty as is.

I accept my leg that drags and catches upon roots and stones and knees that shift and give pause as to whether I will make it back.  I accept eyes that make it almost impossible to see, and even the camera lens is becoming blurry.  I accept the weakness and tremor in my hand that no longer wraps around the warmth of the coffee cup nor writes.  I accept the solitude and silence, the discoveries unshared.  I accept the seasons swiftly moving and the weariness of nonresistance.  Think not my acceptance of reality’s cold steel grip is passive.  To get to the house, after my long walk, pained and weakened, acceptance means the steep hill that bends my body and breath is my reward.