The Gift Received

Have you ever seen a ghost from the past? An image of one long ago who could not, should not be there as you drive past but you know, believe, that the image is not a ghost? How quickly our minds and brains engage and flood all senses and emotions. Time loses its boundaries and there all is once again.

I sat on my cushion and pondered the ghost. Gently I whispered “I welcome you fear. I welcome you courage. I welcome you love. I welcome you pain. I welcome all that is right now and all that was.” A while back I wrote that no one leaves holes in our hearts, they are but kneeling prints where a gift was laid. Did the ghost carry that same belief?

Perhaps I am at last the perfection they once dreamed. Perhaps the failures were only perceived. More likely, and in truth, I am the person I am now. There is no forgiveness necessary. There is only absolution. I simply am me and the me I am has been shaped by the ghost.

I opened my eyes in time to see a feather dance its way to the ground. A gentle smile and I went outside to retrieve. As I approached, the feather the playful wind scooped it up. The feather danced away. A gentle tear of joy and my hands went to my heart. I bowed in grace. I bowed in joy. I bowed as I am. No need to chase….the gift had long ago been received.

Heart Hug

Some hugs you will never forget.

My passion, joy, and delight are feeding the birds, squirrels, and marmots that grace my yard. My state, in such a drought, the bears have left the mountains in search of food. No danger except for humans who will not let them pass through. A mother and cub have found the bird seed. Humans will not let them be. My heart wept. To call Wildlife would mean their killing. To not stop feeding the birds meant I was inviting their harm. I sat in meditation seeking my heart. I made the call.

Some angels are delicate, wispy white wings and soft ivory faces. Others are big burly men, bald and waddle when they walk. I will clean up all seed and put no more down. I will leave a corn meal blessing for the birds, squirrels, and marmots and a promise to feed again soon. A burly angel sits watch in his truck having talked so gently to the mother bear. He will do nothing now. He saw the silent tears streaming down my face and wrapped me against his body in a true bear hug..

Some hugs you will never forget.  The union of two hearts, two strangers, and one prayer…may all beings and creatures be safe.  To seek the heart and then to listen to what it says. Namaste sweet life. I do honor you.

What is Gone

A moment’s ponder  in the silence of what is gone,

Was it simply a release, a letting go

Perhaps a choice to take a different path.

The earth tremors when mountains are born

Yet softened quivers with the petal’s touch.

Release or choice, no matter really

The path awaits

I can see the mountains

The petals caress my feet.

The Day After's Reflection

Yesterday was Yom Kippur, the Day of Forgiveness, the Day of Atonement.  All wrongdoings and harms admitted, forgiven and released.

Today is a new day. To carry forward into today, waiting not for yet another year, that the harms we've done or others towards us, are but reflections and not the person, the tree.  And to know as the sun moves, giving a different awareness and light, the reflection itself will change and move. The tree, however, remains a reflection in your eyes.

"I have brought you a mirror. Look at yourself and remember me." ~ Rumi

Seesaw Wisdom

My mother was obsessed with cleaning and her kitchen. No one could help her wash dishes or clean. Only she could make sure it was done correctly. And she most definitely did NOT teach her daughter how to cook.  I am 58 and I still do not know how to cook. The language of cooking is as foreign as the language of Martians. To get my Brownie badge, the one exception was made and I entered her sacred kitchen to make brownies from a boxed mix. The directions were quite clear- "50 strokes by hand." Hmmmm. Must be a reason you cannot use a spoon, it clearly says by hand. So...... squish...one..squish...two... My mother entered the kitchen and to her horror her daughter was mixing the batter, by hand.  Lesson over.  Later, regretting her lack of wisdom, she gave me a Barbie Easy Cook Book for children hoping I would learn to cook...I was in my 20's and living away from home.  I tried.  Finally in frustration I called her. She could tell I was mad.  I had been to every store, asked every clerk and no one, no ONE had tisp flour! How were you supposed to make the recipe if you could not get tisp flour! A long silence. Then in her ever so slow southern drawl, she asked me to read exactly what the recipe said (perhaps remembering the 50 strokes by hand).  I did.  Another looooonnng pause.  Quietly she informed me that "tisp" was an abbreviation for teaspoon - tsp. Not a brand or type. TSP mean teaspoon. Sigh...and giggle.


You have probably seen the quotes, plaques and necklaces that have "Live Laugh Love" engraved.  Maybe there is a reason for the order of the words.  Laughter, like the pivot on a seesaw, keeps the ups and downs of life and love in balance. 
This simple thread offered to you, in hopes that today you will mix the batter of life with your hands and feel the squish and I dare you to ask a store clerk what aisle tisp flour is on. Mostly, I hope you laugh.

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.”