A Thousand or More Words

I sit with mala beads in my hands and my heart in my throat. How to pray? How to pray? To open my eyes and realize the gift of life this day. And in the drops of night's rain clinging I see the reflection in one drop. Clinging. Reflection. Renewal. Release. I sit with mala beads in my hands my heart embodied in a flower. This is how I shall pray.

Reflecting Juxtapositions

Two choices of roads from Taos, NM back to home in Colorado. The one, taken in the morning, was filled with anxiety as prairie dogs darted back and forth across the roads. It is also the more twisted mountainous road but ever so beautiful driving through forests, mountains and a stream you can hear from your window. The other more straight, but steeper and desert/mesa.  Not wanting to play dodge ball with prairie dogs or witness what I did not want to see, I chose the steep desert road.

The drought has made even the desert/mesa look weary. I passed what should have been grass areas with tiny freckles of green unsupporting of life. The giant centipede irrigation sprinklers stood still and forgotten, their arms reaching out like divining rods finding nothing within themselves and nothing without. Suddenly I thought I saw a prism rainbow. The kind you see when sprayed water is touched by the sun. Like an oasis an area of lush, rich green grass/hay was being watered by a centipede irrigation sprinkler. Its wheels were buried in deep green carpet. As if someone had laid a green plush welcome mat in the center of the desert the grass/hay did not look real. The water rained down creating the rainbows above and life beneath. And then the weary desert/mesa, in contrast, looking even more hardened and weary, returned. The reverie of “how?” hung like the centipede sprinkler misting my heart.

As I pondered, the strong winds both outside and within turned my gaze. A mountain was on fire. Smoke billowed and swirled upward and the flames dared to taunt the cloudless sky. The Spanish Peaks, two mountain vigil landmarks were hidden by the smoke. I knew the area. A small town of less than 500 lay beneath the flames. No, they would not make the national news like the other fires burning but their losses and expectations would be the same.

Suddenly the few cars in front of me flashed their brake lights and traffic came to a stop. I thought perhaps firefighters or some other type crew were up ahead. Sadly, no. An accident was just being cleared. A car so twisted, it look like a plastic toy someone had stepped on. I could not see how anyone inside would have walked away or even carried away still alive. And the smoke continued to billow in the mountains.

Driving down further, the wind began to collide against the car. More flashing lights. The second image was that of debris, but not debris as in trash. It was the debris of someone’s household goods, clothing and furniture. A van and the trailer carrying their possessions had turned over in a ditch. Both trailer and van had obviously rolled crushing both and releasing possessions of home. The people? I do not know. And to the side, upon the horizon, another mountain was billowing smoke.

Prairie dogs doing what prairie dogs do…running and scampering oblivious and instinctual. They seem to not know we have cut high speed roads across their paths and within our steel cocoons we do not see their small bodies. A small community has been evacuated – all forms of mammals are leaving their homes. The mountains, their earth, trees, grasses and plants are being scorched. An irrigation system stands abandoned; a remembrance of what was. For whatever reason, whatever decision or perhaps inattention lives have either been lost or are in danger. Possessions that once defined a home strewn upon the drought hardened earth and manmade asphalt road. And yet, in the midst of all these images, in the middle of all, there was a lush green oasis that looked so soft it almost called you to come and snuggle within its plush richness and abundance. And outside my window, where what was a yard and now is hardened and cracked earth, like the smoke, something has caught my eye. A single stalk. A single bloom.

And the lesson of these juxtapositions? Giggle, I am not so wise. Perhaps only a scribe. A scribe gifted to see an oasis and bloom and with open eyes reflecting their images to draw from the well of my heart and water the others.

Resurrection

Amidst the cactus making each step planned, rocks hiding the spot, and no other signs of presence, one can only imagine how a coffee cup would be found on a mountain's hill.  

And maybe that is the thread.  Brokenness and even "not belonging" when woven with imagination can still create a story and given new life.

Nectar's Bitterness

John Burroughs described the simple wisdom of nature. The fruit of trees so lush, sweet, and juicy beckons us to eat, indeed, the delight may even be said to taunt us.  Yet in the center of such heavenly nectar awaits a seed or pit that is as bitter as the fruit is sweet.  What do we do with the nectarless hard pit? We toss it aside and throw it away and nature laughs.  In so doing, we have become a co-creator, joining the circle of life. For in throwing away the seed or pit we have cast forth nature's new life, awaiting to be transformed and born in places she, as a single tree and branch, could not have reached.

Would I, with the same wisdom, drink deeply the nectar of life and giggle and savor when the sweet juices trickle from the corner of my mouth and down my chin.  And when my teeth and lips, as they surely will at times, rest against the bitter pits and hardness of pain, loss and lostness, abandonment and confusion, may my heart smile as she releases the pit back to the sweet Hands of Life to be transformed into another sweet juicy tree of Life.  And as the pit, a seed, is willingly released and planted, to let my tongue dance upon my lips, gathering the drops of nectar still clinging.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie to deep for tears.

~Wordsworth

Saying 'Hello' Before You Leave- "It's Time to Ride"

Everyone has left but family. You are ready. I will leave this here, before you leave, to honor the precious being you are and celebrate what will be. No need to write in past tense, you are ready to become, again. And when the news came, I kept the promise and laughed.  I did not, however, promise what I would do after the laughter.

What will you choose my friend? You had been undecided.  Will you decide to take the rocket ship or make your grand entrance upon angel’s wings?  I found another laugh, to think, knowing you, you found yet another option.  Perhaps a rocket ship steered with high powered angel’s wings.  And such a grand entrance it will be I am sure.

You will begin your new journey.  Each of us will begin our own.  You will no longer be bound, restricted, free from all that tried to hold you back.  You will change into such beautiful light like the sun that knows not skin, tissue or bone and fills every cell, igniting within the brilliance from without.  But know this my friend, the person you are has likewise changed so many others and ignited within each the spark you give from without.  With soft soft eyes, ‘Well done Annie, my friend.’

Maybe a rocket ship, maybe angel’s wings, maybe a rocket ship with angel’s wings.  Or, perhaps, like the hummingbird that sent my spirit into such blissful joy this morning.  Thanks for the flyby my friend. Thanks for the whisper, ‘Tis time to ride….. watch me fly!’

Namaste.

"I went sky diving, I went rocky mountain climbing,
"I went two point seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu.
"And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
"And I gave forgiveness I'd been denying."
An' he said: "Some day, I hope you get the chance,
"To live like you were dyin'." 

Like tomorrow was a gift,
And you got eternity,
To think about what you’d do with it.
An' what did you do with it?
An' what can I do with it?
An' what would I do with it? 

-Tim McGraw “Live Like You Were Dying”

Reflecting promise

Some nights  you cannot explain. Somehow the clock loses the rhythm and unlike yourself, falls asleep, refusing to move. 


 The glow of the moon, against the blackened night sky, is made possible by the sun's light reflecting upon her darkness. Her reflecting light upon the darkened moon is all I can see, I cannot see the source.   I wait and sit with the night's dawn. I know I will never see this dawn again. The dance of the sun and moon is constant, but never the same. For all the thousands of years they have danced, not one is like the other. And yet, with different strokes painting the blush, their canvas, their presence and their promise remain steadfast in their sameness as they unfold the night. The promised light for waiting and trusting the source.

Replanting

Ineffective hands have dropped her twice, struggling to remove the small black plastic container. It was meant for transport only, to nurture a beginning not the being. The forgiving little cypress tree surrenders to my clumsy efforts, accepts my apologies and finally the container is removed. The earth around her roots is solid, packed not subtle or flowing like the earth, restricted having outgrown the beginning, unable to carry to the tiny fingered needles the nourishment she needs.  Propping her against the sink, so only my good hand will touch, I press against the hardened soil, loosen its binding trying to not break the roots. Her uncertain thin trunk and branches quiver and dance as I lift and place her in her new home. Fresh nurturing soil and room to grow. Water is added so she can hear the flow, feel the moistness and growth calling her boundness to shatter and reach. I place her back near the prism'd light with a gentle caress. 'Now you can breathe. Now you can grow.'


Returning I see the dirt filled sink and begin to clean. Amidst the hardened small clods of earth, I see tiny roots separated, broken yet even they have been freed. I look back at the little Cypress tree, her hardened roots free and her body stretching in fresh earth, water, and her being, reaching for the prism'd light. With sacred honor I gather the small clods and whisper to life, 'I surrender my bounded container. Yes, please, break my roots.'

Cup of Tao

The Tao says the function of a container is in its emptiness. I remember weeks ago, having just cleaned the kitchen and mopped, I made my treasured coffee.  When the beep sounded, saying it was ready, I entered a kitchen with coffee pooled on both the counter top and floor.  I had forgotten to empty the old.  The new had nowhere to go, no emptiness to fill.

Yesterday’s walks birthed the whisper to the trees of “I am completely stripped of all.”  This morning, Life whispers back, “I know.”  Carved, molded and baked in life’s kiln, the cup of my sweet life, in its emptiness, awaits her filling.  But in truth, it is not the longing for the filling, but the emptying of the sweet nectar to give others drink and then the return to readied emptiness…to be filled yet again.

I cannot pour what has not been filled.  I cannot be filled without being emptied.  Trust.

Gifted reminder

A storm is coming in.  I walked the yard in the in the wind of the clouds’ footsteps. The precious red flowers cling to their tissue petals. What the wind does not take the rain surely will.  Picking up one of the fallen its texture makes me gasp.  It is not like tissue or paper, they feel almost like rubber.  Nature delights in surprises and gifts.  So many await us, unopened  gifts beneath her Christmas trees and life.  I watch a few more fall, saddened, their beauty will be missed.  Moreso, now that I know their texture.  And then I see my feather, lying atop one of the fallen petals.  “And the bird, she still flies.”

Circled dance

I confess my heart was excited. Two feathers this morning awaited me in my morning walk. Then three, four...and my shoulders sank. There should not be this many feathers. A side of nature I try not to think about. I know the lion hunts.  I know the Orca goes after sea lions. I know the eagle and hawk hunt.  I know they never take in greed. I just try not to think about it.


I gathered several in the palm of my hand. Sitting in the grass I admired their beauty, amazing precision and delicateness. I wanted so to cry but knew the tears would be for me, not my precious dove. "Acceptance. Acceptance not abdication." I will not abdicate my trust. I will be more vigilant, beyond that, I will trust nature. I will trust the amazing feathers of wings to keep the doves safe. Walking in, nature gifted me a re-visit of such a delicate flower. A tiny dance of petals and grace forming a circle of life and a portal inviting entry. 


I placed the feathers upon a rock the mountain gifted me. Returned to the earlier photo of the flower.  Now....now I could weep.

Not returning

I know to many, they mock their efforts to display perfection in an immaculate lawn.  Today, they are not weeds, they stand as teachers.  Across the street, from the lawn my weak body is mowing, my elder neighbor died.  A good friend and warrior is quickly slipping away.  Her partner is preparing.  And as I mow, these miniature suns remind me how quickly they will return.  The mower will dispatch their stems and balls of sun but by tomorrow I will already see them returning and reaching towards their mirror. My body wasn’t ready to mow but she understood.  My sensible mind forgave my disregard for shoes.  Sometimes your soul needs to feel the earth as you walk.  Sometimes you need to watch how constant and quickly life faithfully returns.  And sometimes you hear the whispers of teachers…”One doesn’t return if you never left.”