Gauntlet of Intent

Every child knows the parental voice of "We'll see" actually means "No." The dreaded "We'll see" that drops a child's shoulders. No way you can argue with "we'll see" as the gauntlet of "no" has not been tossed.

In a similar way I pondered how "intention" has been transformed. "He had good intentions." "I intended to..." It has also become a gauntlet-less no, a way to avoid the challenge. And the simple prayer that I may not go through life like a crab with my eyes set one way but my body moves another. That my intent and intentions will be deliberately set like the stones in a river. To accept the effort and the concentration. To be true to my heart and know the joy of "walking" on water trusting the stones of intent.

Old Soul's Embrace

The soul's deepened sigh flutters and lands upon the small heart.  Awakened touch throbs in her whispered embrace.

Gnarled and lifeless how old are their souls? How long have they stood in their splendored green dance and then  the stillness of standing unmasked?

How deep the roots to hold them still. Does life still flow and only the mask is removed? If you cut them would they bleed?

Upon the earth's loom the standing threads call. My spine against the old soul's spine. The soul's deepened sigh and quivered touch caresses spine against spine.  Awakened touch throbs in her whispered embraced.  Gnarled and lifeless how old are our souls? Sitting unmasked we are encircled by splendored green grass. The answer is yes, we will bleed. We will stand.

Surrender without conquer

The hour and then the morning passed by unspoken. No need to speak, we knew what would be done. At the peak of the day’s heat, the house already stifled, I set out for my walk. No cool morning air upon my skin. A cloudless sun filled sky greeted my already weakened body.

Strength against strength. Will against will. There will be no victor no conquered. One can be neither a warrior nor a lover only in the cool of the morning when life is comfortable.  Sometimes one has to strike a surrendered determined stance of strength for strength and will for will. And with a tympani pounding beneath each temple, the sweat painting my back like an Etch-A-Sketch, the hill that is my reward at the end of the walk, and the sun eye to eye with my own, we each whispered ‘Namaste.’

 A crow began cawing loudly over my head as I bowed. And with my bow, next to my feet, Life added, “Well done.”

Statue'd gnomes

She wrote how odd to say good-bye to family and friends, joined together for the annual family reunion. You say good-bye every year, but for her, and for them, it was good-bye. She stared out the window and wrote that no matter how hard she tried, she could not keep them all in the back yard forever like statue’d garden gnomes. They are gone, but still, more importantly, their life remains. How different they would have celebrated, in years past, had they known today was near.

Rumi writes of a group of men who went to see another they heard had gone mad. The madman threw stones at them and away they ran. He calls out that 'See you are not friends!' Friends do not run from pain, even if inflicted by the other. “A friend is pure gold singing inside the refining fire.”  George Elliot wrote “Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person, having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but pouring them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, certain that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.”

A simple thread, I readily confess my thoughts are odd.  But to not see others as statue’d garden gnomes, kept for their presence, unwilling to enter the fire or to sift the chaff from the grain. And then the thread tangles with another, that perhaps allows the first to become real. To awaken to the day, and with the same heart, whisper to Life, ‘You are my friend. Today is near’

Helping hand

The morning‘s walk against the wind, weakened body and shifting knees.  Bent over, with hands upon the knees, catching my breath and coaxing the knees to finish, a leaf went skipping by in front of me.  Like a child with arms waving in ecstatic glee the leaf skipped and hopped down the path.  The leaves and trees dancing and bending reminded me of the Flappers in the Roaring 20’s.  A caterpillar, with 16 legs, meandered slowly in front of me, oblivious to the wind and the potential speed of 16 legs.   

With a chuckle, smile and plea to finish, a small fingered stick blew to my feet.  Its texture weathered flowing with intricate movement of lines and shades.  Picking it up, I finished the walk, holding it gently in my tremored hand.  

Sometimes to finish, or simply to keep going, it helps to hold another’s hand.  Sometimes you need a skipping leaf, swaying dancing trees and leaves, and a caterpillar slowly meandering, to finish a leg of the journey. Remembering the hill yet to come, the reward accepted, hand in hand, and the prayer of my heart for all struggling to finish..."In lak ech" ...you are my other me, and my hand is in yours.

"When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." - John Muir