To Know the Dance

What is it about Autumn that draws so many souls to see? The trees aflame with glorious colored leaves are like the blush of the evening sky as the sun draws down and the day comes to an end.  Like the sun, the source of life has drawn down into the earth and nestled within the roots awaiting spring’s warmth.  The leaves, deprived of the sap, will fall without clinging, upon the earth.  They do so without fear knowing the tree, their essence remains. Like the brilliance of the evening sunset that inflames lovers, poets and artists, both leaf and sun know they will return and bid not adieu but simply ‘good night.’  To assure us of their return they inflame our hearts with awe, playfulness, excitement and wonder.  Like the moon that stands constant throughout the night, the stark naked trees hold vigil.  In their vigil, should we forget the passionate colors of Autumn, they offer their unshielded nakedness in a wild frenzied dance of life.  A dance unseen without the stillness of life drawn back into the earth.

Sweet Hands of Life, when my winter season arrives, may all that be said or seen point to the dance of the trees and a leaf aflame with color dancing her way without fear to the earth.

Match of Intent

Sometimes we act without thinking, moving from the heart's impulse. Sometimes decisions are made with jaw set not allowing ourselves to see anything else. Sometimes we don't even know we've made a decision until later when either with amazement or a thump to our forehead we cannot believe "I did that."  Sometimes the world would have us believe we made a decision but we simply did what was expected.

I stare at the candle and ponder wax, wick and flame. The wick standing upright announcing its willingness to accept the flame. The wax, hardened, yearns to melt and surrender to the union of flame and wick. But wax and wick can do no more than await the flame which I must light.  Without my desire for its light, my intent and my action, the candle is not a candle, it is an ornament. And so it is with my heart when I hold the match of decision and intent.

Passion Creating

An evening stroll to my little city's downtown main street. A small bowl of fruit and coffee. The merchants opened late, couples strolling hand in hand. Solo singers on a stage of a corner sidewalk with traffic passing by, oblivious to all except their songs, their music and their passion to sing.  To see their eyes return, from the land of their dreams as they sang, and greet yours as you applauded..... such a special place. Creation. Passion. Songs of the Heart. Though not present when Life created our universe with such desire and love, tonight I was gifted to watch others with the same yearning and passion, and like the Creator, my heart too whispered, "It is good."

A Tale of Two Blogs

Late afternoon and my spirit, with a demand not a whisper, called me to go walk. Not my usual time, dark approaching. I hesitated and then went down to the park lake. I said good evening to the tree that always greets me and always pulls my weary weakened body up the steep hill that is my reward.  I always fix my eyes upon her beauty and strength and she reaches out and carries me up the hill. With gratitude I always stop, say 'thank you' and then bow and with hands to my heart whisper 'namaste.'  

On my way up the hill my eyes fixed as they do but my heart heard a sound that created fear. Cresting the hill I saw a tree cutter beginning to cut her down. I confess my will to weak to stop the tears. I stood fixed and in disbelief. My friend. The young man walked over and with a gentle voice said "It's dead." Correcting his "it" I replied, "She always carries me up the hill. She is so beautiful." And with that I bowed and whispered 'namaste' and began to walk away. The young man called out and brought me a branch. Blog one would have ended here with a heavy heart and sweet tears. 

Blog two found its birth after darkness. Stumbling with eyes that cannot see in the dark, I scurried out and down the street with the moon guiding my feet. I could see the shadows of her lower branches stacked only the main trunk remained. I knelt and left an offering of corn meal upon the ground and her cut branches. It is a Native American gift back to the earth. With a final namaste and bow, touching the earth,  I whispered "good night" not good-bye. 

"Be still my heart, these great trees are prayers." ~ Tagore

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

For the World to Sneeze

A sneeze attack this morning that made me giggle and my little dog bark and dance around me. When the attack subsided I pondered the silence. Why does someone say "Bless you" when you sneeze? Is it the age old belief that you almost die, a prayer to keep evil spirits away? No one answer or superstition has been confirmed, but we do, instinctively a blessing for the other pops out. 

Closing my eyes, with a smile I whispered "Bless you." In the pause between the blessing to myself and my giggle, I wondered why we wait until that superstitious moment to bless another. I flashed back to my first experience on the Boston subways as a teen and the 13 years commuting during rush hour in California ("rush" hour is the epitome of a misnomer).  The sea of faces not looking at each other. I thought of the 22% of children living in US poverty, 1 in 4 women live in domestic violence as do over 3 million children. So many statistics, numbers and unseen people behind the numbers, just like commuters they pass by us unseen.  And I wondered if the world would change if at that moment, 2 billion of the 4 billion people on earth sneezed and the other 2 billion said "Bless you."

Loosening Evolution

Sometimes I ponder the evolution of our evolution. Outside the window, a migrating sparrow standing on the edge of a little plastic tray I fill with their water, bowed towards the water to take a drink.  Later, the feisty squirrel, who makes me laugh, climbed the birds' feeder and with his small tiny hands clasped as in prayer, drew the seed towards his mouth.  Two postures so different than those we use - a bow towards the water of life and hands held like a prayer.

Neither the squirrel nor the bird have opposable thumbs or brains like ours.  And yet neither questions or frets whether they will be fed or given drink.  I know, but a silly thought, like so many, that sometimes wounds my mind. But it gave me pause to ponder the not so ordinary of life, the simple things that sometimes, perhaps, with grace, can overshadow our "evolution."

To Stand Faithful to Intent

There are moments and days when I think surely all this must be a dream and has not happened. Surely I will wake up in the cabin in the woods the dream having taught me a lesson in gratefulness for all the blessings I knew before I went to sleep. But if it be a dream, I have not awakened.  And if it be not a dream, my little heart sighs. Amidst the destruction and loss, and yes the whispers and images of nature, words that are woven into all mythology, poetry, art, faith and wisdom teachings keep coming back.   The only friend in the solitude, to sit, comfort, and paint a picture of then, now, and perhaps to be.

"You can choose between loveless and miraculous channels of expression. You can make an empty shell, but you cannot express nothing at all. You can wait, delay, paralyze yourself, or reduce your creativity almost to nothing. But you cannot abolish it. You can destroy your medium of communication, but not your potential. You did not create yourself" [Course in Miracles]

Am I the charred and scorched guardian of the tiny new life or perhaps the tiny new life itself?  Maybe the new life is part of the scorched and the two are one. I do not know. Sweet Hands of Life, help me stand my post, faithful to Your intent.

Surrender and Embrace

A fallen Birch Tree embracing and supported by a Pine Tree.  As the day winds down and you close the door to today in your sleep, for a moment, pause and give thanks for those, who like the Pine offer their strength. And with the final inhale of wakefulness, a soft thank you to your heart for Her strength in surrender.


"May you be blessed with a wise and compassionate guide Who can accompany you through the fear and grief Until your heart has wept its way to your true self."  ~John O'Donohue

To Mark Another's Calendar

My ability to read fading so fast, I do not use the precious gift to read the news, the news of violence. I did so last night and my soul felt as faded as my eyes. Then my spirit whispered of the wounding that leaves life but penetrates and tears asunder the heart.

The closing of one's heart to another sends forth an arrow and bullet that shatters not the physical self but wounds the essence of the other's I AM. Can I not see a group of people, or even one, and in closing my heart allow their bodies to continue but steal from them, he or she perhaps the very thread they needed to believe? No reporters would gather, the world or community would not be in shock. That sentence a blessing for the closer and yet sad that no one would notice the victims.

 We mark the days of violence with anniversaries.  We will not forget. And yet today, for some, for those whom I close my heart and wound, today will be a day they will never forget.

Sweet mercy, may their hearts calendar boldly write only of a blessing.

To Leave Your Thread

Amidst the wonder of fall a clearing called and beckoned me to come and sit.  The ponderings and threads I left here, so simple, unwise and insignificant, need not litter the clearing or its call.  Rather, it is the call to come and sit that is the thread I leave for you. May it be a welcomed bookmark for your day.  

Forgiving Water

Getting out of the car I saw a little boy throwing rocks, as little boys are want to do. One rock went astray and hit a car. With a quick swat to his bottom, his mother angrily uttered the ultimate threat, "Wait til I tell your father." The little one's day exploring the fall woods and mountain crashed into tears. 

Pondering the scene and my shiver, I knelt beside the lake and gathered four treasured river rocks. Rocks and feathers are precious to me. But what of the rocks I have thrown that have gone astray even if in joy or simple lack of maturity or knowing and have harmed another? Not being wise nor a time traveler, I cannot take them nor the harm back. Releasing the rocks back into the lake, knowing the hearts whose names I breathed and those names I do not know, could not hear as I whispered, "forgive me."

 I bet his father threw rocks. Reaching into my pocket I pulled out the rock I carry when I walk and released it with a whisper for the little boy. The rock he threw was released, errant perhaps, but it is gone. As I watched my rock settle upon the lake bed of silt, I prayed the little one would not be left with an even larger rock to carry in his heart.

Equinox Encore

Within the cupped hands of the timeless, the changeless and the changing rest. The seasons have changed only for those whose source of life returns to the roots awaiting winter's meditation. For the changeless the sap remains, not as strong, but enough to hold their adornment.  The timeless stands, weathered perhaps, but without sap it stands in its strength.

A picture to capture the beginning and continuation of all seasons. Like the dance of the soul unpretentious, flamboyant, graceful strength, stilled and lifted and a final pirouette. Tis the autumn equinox and the timeless holds forth Her cupped hands and gift, whispering, 'Encore."

Mountain Loom

"Fear is not of the unknown, but of the loss of the known. The unknown does not incite fear, but dependence on the known does" (Krishnamurti).  "Love is incapable of asking anything" (Course in Miracles).

Two threads seemingly so different in texture and intent, woven together in my mind and this picture. The little heart, the precious spirit that makes no demands, but quietly waits while our minds and bodies continue to cling to the expectations, labels, and "must do's" and definitions of right and wrong, proper and improper, what we can be and cannot,  imprinted upon us from birth and daily reinforced. Sometimes we feel the pulse, the heartbeat but quickly turn away. The spirit and heart make no demands nor do they confine with demands and definitions. To listen would mean giving up the known and trusting the Love that simply asks nothing, waiting to hold your hand so you can truly Be.

And the picture? To help you see and let go of the fear, the precious heart and spirit whisper, "if mountains and obstacles you must have to lessen the fear, I shall open the heavens and bring down a mountain of Spirit for you to see and climb."

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

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.

Precious Ripple

In the Vedanta, the question is asked how long a single life time is compared to eternity. Whatever concept one has of eternity, the vastness of time compared to the few seasons we walk upon the earth, make this walk seem but a blink in time. Perhaps no more than the first movement of a blink.  Yet, despite its brevity, we have eternity to think about how we spent the time and in some beliefs, return again to learn and complete what we ran from, feared, or at the time, gave no value.

An odd thread I know, but as I walked around the lake, I saw a middle aged man standing beneath the gazebo deck at the lake's edge. Hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed on the fountains streaming upward, cascading showers of droplets and ripples dancing upon the glassy lake surface.  He did not move. He was a perfect statue of hope seeking an answer. You could feel the weight on his shoulders, you could see his jaws were locked. He simply stared into the fountain. Four laps he did not move. While on the fifth he moved to his car at the crest of the hill where I turn. A quick gaze saw him sitting, hands on the steering wheel, eyes fixed again upon the fountain. Whatever the weight, whatever the answer he was seeking, he had left it in the breathing fountain of water and ripples.

Each step I took, each gaze upon the dancing wind blown leaves and the mountain peak, I wished him peace. As I saw him drive away, I sat down at the edge of the lake. With the whisper of "peace" I cast a stone in and watch the water leap upward and the ripples dance. Another stone and whisper of "harmony" and again the lake leaped upward and the ripples danced.  A third stone and whisper of "laughter" and the lake leaped even higher. A final stone and the whisper of "love" almost reached the fountain and its ripples scampered to those created by the fountain.

The length of a person's life upon the earth is but a tiny ripple in eternity.  Yet, eternity created us and gifted us this life, this precious ripple.  As eternity casts her pebbles of peace, harmony, laughter and love, may the ripple of my life, and the stranger's who drove away with his answer, leap to the sky and scamper to join those of the Fountain. 

Tangible 'Yes'

Hellen Keller, without hearing, without sight, without speech and untouched by the world had no bridge nor thread to tie the words spelled into her hand by Anne Sullivan. Words we take for granted were no more than a scratch in the palm of her hand. Finally, Anne thrust Helen's hand into a pump's stream of water spelling w-a-t-e-r  in the palm of her hand.  It was a baptism into context, sensation, and life became tangible, even precious.

"Prove it!" "Show me your evidence!" "What makes you think you would know!" The proverbial pat on the head that conveys the other's superiority and knowing and our child like simplicity they tolerate. Our world demands facts, cause and effect, evidence and proof.  I cannot prove these threads of hope or the whispers of life calling each to arise and take hold of their dream. I cannot even say I have or can always believe. I cannot say when "post" is clicked that doubt does not batter me. I simply cannot prove that you and I fill a desire in the universe, a unique niche and calling, a dreaming made alive for a purpose.  I am not so wise.

I know when I laid my body down into this snow melt running river, the riverbed sand clinging to my hair and the tiny pebbled river rocks dancing under my body, I thought I felt my heart stop.  And instead of "w-a-t-e-r" scratched in the palm of my hand, sand, water, rocks and cold etched in the silence of the heart's brief stillness "y-e-s".  My own baptism into context, sensation and life becoming tangible.  And so, my simple thread, for however many or few the seasons remain, will be to spell "y-e-s" with threads, whispers and even tears. Maybe one day an echo. Maybe another's hand reaching for mine beneath the pump's or river's streaming water. 

I do believe.

Sculpted Heart

There's a hole in my heart where yours once laid. Whether you left for what you thought was my own good or for your own, I do not know. Whatever the why, there is a hole in my heart where yours once laid. You are growing, unfolding, and finding your dance. Answering the prayer I breathed with every breath - that you might be whole and happy.

And on the day when infinity arrived, just days after the gift of soft,  I simply wanted to say, 'thank you.' You graced my life, and your presence truly made me blessed. There is, yes, a hole in my heart, where tears, like droplets of dew glimmer, beyond the sun's reach to dry, pool and gather rippling like the leaves dancing in the wind. Infinity. Still. 

There is a hole in my heart where yours once laid. Or maybe what was once stone has simply been sculpted into a work of art. Beauty. Grace. Softness. Sharing. Or maybe even simply the imprint of knees left when an angel knelt upon my heart's hearth to plant an eternal seed of love. Infinity. Grace. Simple truths of soft.

Journaled Sky's Reply

Good morning my little heart. Sweet life has awakened us to another morning. The body did not falter and the birds were fed. We savored our oatmeal and coffee as the pigeons hummed their way to the seed. We read of not fearing death, of transitions and awakening. We read of love of Life and the divine spark. We read of nature, her rhythms and cycles. We read of the heart, embedded in darkness, encased behind bone that will not decay, and yet she is the lighthouse, forever streaming forth light to show us the course of waves, shallow waters and hardened rocks.  We read how the blood, so weary from its journey, its cleansing and so depleted returns to the heart. Defying gravity the blood returns and the heart breathes new life into the blood and renewed it returns to offer the breath to all our cells. We sat in silence and felt the morning breeze cloak us like a mother gently covering her newborn sleeping child. We felt the rainbow prisms dancing upon our face. And as the sun rose higher, the warmth weaving through our shirt, flesh and bone warming the heart and joining their light.   Good morning my little heart and spirit. The gift of morning, the day, of life has been given. A simple thread left here, a small thread offered to Life, to simply say thank you. Meager and humbled, timidly shared. To leave the timid sharing and go forth boldly into the day, and open the Gift.   Remembering the journal sky we wrote about yesterday and the words we left, tócame ...touch me...  to hear Life's reply  her echo and request back to us

tócame...touch me.

Journal Sky

When I could write, pens, journals and notebooks were treasured purchases, perhaps in some ways sacred.  The pen's ink absorbed the texture of the paper against my hand, the nestled pen's embrace between my fingers and the paper drank deeply the potion of ink and texture, flesh and metal. 

If you look closely you too can see, the blue journal opened revealing white lines begging for the dance of words and whispers of the heart lifted up to fill the page.  And the texture of the clouds, the blue sky paper drawing you upward, to lift your eyes and hand and write.  Tell me, what would you write? Do you see a to do list? A poem? An entry from long long ago beginning with "Dear diary...." or perhaps the name of a loved one or even just your name in swirly calligraphy.  Maybe the lines become a musical staff upon which you draw notes to fill the sky with song. Does it beckon you to write? Does it beckon you to speak without words? Does it create the smallest taunt of a dream to leave your thoughts upon the journal sky?

To feel the gift of writing again, upon the journal sky and cloud college rule lines, I lift my stutter hand and write..........

Tócame, tócame

First Migration

First migration! First migration..... first migration. If only computer typed words could sing the song of my heart to see the first dance of geese across the sky, silhouettes against the rising sun as I began an early morning walk. Sigh... if only you could know this simple childlike heart that stood breathless to watch.  First migration, the return home. The call in their hearts that lift their wings and the journey begins.

I have walked the seasons, counting not years, but the rhythm and dance of seasons as they turn the pages of my life. Sometimes the rhythm leaves dog eared pages turned down to remember or threads dangling as bookmarks.  As their dance carried them beyond my eyes, the sun drew my eyes to see the green leaf covered in morning dew. The green of spring's kiss glimmering in the sun.  Next week is autumn's equinox yet spring continued to bathe a leaf. 

 Just beyond the glistening drops of spring's kiss the sun painted what was to come. Against the yellow of autumn, shawled with the red of fire and life, the grass created a shadow of fall's naked dancing tree. Spring and summer's luminous kiss against the rhythm of fall dancing onto the stage.

First migration.  The call to journey home.  Spring's kiss and autumn's naked fiery dance.  Another page turned. Another threaded bookmark.  And a whispered prayer to all who might see and maybe even to feel this morning reverie, 'Lift your wings. Dance lightly onto the stage. May your heart rejoice in the rhythm with the assurance, she knows the way Home.'

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.

Thrice Asked

Alternating my  eyes, Kindle font at its largest, and the blurred dancing words read:

“A basket full of bread sits on your head but you beg for crusts from door to door. Up to your knees in the stream’s water and you seek a drink from this person and that.  Would that you could know yourself for a time! Would that you could see a sign of your own beautiful face. … If you could only see your own beauty-for you are greater than the sun! Why are you withered and shriveled in this prison of dust? Why not become fresh from the gentleness of the heart’s spring? Why not laugh like a rose? Why not spread perfume?" ~Rumi

I will not write with the voice of “we.”  I will ask only myself.  I believe in the key. I believe in the keyhole etched to fit the key. I believe in the door knob that turns when the emptiness of the keyhole is filled with that which was carved out. I believe in the door.  So why is it so hard to place hand upon knob and insert the key? I know so many other doors, their handles and doorknobs worn with the imprint of my palms.  Is the act reserved only for others, the great, the inspired, the beautiful, learned and perhaps holy? Or is it the fear of the unknown, untested, and what if, that makes me distrustful of the uncertainty and blurriness?  Leaving me to doubt the angel beckoning, ‘come through the door and believe.’

“Would that you could know yourself….. see a sign of your own beautiful face….Why not? Why not? Why not?” Three times he asks, three times I reply……………….

Remembered Peace

It is odd the things you think about on an anniversary such as this. I was working with an international accounting firm in their small corporateTennessee office.  The home office was in the Twin Towers in New York. Most of our day was spent on the phone with our colleagues in New York. This day, eleven years ago, was no different.  Talking with a young man, Chris, I did so enjoy, I heard the screams, including his before the call went silent. Looking around I could see the other women staring at their phones that also went silent.  The managing partner came to our area to tell us the news and that we could all go home. 

No one moved. I gathered the twelve women who worked for me, and we sat in silence. What can you say? Twelve women, so many miles away, yet stunned in disbelief.  Quietly, I told them to remember the promise of the rainbow. That no matter how devastating the storm, we are promised the rainbow. Clasping my hands to my heart, I bowed to them, and whispered, Shalom.  In unison, twelve women, who probably never had placed their hands to their hearts and bowed, did so, an in unison, whispered, Shalom and returned to their homes.  Days later one of the ladies came to me and asked the meaning of the bow. Smiling I explained, it was a way of honoring them, their hearts, their hope, and their fears. Her eyes filled with tears as she said she could not remember ever being honored.

My cell phone rang, it was Chris, frantic in tears. He knew no one else to call. His boss had just called from California and had literally bought a car so he could drive back to New York, rentals were not available. In shock, he asked me what he should be doing to protect the company’s assets and records. I could hear the sirens and noise from where he stood outside. Quietly I whispered, for him to just hold the phone so I could hear him breathe and for him to concentrate and listen to my breath.  Together we stood, he in the mass confusion and shock in downtown New York and I in a small Tennessee town,  doing nothing but listening to the other breathe.  I interrupted the silence with an occasional whisper of “I am here.”  His breathing would calm, then begin to race, I would whisper, his breath would calm. Finally, when his breath seemed calm, I whispered for him to get somewhere safe, and to know I would not leave him.  Several times during the day and days that followed, he would call, say hello, I need to breathe.  Together, for a few minutes, we would breathe.

Odd, the things you remember. So so many memories on this day.  The world changed. Our lives changed. But even after all these years, two constants remain unforgotten. The power of honoring another and the quiet stillness of listening to another breathe, drawing in their breath of pain and fear.   On that day, and the days that followed, the shocked world seemed a bit more kind. Some devastations are global. Others are microaggressions daily endured.  Just a little over a year later, standing near the site where the towers stood, bowing I laid the flower the woman handed me, and with a bow, asked me to leave.  Standing upright, Chris and I started to leave.  He stopped, went back, picked up the flower and offered it, and a twenty dollar bill around its stem, to an old man who appeared obviously homeless.   He smiled at me and with a tearful wink, whispered, “Still breathing.” 

With body bent and bowed, like the promised rainbow, hands to my heart, to all on this day, Shalom, peace, salaam, and the prayer that every day, we sit and hear the world breathing.

Bookmark - Imprisoned abundance

I pondered so, how it could have happened. And leave the thread here, a bookmark to return when perhaps I am more wise.  Yesterday my little feeder caught my eye and I confess I stood and stared, my eyes and my brain on two different highways and unable to make sense of what I saw. Finally my brain begged my heart to "do something" and she compensated for the eyes. Inside the feeder, frantic and beating against the plastic sides was a small trapped sparrow.  Even now, I cannot figure out how she got trapped inside.  I ran outside and freed her tiny little body, watching her fly far far away from her prison.

I guess we never know how we get trapped. We can see outside not noticing the walls. We are amidst the food and seed we long for and yet, somehow, we have let ourselves become trapped, hemmed in, surrounded by abundance and yet imprisoned. I emptied the feeder to see how she got in. I could not find an entrance. I sighed to think, how quickly, in feeding our longings we never notice the walls we have entered. A thread here, I'll return. For now, the feeder is filled again, and I keep an attentive eye on the feeder outside, and the feeder within.

"Awaken to the mystery

of being here

and enter the quiet

immensity of your own presence."

"May your soul beautify

The desires of your eyes

That you might glimpse

The infinity that hides

In the simple sights

That seem worn

To your usual eyes."

~John O'Donohue

Visible Invisibility

Sometimes I feel invisible. So much so I even check to make sure I cast a shadow.  To think no one knows I am here, my coming and going unnoticed.  Sometimes we make ourselves invisible, hiding behind our masks so others cannot see, know or hurt us again.  Sometimes we run from those who have managed to slip in between, or melted a door with their gentle touch.  Sometimes in our busyness and things to do we hear not the voices of another or others calling our name, and in the visibility of our doing we leave them invisible.  Sometimes with the smile and joy reserved for the gods, we leave random acts of kindness for others and co-create with the sweet Spirits a new life, that is renewed and refreshed from our gift. Ahh yes, tis definitely a joy and smile reserved for the gods, and in that moment of gifting, we know the power of joy and desire made manifest in compassion made visible.  Sometimes we stand alone, invisible and dare to utter the plea or prayer ‘help me’ and feel it hang upon the invisible air around us.  Quietly, softly, we feel the invisible embrace cloak us, embrace us, touch our heart and our face, clasping our hands and whispering back, ‘I am here. You are not alone.’ Moments of visible invisibleness reserved for our hearts alone, knowing there are no words to describe that another would understand.  Sometimes we see the pain of our children or family as they struggle to grow, their invisible scrapes on their knees and elbows and our invisible kisses to make it all better.  Our invisibility is our love to let them find their way, to lift from crawl to walk, to mature to hear their own call, and perhaps even, our love that says good-bye.

Sometimes I feel invisible. And then I think of the wind.  And I think of the smile and joy of the gods when compassion alone is made visible. I bow my heart in silence, and send forth the invisible breath of Life,  “in lak’ ech– you are my other me,  stranger or friend, shalom, peace, and angel wings to lift you from your knees of despair.”  Quietly I go walking.   Into the open windows, closed doors, buildings and cars, I giggle to see invisible angel wings fluttering about upon the wind stirred by the joyful clapping of the sweet Hands of Life.  We scamper about, like the wind, with a smile, beaming eyes of joy, sending forth angels and compassion, invisible like the wind, and watch them become visible when upon another they land.

Unshared Invitation

We can share with others our irrational and angry side. We can share our political, parental and even childrearing expressions and opinions.  Even the child in us, now a parent to the parent shares what is right and should be done’s.  We can express and claim our needs and rights to the stop sign or to go the speed limit (or better) to the drivers in front of us.  We share our impulsive side, our silly and romantic expressions and needs.  As managers, employees, citizens and consumers we freely share the unmet needs. 

Why then, is it so hard, perhaps even rare, for the naked soul and heart to quietly whisper to another, “I hurt” or “I need”?  Is there no invitation?

May my heart and spirit, with all their shortcomings and small wisdom, always offer to another, the comfort and invitation of uttering such a whisper.   

Heart Binding

In Honoring the Gifts I leave simple whispers of gratitude. May their simpleness never betray the wonder and awe of the gifts given.  To say simply  'thank you for the day that brought the night' binds the heart to the path of every gifted  breath. Sweet Hands of Life, I say thank you.

If the only prayer you ever say in your entire life is thank you, it will be enough.

Meister Eckhart

The Heart's Feeder

Sometimes we may wonder, we give so much, try so hard, and yet, a quiet whisper may poke, when it seems we have not made a difference.

The bear was back.  All the feeders were on the ground. One pole was even bent.  The fallen feeders were emptied but the feeders were all intact.  As I cleaned up and tried to restand the feeders, I giggled at the bear, remembering his size, grateful the feeders were intact.

Maybe, I pondered, there is a thread on giving. We give the seeds of our heart and sometimes long to dig them up to see if they are growing.  The seeds belong to others now, their hearts, not ours.  We may only see the bent poles and feeders strewn across the yard.  But the feeders are intact, the bear was fed, and even now I watch the birds feed on a tilted pole, the Pinyon Jay screeching 'oh my what happened here?'  And our thank you comes with the dawn.... we have another day to give.

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.

~ 

Emily Dickinson

Nourishing Touch

The executive doodles as PowerPoint graphs offer themselves to be his palette of oils upon the yellow legal pad, the only canvas the artist inside himself knows.  The mother slowly pirouettes with broom in hand, the only dance partner the ballerina inside her heart knows.  The commuter discovers an invisible microphone and sings to a packed stadium of fellow commuters in their own cars, while another, far away, carries the tune on his air guitar. And I leave my simple thoughts here.
Moments suspended in time, when in the womb of silence and alone, we are nourished by the cord of life and daring to remember the awe and wonder of our dreams, we reach out and touch.

Labor Day Blessing

May the pause of your labors, give reflection of pride for all you do -do not forget to praise yourself.

May the pause of your labors allow your feet to move towards your dream, upon the soles of ‘what if.’

May the pause of your labors issue forth a blessing within your heart for the millions who have no work, food, shelter, water and exist upon the sustenance of dust.

May the pause of your labors celebrate the changing seasons and give cause to notice nature’s symphony and painted canvas beckoning you to come and play.

May the pause of your labors be not the pause of your laughter.

May the pause of your labors remind you to breathe, and enjoy the breath.

May the pause of your labors so delight your eyes, come tomorrow, you eagerly seek to see yet again.

And may today, you know only the effortless labor of love.

Blessings.

Surrendered Gray

In stillness I sat in the last hour before the moon greeted her lover, the sun, and their gentle embrace blushing the sky. The crickets continued  their night's song of joy, and only my breath stirred the air. Two stars or planets, I know not which, tiny holes in the tapestry of blackened sky.  I remembered a gift from a dear dear friend, I received in the mail. How I held the unopened package with such excitement and yet, not wanting to open it, for then the unknown would be lost.  Sitting with the anticipation of the unknown, then carefully, each corner was slowly pulled back, until the gift and softness was revealed. Like the blush, still yearning to be released, the unknown blended into the known and a new dawn appeared.  Staring at the sky, the planet stars slowly danced beyond my sight and with their dance they gently held the corners of the silken black sky and pulled back a tiny corner. Ever so faint, the deep silky black surrendered a softened gray.  The blush awaits. The dawn remains unknown. And I wondered to myself, is this what an artist feels when their soul merges with a blank canvas? Is this the longing a sculptor feels pleading and calling like Ulysses's sirens from the stone or marble block standing before him?

I sit and await the blush. The cricket continues to sing. And I think I have never expressed my thanks for the brilliant and explosive color of black yielded ever so slightly to gray. The moon and sun will soon paint the sky in colors that cause poets, artists and lovers to swoon.  But for these moments, the gray fringe upon black, pale the reds, orange and blue of dawn. The unknown. The unwrapping.  The soft gift of today held gently in the sweet Hands of Life whispering, 'It is yours.'

May my mind come alive today
To the invisible geography
That invites me to new frontiers,
To break the dead shell of yesterdays,
To risk being disturbed and changed.

May I have the courage today
To live the life that I would love,
To postpone my dream no longer
But do at last what I came here for
And waste my heart on fear no more.

~John O'Donohue

A Growl, Screech, Eeeek and a Blessing

I have no photo that resembles the thread. I giggle to think I am almost glad I have no photo.  So bad the pain last night, as Friday became Saturday, I stepped outside on the front porch with my faithful little scruffy white companion.  Nature's gentle cool breeze gathered us both in a most gentle embrace.  Eyes closed, listening to the wind's whisper I felt the sound of the breeze change. Opening my eyes, at the same time my little dog jumped against the screened porch wall, four eyes met two and in the night breeze a screech, an eeeeeek and a growl could be heard. There standing on his hind legs about to take down the bird feeder on the other side of the screen was a rather large bear. If he (or her) had extended his reaching paw towards the screen, we could have shook hands and introduced ourselves.  With his muttered growl, the little dog's screech and my own eeeeek, I gathered my little friend and into the house we scampered.

Sitting, now with two pains - laughter and the other- I explained to my frantic companion the bear was simply hungry.  Our drought has been unkind to all life. Watching the sun rise I went out to feed the birds, wondering if the feeders were still intact. The empty feeders were intact.  I giggled aloud to think of last night and pondered a simple silly thread - What do a blue moon, a brown bear, a white dog and pain have in common?  One smiles, one growls, one screeches and one cries. When you mix them together, with a gentle midnight breeze, you have but one sound, laughter, you have but one feeling, blessed peace.  And that, for anyone who should happen to read, is simply grand.