Making Visible the Unseen

And what have I seen?

What seems long ago, my heart, not my eyes, softened the earth with my tears. The eyes knew only the slings of arrows in vengeance cast towards the hawk. The hawk soaring effortlessly free upon the thermals with no resistance had left my hands, like the thermals, holding the tiny red squirrel’s body. Death offering no resistance or the tear softened grave I dug.

I have since watched the lightness of the coyote’s trot carrying a Canadian goose in his mouth, his drought gaunt haunches and ribs soon to know the brevity of fullness. I bowed and gave thanks. I have gathered the cat and hawk’s calling card of dove feathers piled and dancing with the breeze, and buried them with corn meal. I knelt and offered thanks to the sky.

With corn meal and blessings I have laid within the earth the form of tiny finches that could not fly into the trees’ reflection in the window that gifts me sight of their feeding. I have wished safe journeys to both the coyotes on the hill top and the bunnies playing below. I have bellowed with laughter to see a fish struggling….on the end of a tiny little boy’s stick fishing pole as his squeal of joy and his dance echoed upon the lake of fish.  I have stood face to face with a wall of stone reaching straight up into the clouds, no slants, no easement, here and no further the wall of stone mountain declared. And I have bowed to the trees bent out and then upward from its stone closed doorway.

And what have I learned?

A tiny red squirrel now has wings and soars upon the thermals seeing trees that look like specks of dust beneath his flight. A goose now runs, leaps, howls and has a den to call home, a place to rest. A dove no longer timid and cooing now screeches its strength to all below, soaring and diving and has learned to purr, stretch and chase the shadows and wind. Finches now fly wherever they wish, even window panes have cracks that bid them enter and their invisible undenied reflections are seen in dancing grass and swaying trees. Bunnies and coyotes laugh to play hide and seek and some bunnies no longer hide beneath the earth to rest but lay in the grass, warmed by the sun, fearing no thing. A fish has learned to dance, read and write, dreams of flying to the moon, and knows the gaze, touch and kiss of love. A stoned mountain’s closed door has softened eyes that reach down and carry you both within and upon its top as it whispers….”here and beyond.”

And what do I see?

I have a form that gifts pleasure to those who like to count and put pieces of paper into neat orderly piles. I have a form that gives order to ques...some go this way others go that way, this door that door. I have a form that has been given a name much like the names of coyote, Canadian Goose, Sharp Shinned Hawk,  or Red Squirrel. But does not the coyote feel the migratory call as it lays in his den or the vibration of wings that would take flight? Does not the hawk giggle to see nuts on the ground and its claws flex as if to hide them in the clouds. Or does the goose look to the mountains and hills feel its webbed feet immersed beneath the water stretch as if they were running across the mesa? Or the dove hearing the screech knows no fear, the claws and descent are her own?

I have a form that chafes and burdens me at times, weighted heavy like the boulder Sisyphus slaves to roll up the hill only to see it roll back down.  I have a form and eyes that have been graced to see…I am a form of forms. No one separate from the others. And unlike Sisyphus I do not have to push the stone up the hill. I can sit and feel its warmth, our warmth The Warmth…for I AM the stone. The stone is me. And we are where we are meant to be. In One. The ALL of One that Is. Formless forms of Light, Being and Love.

Presence Being

Good morning little one

Deer this morning. They were in the lower yard eating what seed the birds and squirrels had not eaten. Four doe. Beneath the New Moon. I was looking upward and thinking how bright the stars seemed upon the New Moon’s sky. Felt a movement and then saw movement in the drive way and then on the other side of the fence walking up the outside of the yard, up the street back to the mountain. A straggler followed and then turned and stood still beneath the street light on the opposite corner and looked towards my direction. I do not know where she was looking but to see her stand beneath the light took my breath away. An artificial moon showed her winter gray coat.  Giggle, I sometimes forget how big deer are. 

Oh little one, they belong in the mountain area not where cars fly upon the streets not expecting deer. And yet, I giggle, why should we not expect them? This was their home before homes for human forms were built. Before cities were carved into the mountains, the mesas, this was their home. Yes the drought has called them from where they have gone to escape the cars, the cement and human activities, they have left the small areas where they can still live and returned in search of food to where they used to roam. The bears will soon be here as well.

Sometimes I think we are like the deer. Life, definitions, roles, responsibilities, desires of the hearts moved further and further away from nature’s own, until we become remote to ourselves, where our tribe used to roam beneath all the moon’s faces and starlight. Every now and then we forage outside the fences of safety to see if perhaps the geography our heart remembers has returned, is there. Our feet upon the cement instead of the earth. And yet, and yet, as I watched the doe beneath the moon we created, her body still, her head gazing this way, I wondered…what did she see? And I knew, beneath the new moon she saw what she saw…… her Tribe roaming freely, grazing, dancing beneath the New Moon and stars that celebrated the New Moon in their brightness, offering back to her the light she constantly gives to them. She stood and saw past what I was seeing in fear…cars, dogs, homes and cement. She saw what was, what is, and what will forever be….nature’s sweet call to be as one is, as one was, as one will always be…free and unconfined. She and the others had heard the Tribe’s call just like the blades of grass growing up through cement cracks, tree roots lifting sidewalks or holding firm in the side of a mountain. The heart of the Tribe, of Life, not to be denied. The New Moon sang and they left their space of fear to stand and see. To leave their presence Now with, upon, and One with the All. 

I bowed with open hands to my heart, a tear melting upon my face, like the snow, giving drink to my smile. As I stood to turn back into the house, one last gaze back and I saw her turn, heard her footsteps upon the cement and upon my heart as she slowly walked back…to the mountain, beneath the New Moon and luminous stars. And I whispered, when the sun kisses the New Moon goodnight, may I be graced to see the Tribe as did she. To know wherever I walk, I do so upon sacred ground meant to be experienced. May I answer the Call of Being she stood and saw.

Unveiled

Come little One, let me see your face. Come little One within my heart, no need to hide because you are afraid, you fear the roads, your eyes that cannot see, even signs and markers are a blur, to think of how you will see the roads. Come little One who drives with one hand because the other is not trusted, come here little One, let me see your face and let your eyes look into mine.

I do not know why but as I write these words I remember the story of Moses and God, when Moses went to the mountain top and saw God. His face became so radiant, so bright, so illuminated that no one could bear to look upon his countenance. They asked him to wear a veil. A face, a countenance, the form so transformed radiating the light he was, we are, could not be seen. And then I think of how art and literature has always been fascinated and drawn to the story of beauty and the beast. Of ugliness transformed into beauty or having such an open heart. The ugly duckling that becomes the swan. Phantom of the Opera, the frog that becomes a prince with love’s kiss. The old story of men camping in the forest on a frigid winter night and a “hag” appears asking for warmth. They shun her away, all but one who invites her to share his sleeping bag. In the morning she has transformed into a beautiful princess. Even the saints in religious paintings do not radiate they remain faces we recognize with a little halo around their heads. There are stories of beautiful ones, like Cinderella, where others are jealous and seek to kill them. But even then, the beauty that is seen is veiled; it is still a form, a face, a being we recognize. And then, there is the ancient and eastern art that portrays the gods with multiple eyes, legs, arms and mouths, even as animal shapes, trunks of elephants, snakes, unveiled of this human form. The western world is so uncomfortable with these images, the beauty and symbolism veiled in what is seen as grotesque, bloody, and inhuman. But none are the story of Moses, so radiant with the Light within, the chalice becoming the Chalice that human eyes could not look upon, and so he was forced to wear a veil as would a leper whose deformity had to be hidden.  We come so close to seeing such transformation in literature, religion and art but still we hang the veil of this form upon each painting and story and dream of what must exist and breathe within to create the beauty. We fall to our knees holding our faces to the earth afraid to look upon the face of the Divine.  

The Sufi poets like Rumi stripped away the veil. They became drunk in their divine madness.  Life became a dervish with the Beloved, to know the Kiss, to see the Eyes, to feel the Touch. They allowed no veils. Perhaps that is why lovers everywhere gravitate to their poems as perfect writings of love. But it was not to a human formed lover they wrote, though that is how we often read, it was to the radiant Beloved unveiled that transformed them, their hearts. It was the sight of the Beloved unveiled that penned such poems of Love. Having seen the face, having become drunk with divine madness, they poured and poured from their chalice the radiance, the beauty, the love, life, and oneness of all from the tiniest speck of sand to the glory of the Creator saying “let it be….” And even they have often been veiled as drunks, mystical status unattainable by normal people, or grandiose love poems embellished and beyond what we see in everyday love.

But why would the Divine, Life, Love, All That IS look upon us if not for the desire to have the gaze returned? Does not a lover look upon the face of his or her beloved longing to see the gaze returned? Are we not drawn to the stories and art longing to see the gaze returned? Do we not stand and look to the heavens seeking the gaze? Perhaps this experience in form is so that Source, the Divine, the Sweet Hands of Life can look upon Itself and experience the gaze returned.  In our essence, our light, we are Oneness, there is no separation, no gaze to be returned. In form, the gaze, the yearning, the creation, the emanation of Life created in the gaze the return is found. We experience the experience of creation, being and Being. Perhaps if Moses had not allowed the veil, others would also have seen the gaze and known the Beloved's Kiss of Life. It was not stone tablets we needed, it was the dropping of the veils.

And so little one, come forth and look upon and into these eyes. No veils this pre dawn morn that welcomes the new moon tonight. The New Moon that will leave the night sky dark and without light save that of the stars. Come forth little one, like the New Moon, and gaze into these eyes in the fullness of the Light seen, unveiled. Darkness made light. The Beloved’s Kiss of Life…unveiled.

Ritual made Fresh

Giggle, I do not sleep much. I tend to simply doze in bits. The pre dawn is my sacred time. Every now and then, my little body says it needs more time and I do not wake up as I normally do. ....this morning was such a morning. The little hobbit eyes opened and smiled to see the sun coming in the window. Then a start went through my body....sun???? Sun?! Birds? There is no sun, there are no birds in the early pre dawn. Ooops, I giggled. I had missed the sacred pre dawn. The sun was already just peaking over the mountain, the sky that wonderful blue gray pink color. I stood outside and where my eyes always rest upon the constellation, the moon, the pre dawn silhoutted trees, now I had to squint with the sun's bright smile. A wispy cloud streamed across the sky. The finches gathered in the trees and began their songs. The squirrel from across the street had already made his way over for breakfast and was sitting on his haunches like Godzilla. I giggled to think of him looking at his little arm with a watch and the thought, uuuhhhhh, breakfast please. So many sounds and images, that yes, I hear and see every every morning, but only after I have been awake for several hours. This morning, they were the first.

Oh my friend, the sacredness of rituals. I had missed my pre-dawn ritual. For a brief moment I was almost miffed, thinking myself "lazy" for not awakening as I do. And then gently the whisper came. The rhythm of ritual that brings meaning and mindfulness to our days, our steps, our breaths, our heart beats. But rituals were never meant to become the sacred. Rituals were never meant to become the rhythm. Rituals are like the vibrations and resonances of the singing bowl that calls us to pray and meditate and the celestial songs. Anahata - unstruck vibrations that resound. As I do in the pre dawn velvet of night, when everyone in the neighborhood is asleep, I stood and stretched my arms wide, lifted my head to feel not the moon's warm touch but the brightness and heat of the sun bursting through my closed eyes. I said "good morning" and drew my hands to my heart and bowed deeply, whispering "namaste sweet life. I do so love you." As I straightened and opened my eyes, the morning earth, already awake, smiled. I stood with my hands still to my heart which gifted the sun a sweet tear to drink as it lay in the crevice of my smile. Rhythm, ritual and dawn.... the resonance of being greeting the pre dawn moon and stars in full sunlight. To awaken and see the rhythm and dawn of morning's dance...fresh, crisp, waiting to be greeted. To open my eyes and heart. The ritual of life. The ritual of joy. Fresh. The trigger of my heart not my mind.

Dream Dreamed

Good morning sweet little one. To ponder, again, as my eyes open to the morning, all that is around me, touched, felt, seen, heard and tasted. To ponder that no thing around me existed at creation, and yet, it did. Every thing I see existed in its essence, but unmanifested in the form I see today. The form today is the creation from a dream. A dream that if this and that are brought together a new creation exists. Because of a dream my fingers touch a switch and there is light before the sun rises. Because of a dream the fruits and blossoms of plants and trees,  now gift the coffee I drink, the clothes on my body, this paper and pen, and the little couch upon which I sit.  

And yet, even these things are not the same as originally dreamed.  Even the skills, machines and technology which manifested the dreams are not the same expression as when they were dreamed into being.  All have changed over the years. The dream was dreamed. Everything about me existed, awaiting the form it is now. I ask the couch, the cup holding my coffee, the paper and pen, the computer and light – this is you now as someone dreamed…. What will you be when the dream is dreamed?

My heart sighs to think of the dreams that have brought destruction, hate, death and separation. The dreams that see not creation but the annihilation and servitude of others’ dreams, including nature’s dreams. Perhaps the question that should be asked of dreams is whether the dream allows another to dream? Does my dream create the soil in which others dreams may flourish, manifest and be? Does my dream create boundaries, exclude or define what others may dream? Does my dream honor balance and draw deep the roots of gratitude and love? Does my dream nurture mornings for all so that their eyes may open and see?

I AM a dreamed dream. I am a dream dreamed in the heart of creation. Would I try to keep the eyes of Creation closed and not allow them to open and see? Or will I, this day, choose to allow the dreamed dream to BE? Everything I do, say, feel or believe about me either allows the eyes of Creation to open this day or remain closed. Will I, in fear, hate, ego and disbelief that I am a dream dreamed, hold my hands over Creation’s eyes and say “Sleep, awake not again. Your dream dreamed shall not be.” How often I have prayed in sorrow and pain, “Take this cup from me.” How often I have prayed not seeing the dream dreamed and Creation pouring from an infinite fountain the sweet nectar of life, love, joy and abundance into this cup.

Oh sweet morning, may I be so bold as to open my eyes and shout to the world, to life and love, to all that is 

“Fill this cup now! Let me drink the dream dreamed!”

Morning's Good Night

Good morning sweet little one. To awaken this morning…again. To awaken again and behold all around me. The gift of life. This sweet gift of life. Do I really comprehend this gift? Or do I see my life, the opening of my eyes like the water and tap – I turn the tap and the water will come on. Or like my car – there should be a car in my driveway. When I turn the key the engine should come on and run without thought of the mechanics and electrical system. Perhaps an occasional look at the gas meter. So much around us now has become an unconscious should. I create day with artificial light. I have faucets and toilets. I have ovens and microwaves that come on in an instant and cook my food. My food is prepackaged at the store ready to go. So much of my life is just expected.

I set an alarm because I expect to wake up. That makes me laugh. Do I really understand the gift of opening my eyes and a new day stands before me? Time in my mind and culture is linear. Time progresses from A to B to C and will, accordingly, one day end. Would I see the world differently when I awake if I knew no time? That though in timeless space all simply is, in timeless space all is also re-created and transforming. What if I knew no time and therefore the awakening and opening of my eyes could reveal a life and being so totally different than what I saw, felt and touched all around me yesterday? That the linear constancy of creation in timelessness might well bring a totally different life today. How would I have said good night? Good morning little one. I opened my eyes and all is and was here. Teach me to say good morning, blessed morning that I might learn to say good night, blessed night, gifted day. Teach me how to open my eyes.

30 minutes

Good morning Sweet Life. Thank you for eyes that opened this morning. Thank you for eyes that could see dark turn into light. Thank you for awakening in a warm bed within a house protected from the weather. Thank you for a home with an address. Thank you for a body that arose out of bed without assistance. Thank you for legs that could slide off the bed and touch the floor. Thank you for legs that supported my body to walk. Thank you for a kitchen that I can enter and be fed. Thank you for coffee and hot drink. Thank you for hands and arms that can reach for these gifts of abundance. Thank you for the computer that connects me with the world. Thank you for the electricity that turns lights, computers and coffee pots on. Thank you for a couch to sit upon. Thank you for the earth which gifted all the materials for this home, bed, food, and drink. Thank you for music. Thank you for the sense of touch and ears that can hear. Thank you for all the hands that touched, worked, and created all the things I have already touched, I see and hear. Thank you for clean clothes to put on and all the gifts of the threads from the earth. Thank you for each beat of my heart already passed unnoticed and for each breath that sustained me through the night and continued to beat when my eyes opened.

Thank you sweet life that at this moment, this very moment as I write, 7 billion people are waking to their day or gathered in the sleep I have awakened from. We each are in this moment right now held in your sweet hands. Thank you for the earth that is holding each 7 billion of us and all of nature, plant and animal life maintained by the air, sun and moon. Thank you sweet life for the 30 minutes of arising as one with all of life. Thank you sweet life. Thank you sweet life.

Thank you sweet life for the miracles of these 30 minutes. Thank you for the gifts of this day and all minutes filled with abundance and joy no different than these 30 minutes recorded that I have called mine. Thank you sweet life that each minute that follows will be as sacred and mine to choose how, what, where, of all I will see, feed, smell, touch, hear, and move towards or from. Sometimes it amazes me all the minutes that can occur in such a short span of life. How these 30 minutes become 24 hours and flow one after another. How will they flow? Once I put this pen down how will I move? What will I see? What will I feel? What will my heart record as “happening” to me? What will I record as gifts? What will I record as grace? What will I ….will?