The Certainty of a Limp

When osteoporosis fractured both knees I was confined to a wheel chair for three months. Me, a hobbit who walks and walks like a sandpiper scurrying along the beach. But I knew I would walk and accepted the distraction of walking with my hands and wheels. I walk with a limp, the mountain rocks, inclines, and descent make the knees quiver trying to hold, but they have learned to laugh. Belief is something you were told. Faith, ahhhhh faith, is something you just know.

Welcome Recognition

He was so kind to put air in my tires. My eyes cannot read the gauge. I offered to pay but he would not accept, offering only a most gentle smile to say 'no need.' As is my custom, my hands went to my heart and I bowed in thanks. As I rose, returning his smile, he looked awkward and ever so stiffly he mimicked a slight bow. My smile grew larger and burst open when he bellowed and laughed "Hey, I like that!"  Two strangers joined as one in respect and gratitude.

Returning home, five candles were lit, forming a star. Facing each one I bowed to each and called them by name...fear, grief, loss, hope, and love. And somewhere, somehow, I heard the voice of "hey I like that!" Strangers and friends joined as one in respect, gratitude, and welcome.

Resting Questions

I stepped into nature's doorway with a question posed by Elizabeth Matti-Namgyel "How do we live a life we can't hold on to?" It is almost the end of December yet my walk among the Colorado mountains gifted a sweat the weather so warm.  While my body was hot the lake moved beneath a sheet of ice. I sat and watched the migrating geese as they rested from their journey. How long will their journey be? Do they ever wish for a sense of home or a life they can hold on to?

I cannot say I got an answer to my question. I did lay my body back against the warmth of the rocks and stared at the sky. I even stood on one leg like the goose and giggled to think that would not gift rest. I took off my sweatshirt and cap so my body could cool. And with a bow to the mountains and geese I made my way back. Such contradictory images, sensations, and textures remind me that sometimes questions are like migrating geese...sometimes to leave them to rest and simply trust the journey.

Opening Christmas Day 10: Unbounded Sitting

On this day 10 of opening Christmas I paused in my tiny room I think of as the sun room. Shelves hold my little plants and yes, the floor beneath provides a bit of storage. The window faces the west where I can sit in my grandmother’s rocking chair and watch the sun set. A small room, for some houses probably smaller than the closets. My little house was built in 1949 and the closet doors are no wider than me. I call it my hobbit house. The ceilings are low and even my short body and small hands can touch the top of the arched doorways. It was not built for storage and yet it raised a family of six and gifted Christmas to grandchildren until my purchase two years ago.

I sat down in the rocker and listened to the squeak of its old wooden frame. I watched a huge flock of geese pass by the window. I noticed a new tiny growth at the base of an orchid. A cloud rested from its journey upon a mountain. I heard the birds gather on the roof awaiting their seed. I heard the echoes of laughter from children to see wrapped gifts strewn throughout the house – no place to hide from curious and wondering eyes. My heart stirred to hear the chorus “fall on your knees” from the song O Holy Night playing on the CD.

Christmas is about joy. The knock your socks off experience that shatters any and all illusions of hopelessness.  The crumbling of all pretense and doubt that sends you to your knees in wonder, awe, and joy. It is not about storage and accumulation. It is not about what surrounds or does not surround you. It is taking your seat upon the cushion of your heart and shaking with laughter and tears of joy as you feel the smallness and walls of life explode in love. It is the joy of transformation such that you will never be the same even after the calendar has turned.

I’ve warmed the rocker…you’re welcome to come and take your seat. 

Opening Christmas # 4 - Stepping Stones Gifts

Opening Christmas Day 4 returns the reminder that paths take many forms and are often interrupted. To let the mind settle from a calendar and clock. To honor the disruptions and lack of flow. To embrace the cannots of money, time, and even heart. To pause in wonder of a frozen lake where nature has left her footprints like cobble walking stones. All is well. Christmas is not a day. The day, the path is the journey.

Smallness Transformed

I sat on my cushion releasing my heart's prayers. For a six year old boy undergoing brain surgery. A mother whose adult child simply did not wake up and no reason is known. For others facing grief, sadness, uncertainty, and lacking the basic water, food and shelter of life. I am but one and sometimes feel so old, frail, and inadequate. My simple little prayers but they are so so earnest and felt. Then to open my eyes and see such a gift. The sun and morning had gathered my little simple prayers and were streaming them into the universe. Never doubt. Never stop praying. Life truly hears and responds.

Scissored Wings

With fondness the image returned of my little marionettes I had as a child. I vividly recalled asking them if they would like me to pull their strings so they could dance. Then the mind shifted to Peter Pan and the magic and awe of childlike wonder...learning I too can fly. Perhaps only a sign of my age to recall such stories. But this morning, this day, old or not, may I find the middle path between the two. To honor myself and not allow either myself or others to create strings and make me jump, like a gunfighter shooting at my feet shouting “Dance!” Nor can I avoid the honoring of myself and others by escaping and leaving my heart’s contracts and service undone. To recall how love and truth released Pinocchio from his strings and Peter Pan's eternal flame of dreams. This day, may I touch myself and all others with Love’s scissored wings and fill the sky with hearts of joy, wonder, compassioned truth and Now.

Unbarred Fierceness

So many have felt the power of nature. Her wind, water, earth, and fire. Today may my heart unleash an even greater force. To give honor to the devastation with the inviolable unbarred fierceness of hope. 

No Passengers

               In Robert Pirsig’s book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, a father and his son begin a long motorcycle journey accompanied by a married couple. Part of the story involves the father trying to re-establish his relationship with his pre-teen son. As the story evolves he cannot understand why his son does feel the same experiences he is as they ride. Towards the end he realizes that his son, riding as a passenger on the motorcycle, can turn his head to the right and left, but to look forward, the natural position, he sees only his father’s back and head. He is shielded from the wind, the experience and from sight. His father has him stand on the pedals as they ride. Unshielded and standing, the son becomes the experience, the ride and alive.

               Sometimes the situations of life call for us to be like the bow of a ship and plow head long into the experience, like the driver of a motorcycle. We absorb the wind and the force. We also become the experience, and we change the direction of the wind, we are the wind moving. Unlike the TV screen windows of a car, we plow through the waves or ride the motorcycle as nature, force and power, no longer casual remote viewers watching all pass us by.

               Other times the situation or others drive. We hold on and can only turn our heads to the right or left and we cannot see what is before us. We become as remote and detached as a viewer of TV. And yet, Life offers pedals. We can stand and become the experience. We can stand unshielded, even as a passenger not driving or controlling the situation. We can rise and stand. We can withstand. We can see. No longer remote we know what it is to feel and see. The experience is ours. As is the choice.

There are no passengers in Life. We have only chosen not to stand on the pedals. 

Uncapped

I opened a journal that has amazing photos of the sky for pages. Entries would be like writing in the sky. I open the journal and giggle. What would possess me to buy a journal when even to sign my name to papers or a check is an effort for eyes that cannot see and hands that tremor and stutter? To ponder a mystical path is to imagine a path of magic, images never seen, trees never touched, grasses and earth beckoning the souls of my feet, and plants reaching for the touch of my fingers. A mystical path that transforms illusion into reality. To step on the path is to leave the world of illusion - labels, fears, restrictions, judgment - and enter the reality of infinite possibilities from which one can choose.It is the path of choice. It is the path of sight. The pages whisper trust. The pen whispers embrace. My hands whisper dance, walk. My eyes whisper visible. I take off the cap and write but one word. Stroke the page. Close the journal. As I place the journal back on the shelf, my heart whispers "yes you are" and giggles. And so beginning week two I shall take with me the practical baby step of one word.....worthy.

This Day Christmas Eve

I believe in the grace of the baby lying in a manger. I believe in the power of the menorah to quench the darkness and radiate hope. I believe in the vision of a man named Buddha. I believe in the jolly red suited Santa. I believe in the Grinch whose heart grew three sizes. I believe in scrooge who kept Christmas in his heart every day. I believe in this sacred holiday we’ve carved into time. I believe in the hope, love and gathering of this time. I believe in the weariness this time casts as our hearts and energy disperse to loved ones, friends and strangers in need. I believe in those who work this holiday to service, protect and care for our needs.

 I believe that belief is seeing. I believe that belief is faith unseen. I believe that belief is a sense of knowing. I believe that belief is the voice in my head that says “On this day” and goes no further for I have but now. I believe that belief is the voice in my heart that says “On this day a child” and goes no further. For a child I will be, full of wonder and innocence and arms outstretched. I will have no prejudices, no judgments and no past. I will trust all who reach out, especially those in need. On this day. On this day a child. I believe in my soul it will remain, forever, Christmas Eve.

The Heart's Magnet

This morning, holding the mala (prayer beads) their texture seemed different in my hands. As I do in nature I listened to see if there was a whisper.  My heart quietly whispered "see and touch each thought, moment, step, breath and person as a bead on the mala." Each bead on the mala gently and sacredly held and followed by another and another. All connected with a single thread. Each guiding my breath, prayer to the next, each bead a vibration containing the bead and space in between. And when the circle is complete, I begin again.  To see life as connected, sacred, within and without.

This afternoon I went walking by the lake.  As I walked, whispering the names of those dear to my heart, my own version of walking meditation, upon the lake was a flock of white birds floating that made my whispered prayers gasp. I had never seen white birds upon the lake and scampered to the shore. A bit distant for these poor eyes and suddenly they turned their bodies - white pelicans.  The first ever flock I'd seen.

I sat on the shore in wonder and awe as the wind gathered the ripples and sent them to the shore.  Bringing my eyes from the flock to the shore... drifting upon the ripples a white feather made its way to me.  As did another.  With sweet tears and gratitude I gathered them in.  Thanking the wind, the water and the pelicans, walking back the ripples sent more.

To see Life as sacred, connected and One draws forth compassion, Love and the willingness to be vulnerable with all of Life, including ourselves.  That can be quite daunting.  Holding the feathers to my heart, each beat a prayer bead one following another, I pondered perhaps the more daunting task is to truly believe the Sweet Hands of Life not only know what we need, but can and will direct the wind and waves to draw all to our feet, our hearts and our souls.

That simple

Joy.

That's it.

That simple.

Eraser of the Heart

A tree I had not met, a rock or feather I had not found and a path that I had not walked called me to come and find.  May my life always be a treasure hunt to see each moment as a wonder and surprise. Discovering the treasures awaiting me and leaving my own for others to find.  

My Story is not written by the hands of others nor the physical. My Self's story is written by the heart. I can tell you the story others would tell of me. Or I can tell you the Story I know. These scriches I write tell the latter, each word an eraser so that only one Story my little heart knows. So off to nature I went to find the tree, rock or feather and the path. To sit with the paper of the soul, the eraser of the Heart, and to discover the treasures waiting, leaving a prayer here and there that others would find what simple gifts I have left for them to find.

Soft Strength

and she danced......

A giggle picture, not art, but it is the dance. My right stutter hand held the left and taught her how to hold a brush.  May we all create the art of finding soft strength.

“There is some kiss we want with

our whole lives, the touch of

spirit on the body. Seawater

begs the pearl to break its shell. ....

…. Breathe into me.  Close the language- door and open the love window. The moon

won't use the door, only the window. “

~Rumi

Summit's Path

I sat on a rock. It was not to be. I wanted so to return to the summit one more time before winter set in. I was as far as I could go. Sitting I remembered the view, standing on a boulder and my heart became breathless again.  And in my breathless joyful wonder the thread whispered, that the summit was still there. Because I did not arrive today, I still could remember, its essence had not changed.  A second thread quickly chimed that even if I had never seen the summit, its essence would still be there.  Suddenly an eagle screeched, and my body shivered to hear the sound again. This time the eagle was unseen. 

The mind would construct a world that says what cannot be seen, attained, touched or proven does not exist, or at the least, not for “me” – others perhaps.  Because we cannot reach the summit, it isn’t real or at least not for “me.”  The mind would even say the summit is off limits, frivolous, so many other important things to do, and yet it stands with foot worn path in plain view.

As I walked back I met a young couple who cheerfully said “Isn’t it amazing!” We shared a pause to gaze around and the young woman asked “Is it hard to reach?” I confess a laugh and a face size smile, “Not at all! Follow the path and listen for the eagle’s screech.”  Their faces lit up like kids at Christmas and we walked together going our separate ways.

The mind may construct but the Heart knows the Essence.  Our choice whether to follow the path and listen for the eagle’s screech or convince ourselves the summit doesn’t exist.

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

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.

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……………….

Seek the sun

I knelt down upon the ground and stared at the oak leaf with its clinging cluster of three acorns. Looking up at all the oak trees I wondered which one was planting her seeds.  They were all oak trees yet not one was an exact replica of the other.  Within each acorn was thousands of years of the essence of oak trees yet how they grew, the dance of their limbs and the bending or straightness of their trunks would reflect their own uniqueness that would develop as they responded to life and the seasons of change. I pondered the seasons awaiting the acorns, so much awaited their cracking open until at last, neither shell nor earth could keep them from knowing the sun ...and change.

Standing up the flower's petals whispered. Delicate, soft and gentle unlike the solid oaks. Both flower and oak will forever hold their essence, their choices, change and loss inflicted and change and loss chosen.  One cannot cut out the past or what was.  But in the strength of the tall oaks and the defiance of their tiny acorns who thought themselves to be mighty oaks, and the gentle folding of a flower's petals, one lesson, one whisper, one thread would forever be constant... Life is unfolding, seek the sun.