True Art

I did not know what to say when her tears fell and then my own to see the pain. I only knew each tear was a thread uniting all in the tapestry of Life. The fear was but Love's palette spilled of its richness upon the canvas of the heart. And both were framed in silence sung.

Threat of Love

On Monday a most glorious walk in nature. So peaceful and quiet except for the bulldozers and dump trucks working on the upper trail. I was able to tune them out except for one moment when the bulldozer went barreling down the path with its beeping back up sound blaring so loudly. I confess, I was miffed.

Yesterday on my walk the driver of the dump truck stopped beside me. He asked if I had been walking Monday afternoon with my dog. When I said yes he began to tell me he and the bulldozer driver watched from above as two coyotes were stalking behind my dog and I. They got within a hundred yards and went down into a crouched stalk walk. What I had interpreted as an unthinking driver of a bulldozer speeding too fast on the trail was their attempt to scare the coyotes away. It worked.

The same coyotes that thrill my heart, that I have seen on the path and offered blessings, were also a threat. How can that be? Nature is my sanctuary, my home. It is the chanting of my heart. Each tree, shrub, and drought hardened piece of earth I walk upon are honored and treasured, as are the coyotes. With my eyes I would never see such a threat. And so I smile as I write. My diminishing sight has taught me to see with my heart. Oh yes, I will be vigilant and not foolish. But I will also not accept fear. To love is to open to loss. To climb a mountain is to accept you will also slip and fall.  The gift of diminished sight is the clarity that the path is not meant to be smooth. It is, truly and simply, perfect imperfection. It is the “threat” of love…an open heart.

Freeing Shadows

               What is the difference between knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the sea and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. 

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I sang and chanted the Knowing of Love, being Love and giving Love. In the wind I heard a whisper and thought it only the sound of my feet slipping on the rocks. But I knew the voice. I was walking into the wind. It began as a whisper. Grew quietly into a cry. “I am unloved. I am not loveable. I will never be good enough for anyone or anything.” I knew the voice and the 237 seasons that had shaped the words and then silenced them. Even the Knowing had, in some ways, silenced the voice but always knew it was there.

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. And as I walked I listened as the voice became stronger lengthening my stride up the hills. As I walked with Knowing I sat the voice free to cry, to yell, to fly. I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. The voice, the silent fear flew ahead, soared above and hung like a bird in the sky, so effortless, suspended in time. I found the Knowing and my heart chuckling softly as we walked into the wind. Even shadows deserve to be free.

               What is the difference between Knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the se and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. The space where no voice is silenced. The space where you walk into the wind with Knowing, watch feeling soar and fly no longer afraid. The space where feeling and Knowing become trust. 

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.

This too

In all mythologies, creation stories and in every culture, stories of God/gods becoming human exist. They become human to experience only what these frail human bodies can feel. The touch of another's hand, the presence and voice of another. The experience of weariness, fear, uncertainty transformed into Love, Joy, Life, gratitude, abundance and Light.  And so we are here.... the Source of Light, Love, Joy and Creation journeying upon this earth.

No matter the storm that has brought destruction or loss, no matter whether from nature, our own mis-beliefs or those of others.... this too shall pass. More importantly... this too shall transform.

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.

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."

Sweet Hands of Life

In a pile of abandoned limbs and branches it caught the eyes of my breath.  One could even think it sculpted by nature, two hands clasped that look like weathered and worn wood. A wooden lighthouse for all who travel the hardened sun baked earthen ocean... reach out, I am here.

Sweet, sweet Hands of Life.... 

Reaching.

I am the Child

For the grace to see fear as a child that begs a hand to hold hers,  I say thank you.

For the grace to see hopelessness as a child that begs an embrace, I say thank you.

For the grace to see uncertainty as a child awaiting an unlimited future yet to arrive, I say thank you.

For the grace to feel pain, and to know sweet Hands of Life, I am the child, I say thank you.

Racing to the Starting Line

I remember my first marathon.  Because I was a competitor, only against myself, I stood at the rear of hundreds of runners who were competing against time.  I had to strain to see the Starting Line, waiting for the gun to go off.  The first couple of minutes of the run were spent trying to get to the Starting Line so time and the marathon would begin. You could feel the heart beats and energy of hundreds of others racing faster than their legs could ever hope to carry them. Heart beats that would soon settle into the rhythm of solitude, their pounding feet and the ticking of the stop watch.


I was racing against myself, my own weaknesses and fear, my own will that said "I can" and the same will that said "I cannot."  I didn't need a starting gun booming through the air. The sound of the gun exploded when I made the decision one day, to run just a mile, trusting the Starting Line would be there.


Why the picture of an old barn standing out in the mesa's plateau and a worn dirt path? Even though I cannot see the Starting Line, and feel somehow I am now racing against myself and time, a reminder, a thread, a whisper that someone, another presence was here, no matter the solitude of the run or time.... it whispers, "I'm still here."  The Starting Line.

Leave to the night

'Don't go back to sleep,' Rumi pleads. Awaken to the day, to your heart, loving and life. Life and love have so much to share, but sharing means you too must engage in the conversation. So much awaits, don't go back to sleep. And sweet mercy, to awaken with such hunger, excitement and abandonment, that when others, the world, my own negative thinking says that I can't do it, too great a risk, to throw my hands up like a child and squeal,

"I would love to kiss you."

" The price of kissing is your life."

Now my loving is running toward my life shouting,

"What a bargain, let's buy it."

-Rumi

Leave to the night the sleep and its dreams, they are the door calling us forth into the day. Don't go back to sleep.

Beyond the Garden

I cherish my plants. The bamboo and little cypress and bonsai trees and the plants outside that greet me each morning.  As I tended the bamboo I heard the whisper ‘Beyond the garden.’  I left the house shortly afterwards and sat on a rock sitting 10,000 feet above the earth pondering the whisper.

Gardens are to be cherished.  But at some point, for me, they become a metaphor of life.  I carve out a little piece of my full spirit, make a garden, and call it me.  The gardens we create let us feel needed, we tend them, they can even make us feel important, even let us feel in control and the tiny piece can even bring joy.  But I am not called to live in a carved out garden, a sliver of myself.  Called to go beyond the garden and fully awaken my expansive soul. Perhaps that is why nature calls so longingly and strong.

‘Look and see! Cherish your gardens, your niches in life, but they are only reminders of how much awaits, how big your spirit is and your heart. Cherish and tend your gardens, honor, compassion, and gentleness.  But they are not you as you were meant to be.  Do not be satisfied with one plant one piece of yourself you call your own when all of this, all of you is waiting for you to answer the call. Beyond the garden my child. My little one, beyond the garden the bounty of your full self awaits. Step out, step out and embrace the calling in your heart. Beyond the garden. Beyond the garden my child, You await.’  

Standing on top of the rock I realized if anything in the world breathed the quintessence of the will to live it is nature.  Stretching my arms out, face to the wind,  I shouted “Alive. Live. A Life. Life. Life lived.”   

Walking the path back to the car, still breathing the wind, the ever present doubt whispered, ‘Dark days will still overwhelm you, you know.’  Stopping I placed my hand on a tree and whispered back, ‘Perhaps.  But I have stepped beyond the garden and hung onto the wind.’

Forgetting the Giver

I gently bathed the bamboo's leaves, refreshed her water, then giggled and gave her a complete shower. My fingers thought they felt her joy to be so immersed, droplets still cling to her leaves. Was it her joy or my own? I remembered the waterfall I stood beside, the beauty and sound inimitable, knowing how deeply body, mind and soul wanted to lay down and feel the current. I shall next time. But what if there is not another? Not only would my hesitancy have deprived my own spirit of such joy, but what of Life that stood waiting to giggle as she bathed me? So often I view things I miss, lose or refuse to accept from my own eyes, forgetting the eyes and heart of the One who stands waiting to give.

Cold River Covering

Sweet soul of mine, forgive me
I can offer not one excuse.
I heard your voice, felt your need
Accepted the gratitude not the desire.
June 2012

Drop and roll

Originally, this would have been titled (assuming I dared to post it) “After the Fall.”  It would have gone something like this….

When was the last time you laid in the grass and felt the sod, like waves beneath a raft, vibrating and tickling your bare legs?  When was the last time you felt the warmth of the earth as you discovered a pig, a bird and a horse’s head in the clouds above you?  When was the last time you watched the clouds dance and the cottonwood tree puffs skate upon the breeze as you played the piano with your fingers tapping upon your stomach? When was the last time you stretched beneath the sky, innocent as a child and with an adult voice giggled, ‘Oh sweet mercy that was not good but this is, this is simply grand.”

And that would have been all I would have had to say.

No, the body told me she could not walk. I am stubborn. Also fearful if I give in one time the next will be easier and the next even easier, and so I walked.  And the grass to the side of the hill welcomed me, as did the clouds. The body said “enough” and the heart whispered back, “yes, but look and see….” And so I did.

I am old enough to remember the drop and roll drills in grammar school.  In case of a nuclear attack, we were supposed to jump under our wooden desks.  Even a child’s brain, perhaps not perfectly, could figure out that the little wooden desk was not going to save me.  Somehow, because we practiced, it made us feel safe. We knew how to drop and roll. Maybe there is a lesson there.  What we practice – whether we realize we do or not- becomes safe.  Some practices delude us into thinking we’re  safe, like the wooden desk in a nuclear attack.  After all, it’s what others told us to do and we listen. Other practices are more daring and take us ever so close to the Breath of Life.  Maybe if I practice seeing "falls" or when I try and think I’ve failed,  as a chance to stroke the earth and play with the clouds upon a raft of warm green grass, well….. who can call that "fall"?  Maybe it’s just a drop and roll to feel the earth’s tickle and a tiny glimmer of the Breath of Life.

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.