Turning to Hear

I walked with the dancing wind roaring in my ears. I wanted to hear the trees dance and would turn my body til I heard the ocean tree waves cresting and falling with the wind. I laughed. Then I pondered how in turning to hear, my view had changed. To hear I had to turn my body. With the gentle sound of wind and trees I wondered if the trees had been a person, would he or she think I had turned away? Would they think the turning of my body meant I was not listening? In truth, I was not turning away, I was in fact turning so that I could intently hear and feel every word and sound.

I know to some, my journey seems as confused and tangled as the thicket of trees. I know some think I turned away when I sought my heart. They did not, do not know, how hard the turning to hear was and has been. Nor how intently and beautifully I can hear their songs and words...and my own instead of the roar. They do not see what waited for me in the thicket's beautiful and mysterious tangles. I too almost missed. But in turning to hear...it waited to greet. I had to enter the thicket. I had to turn to hear.

Feathered Migration Home...Again

The journey is complete. I return back to my mountains and little hobbit house tomorrow. Nature had been sweet and gifted me ten feathers. Having met the amazing hearts of my peers I returned nature's gifts by gifting each one, all ten to my peers. Each feather was received with such a gentle soft heart and eyes.

Saying goodbye to the river front and city lights I turned to walk back to the room as the sun bid good night to the day and the journey. The sea gull's cry made my heart dance. I knew the whisper. Looking down, was a feather of my own. In giving we truly do receive so much more, I would not have returned empty handed. But nature had one more feather that would travel with me. A gentle whisper, though the dream has been realized, the flight has just begun. A new path awaits. Like the migrating geese, I am going Home.

Bookmarked Wakening

I confess my struggle to find this thread. Perhaps it is meant to be another bookmark. To ponder this morning the picture of my beloved Gulf and hear the waves. To see the water gather and swell. The swells and wakes rising, cresting, and spilling upon the beach. 

Are waves singular? Is the water separated and individual? Or does not the entire Gulf or ocean move within and beneath so that all is contained within the one? Can a wave be a wave without carrying and being carried by all? Is discovering our true Self, humanity, heart, enlightenment or awakening a singular effort or wave? Does the Gulf or ocean offer but one wave and sigh “I am done”? Does the path lead to one moment and all effort and paths end? I know not how to express this whisper. Perhaps it is a bookmark calling for a return. Perhaps to simply say, it is but a whisper of A Wake n I.

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 # 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.

Simply Rise Simply Try

To practice acceptance of all circumstances, feelings, people, and events with compassion and without judgment, not forgetting it applies to the self. My heart sighed to read such words. And then the gentle whisper, “Are they but a bumper sticker placed on your car? Or have you experienced them as both the car and fuel that carry you upon the path? Are the words but your hiking boots worn in the house?” Oh I may get lost in my car. I may get stuck in traffic jams. I have to wash, fuel, and maintain the car. I have to clean off the winter snow and ice so I can see. And I can put on my boots and perfectly lace each eyelet, tie the perfect knot and sit on the couch. The word is to practice, to experience, and to try. No mention of perfection or attainment. To slip inside the car or my boots and travel the path. Nike says “Just Do It.” The path, knowing I am human, says, “Get up and try.” The moon and sun never check the weather to see if conditions are favorable. They simply rise.

Leap Day

So many wise ones have written about life as taking a leap of faith, going for it, and trusting. The hero’s and heroine’s journey is one of facing the obstacles, the mazes, and dragons. We leap alone, not clinging to others or things, nor do we push or force others to join our leap. It is a journey we make alone, leaping into the unknown…much like the way we entered this world. And if that inaugural journey, that first leap is what we now celebrate as our Birthday, then every leap we make is but another! I’m not getting older….I’m being born over and over every moment, breath, and emotion!  And so to all, may I offer a heartfelt giggle and wish you – Happy Leap Day!

Practicing

"Take your time. I'm in no hurry. Death comes soon enough."

His voice was melodic. The clerk's eyes, looking at a line that would make any box office promoter drool, softened and smiled. "Thank you," she whispered. My impatient sigh transformed and whispered, "Thank you." Perhaps that's why it's called a spiritual practice. I have not arrived. "Take my time. I'm in no hurry. Death comes soon enough. Everything is practice."

The Answer is...........

There is a ponderous question I answer with every thought, every to do, every breath and word spoken. Every meeting or action I take or do not answers the question. No one is exempt. Do I truly, really believe that my life matters? That my happiness, my fulfillment, my joy and worth are so precious to Life, God, the Divine, that I was created uniquely at this moment and time to experience? My answer is what I whisper every moment into the eyes of Life Divine.

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.

Migration's Rest

The sound of the geese thundered around the hills and mountains surrounding the lake. Long before my eyes saw the flock you could hear them approaching. Like a train rumbling in the distance you could feel them and hear their signal'd chorus encouraging each other in flight. At last the flock, tiny like butterflies then growing in size and becoming geese with wings and necks stretched towards the lake. I stood as frozen as the layered lake watching.

As they landed the hush eclipsed the thunder of their calls in flight. Silence. As their winged bodies touched the tiny patch of water encircled with eyes there was nothing but silence. Their journey was, for now, at rest. In silence only the energy and communion of their bodies floating in the tiny patch of water was all that spoke. Only the whisper of my heart breathing aloud could be heard... "To know the silence of the migration's rest."

"Wisdom is knowing that I am nothing,

Love is knowing that I am everything,

and in between the two my life moves"

~Nisargadatta

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.

Perfected Senses

This morning, well before dawn, I stood outside and witnessed the moon encircled by a cloud of light. A perfect circle of luminosity around Her own.  Such a pondering the sight gifted. 

Time is not running out or down. Time is timeless and cannot, is not owned or defined.  For 58 years I have never smelled a fragrance not even my precious coffee brewing or a flower, food has no taste nor have I breathed through my nose and my eyes they do not see. 

These are not statements of lack. We can insert any "sense" of what is "not." But as I sit and ponder the dawn's timelessness, the whisper of Love's perfection called. And with each bead of the mala, in Love's perfection I knew the fragrance of rain upon the grass, wet earth, a rose and tasted earth's abundance inhaling Her breath. The senses communicate to our body. Their Perfection, however, is embodied in Love.  

And as I looked at the moon within the circle, to hear the whisper “can you sense the sun?”

To remember I have “no time”…. I am, Life IS timeless.  To remember my senses are perfected IN Love.  And IN my Timelessness and Perfection, I am BeComing.

What is Gone

A moment’s ponder  in the silence of what is gone,

Was it simply a release, a letting go

Perhaps a choice to take a different path.

The earth tremors when mountains are born

Yet softened quivers with the petal’s touch.

Release or choice, no matter really

The path awaits

I can see the mountains

The petals caress my feet.

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.

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."

No Other Ending

I remember reading a book that glued my page turning fingers to the paper, daring not to leave a gap and cause a pause.  Anticipation had a strong enough grip upon my heart and breath, I could not afford even the tiniest pause to turn the page.  And when the ending came, it was not what I wanted or expected. To have held me so entranced and entwined and then abandon me at the end - the book went flying across the room. I confess later, as I tried to understand, even parts of the book were torn.  And yet, it remains with me to this day, even after over three decades have passed.

What did the author see that I did not? How could our hearts and spirits be so far apart?  I knew it was not of spite, a writer's trick to deceive, no it was not that for there was far too much tenderness, hope and blatant honesty woven on every page. How could the ending, then, be so unexpected and almost cruel that I could not see it coming? There was no sequel to explain or describe the life afterwards. It was, as it ended.

After three or so decades the book whispered again to me as I labored to walk this morning. The whisper gave my body the reprieve it needed as it stopped me mid step.  And to the whisper, my own replied, I was wrong, it could not have ended any other way.  The very ending, in fact, mirrored and spoke to my reaction - 

You cannot deny the beauty and sweetness of a story simply because of the ending.

Since there was no sequel, the reader does not know if that truly was the ending or events conspired to bring about another. Who knows? Maybe. Perhaps the thread, the bookmark is that until you truly grasp the truth and breath of the first ending, the possibility of the beauty and sweetness of another cannot be, you cannot see the tiny sprig of growth, of hope, of life.

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.

Simple Friday morning

The day awaits my exploration.


That simple.


And thank you for sharing the journey.  

"Don't underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering" ~ Winnie the Pooh

Texture of release

"Pursue, keep up with, circle round and round your life as a dog does his master's chase. Do what you love. Know your own bone; gnaw at it, bury it, unearth it, and gnaw it still. Do not be too moral. You may cheat yourself out of much life so. Aim above morality.  Be not simply good - be good for something.  All fables indeed have their morals, but the innocent enjoy  the story.

Let nothing come between you and the light.  Respect men as brothers only.  When you travel to the celestial city, carry no letter of introduction.  When you knock ask to see God - none of the servants. "
Henry David Thoreau


Annie 7/9/12 released in peace and love.