Heart Light

"We know you always thought our houses small. We thought the same thing when we were your age and someone was always stepping on our toes. We know you always thought so much food a waste. We thought the same thing too when we were your age. Yes, in a world where so many are hungry it could seem that way. But when family is brought together and not for a funeral, I think perhaps our exuberance might be excused. Everyone is so busy with their lives, except for funerals, Christmas was the only time everyone would gather in one place, in our house, that seemed small. Yes, we know you didn't want clothes, but it was a way to hug you, long after the toys were put away. And yes, we remember your confused look when three different "Santas" gave you the same toy truck with horses. We blamed the elves. Thank you for never questioning even though we think that is when you grew up and learned a different kind of Christmas magic. Remember the magic, and the houses that seemed so small."

Thank you sweet morning for precious heart lights.

Unchanced grace

It caught my eye and bid me stay. I knelt and allowed my body to become quiet.  Venturing on, time to get back to the house, up the path I saw a woman approach.  I giggled. Her skin so white in such bright sun, shorts and a tank top, only her face was protected by her big floppy hat.  As we approached she bellowed “Hello!” I giggled out loud and bellowed back “Hello.”  

She was older than I first thought, at least my age or perhaps a bit older.  She asked if I would mind taking a picture of her “so she could see” and immediately struck a camera pose.  I giggled again, and asked if she would move to the right just a bit.  I wanted the full strength of the mountain behind her.  She moved and again struck a camera pose.  Yet another giggle, I bellowed to her “Now say ‘It is a glorious day!’” She returned my giggle, her shoulders dropped and relaxed as her hands lifted to heaven, lifting her face and big floppy hat. “It is a glorious day!”  The camera clicked.  Looking in the viewer, she said not a word, only a sigh.  My hands, for some reason, went to my heart and I bowed, “It is a glorious day. Enjoy.”  She looked at me, and with a sigh, her hands went to her own heart, and she bowed her head, “Yes, it is a glorious day.”  And we parted.

As I walked down the path I thought of the flower that bid me linger. Not really a flower, it was still a bud waiting to unfold.  If I had not paused, perhaps the lady and I would not have met.  I would have been off the path we traveled together.  I paused again and bowed to the earth and her rhythm.  Nature’s order. The gentle walk of the seasons.  To trust the pauses and then to walk… it is a glorious day…I bellowed. I may just have to buy me a big floppy hat.

So you can see

The base of my honor stone, Namaste, could not keep it upright.  Straightening it became a ritual, a chance to remember, and whisper yet again, ‘Namaste.”  Today, the earth gifted another as I walked pondering the seasons and time.  This one shaped like a heart.  As soon as I saw it, I knew where it belonged.  The soft gentle whisper of ‘Namaste’ written on the second stone, to honor the first that grew wings and then became a fish in the waters of life, needed a heart. 

Two stones, heavy and hard against the wall of adobe.  One offers honor.  The other gifts the hearth’s strength.  The earthen wall supports them both.  And feathered reminders of softness and flight.  Earth, stone  and sky.  Honor without heart cannot stand. Together, surrendered to the earth, they have wings.  Stones of life, so you can see the whispered painting of Life,  when I say,

"In Lak' ech".... you are my other me

Namaste….  

Helping hand

The morning‘s walk against the wind, weakened body and shifting knees.  Bent over, with hands upon the knees, catching my breath and coaxing the knees to finish, a leaf went skipping by in front of me.  Like a child with arms waving in ecstatic glee the leaf skipped and hopped down the path.  The leaves and trees dancing and bending reminded me of the Flappers in the Roaring 20’s.  A caterpillar, with 16 legs, meandered slowly in front of me, oblivious to the wind and the potential speed of 16 legs.   

With a chuckle, smile and plea to finish, a small fingered stick blew to my feet.  Its texture weathered flowing with intricate movement of lines and shades.  Picking it up, I finished the walk, holding it gently in my tremored hand.  

Sometimes to finish, or simply to keep going, it helps to hold another’s hand.  Sometimes you need a skipping leaf, swaying dancing trees and leaves, and a caterpillar slowly meandering, to finish a leg of the journey. Remembering the hill yet to come, the reward accepted, hand in hand, and the prayer of my heart for all struggling to finish..."In lak ech" ...you are my other me, and my hand is in yours.

"When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." - John Muir

Hieroglyphics upon the soul

So many philosophers, writers of fiction, theorists and spiritual giants have influenced me.  Yet, when I ponder their writings, their insights I find common themes.  When I go further back I find the same things scratched in hieroglyphics upon cave walls or stone.  These authors have no names.  They are not included in college introductory courses.  They were, however, the precursors of thoughts and threads woven into me.  They are part of my tapestry.

Carl Jung, Joseph Campbell and others argue that not only do we have an individual conscious, that has absorbed our unique life memories, but we have a human conscious that has recorded the universal memories of all humanity.  Throughout our human history we have all experienced life, birth, fear, hunger, companionship and death.  Common threads in the tapestry of all human existence. We have all sought greater meaning to explain the world around us. Many of the same creation stories we are told today are etched upon walls by those we would call primitive, not too dissimilar from “apes.”

Sometimes it is comforting to ponder that as I look at the moon at night and ponder so many things, that similar eyes, thousands of years ago, looked at the same moon and had the same feelings.  Other times, my shoulders sink and my little spirit breathes a heavy sigh. If after all this time the questions have not been answered, then who I am to hope that I can now?

I can “google” the questions in a well lighted room and retrieve thousands, if not millions of answers- they could not.  I can reach out to millions of people all over the world and ask for answers, they could not.  Some of the answers may resonate with me while others fall to the floor.  And then, I would surely laugh at myself, I am back to where I began, just another questioner with a rock in my hand scratching my questions on the cave walls of my soul.

And maybe that is the only answer I will get.  To be human is to ask questions, to seek.  To ask and seek means there is something inside me that expects a response.  Wrapping together the universal experiences of birth, fear, hunger, companionship and death is the awareness that yes, there really is something beyond me. Something will respond. May not be considered an “answer” but I will get a response. To get a response means I have been heard, someone or something listened.  Response means presence.  Maybe that is the legacy left to me by those huddled without fire, shelter, language as we know it, cities, or anything else we associate with “advanced.”  The first note ever placed in a bottle was in fact scratched on a cave wall  or stone- “We are not alone. Ask.”