A Dream Goes to Sleep

What do you do when a dream dies? Can a dream die? Does waking up put a dream to sleep? Today, officially when I press “post,” a dream will have died or gone to sleep. Sometimes metaphors escape me. Winter’s trees are starting to bud.  For now, they stand naked, vulnerable; some would even call them stark. You can see their broken, bent, and misshaped branches.  One could even say, against the blue sky they stand with a dignity spring and the glory of autumn will never know.

My journey has been like winter’s trees. Unlike the dignity with which they stand, I preferred to hide in the canopy of spring. I have written of nature’s whispers, the simple joy of being alive, and the wonder of this gift called life. I am, very much, a simple child at heart.  It has been a journey of affirming healing long sought. The losses have been great both personally and collateral damage. And still, with childlike trust I keep walking the path and gathering the tapestry’s threads.

One whisper, one thread I could not hide from or ignore. And so, today, like winter’s naked trees, in one fell swoop the canopy of spring is disrobed.  The disrobing is swift as I tell any who may pause to read, that my little heart has put her whispers in a small wee book called Whispered Grace. Simple scriches. Some you have read here. A website/blog has been created and launched today:  http://www.whisperedgracebook.com/

I do not know how to or if I will continue to use the two blogs or migrate to one. How does one leave a home like this that has been my sanctuary and mantra…affirming healing. My hope would be somehow a Facebook or page where others can record the whispers they hear during the day, to describe their own winter and spring tree dance. I began this space so that others would know they were not alone. The path, is in truth, well worn. Logistics are logistics. I only know today a dream has died or gone to sleep. For though I wrote so that others would know they were not alone, I dreamed I could remain alone and hidden, not even using my name to identify the one who posted.

And so….. Hello. My name is Beth Chapman. I like to walk in nature. Sometimes nature whispers gifts of hope. Sometimes nature makes me laugh. I am so far from perfect you’d probably shudder but I try. Sweet mercy I do try. I have been on a long long journey dreaming I could stay hidden and out of sight. And so I step out and offer my heart like nature’s winter trees. I know my writings seem childlike and sometimes see joy and possibility in a world that would say naught. But still I believe. Still I trust. Still I laugh in awe and delight. And still I know none of us are alone. Now, to live awake with healing affirmed in whispered graces. Hello… my name is Beth Chapman and I've written a wee tiny book that I dreamed could not, would not ever happen. Another dream put to sleep. And my heart is laughing.

With hands to my heart and bowing deeply, Namaste.

Affirmed Affirming Healing

In that one moment all paths merged into one. No past. No future. No journey getting here. No journey remaining to get somewhere else. Quietly, with such simple ease, my heart sighed.  I knew I had not returned home. I had become home. All that had come before and all that awaits will find an open door and the welcome mat of Now.

I will not change the name, it is indeed precious. But in that one moment when the heart sighed, the whisper was heard, "Affirmed Affirming Healing."

Exposure Nailed

Life always nails us. The big nails somehow seem to wake us up. The little nails either go unnoticed because we've become numb to the pain or we fail to notice the gift. Either way, when we're nailed we bleed.

What is interesting is that our blood is not red until it is exposed to air, to the outside world. The essence and flow of our life changes when exposed.

Removing the rock from my shoe and rubbing the bloody blister made, the dance of the sun caught my eye. The rock, though little, was as much a part of the mountain as the big boulders. In fact, the boulders, even the mountains would fall were it not for all the little rocks that hold them in place. I placed the rock bearing a dab of red not blue blood back upon the trail side. Life always nails us. Bowing to the dance of sun and tree, I whispered the welcome for all nails and rocks to expose and transform what is inside of me. To see not nails or rocks, but the ladders, support, and mountains they create and sustain.

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.

Being's Beauty and Strength

New calendars have replaced the old. I smile to think each month, day, minute, and breath are in fact the beginning of a new year. No need to wait.

A whisper gave me pause as I walked in nature. The stillness and quietness rumbled like a rolling tympani. I did not realize how much sound my footsteps made. In the quiet I turned to see the image. And the whisper of the beauty and strength of being.

Blessings to all, this sweet earth and life.

Rock Music

The river's sound can calm any heart. But it is the rocks, ice, and tree limbs the water must move over, under, and around that creates the song. Still water is silent. The song is written in the notes of obstacles.

Ready to Play

A friend wrote of a battle to keep her land pristine and free of development. It triggered within the fear that life or forces are much bigger than me. What chance do I have against such powers? But then to think that Life, the Divine, Source IS all. What can be greater than All? To know the joy of trust. Joy! It is not clinging to the life raft or broken piece of the ship as I am tossed among the wreckage. Joy! Not holding on. Not Holding. Joy! Releasing and knowing the waves will be but a different raft to carry me where I am to be. But even in the releasing, to know that I also am gifted arms and legs to steer my course. They match the current of the waves. To know both are one. One without the other will surely sink, or even worse, simply cling to the wreckage. Diving into the ocean of trust with arms and legs readied to direct. Releasing into the Joy of All. Come sweet life…I’m ready to play.

Rattling Songs

A walk by the lake to clear my fuzzy brain and weary eyes. The wind swirling and thoughts pondering how perception actually creates what we see. I thought it was a stick. My little dog ran to the end of her leash ready to retrieve. The stick transformed and rattled its tail. Yes, with panic, I reeled my little dog sending her legs flying in the air.

Have pondered that sound I can still hear and how I have always wandered the lake, canyon and mountain paths without concern. An error that could have been quite costly. The rattling sound still dances in my mind but has transformed it into a song. No judgement. No fear. No veil of threat to shroud my walks. I will be mindful - lesson learned. But my heart releases. The rattler was actually quite beautiful and moved on. And so must I. Letting go of all mistakes and seeing their beauty, their rattles are but a song.

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.

Adjusting the Sails

I weigh 80 pounds. The bag of birdseed clumped in the cart weighs 50 pounds waiting to go into the car. The wind is blowing over 30 mph. Need I say more......  Sometimes the burdens or things we reach for simply require leveraging the wind that buffets.  And a gentleman getting out of his truck laughing and bellowing out "That's my girl!" makes the adjustment even sweeter.

Held by Grace

For all the have nots, cannots, the pain that grows worse with trying to heal, eyes that cannot see and one hand that cannot hold or write, and the quietness each one brings to my heart, knowing Your sweet Hands, o Life, are strong enough,  I say thank you.

Simple truths trying to find the loom that will weave them together, a tapestry of beauty, love, faithfulness and belief in destiny and forever, this moment alone is worthy of the journey and for that hope, I say thank you

Nectar's Bitterness

John Burroughs described the simple wisdom of nature. The fruit of trees so lush, sweet, and juicy beckons us to eat, indeed, the delight may even be said to taunt us.  Yet in the center of such heavenly nectar awaits a seed or pit that is as bitter as the fruit is sweet.  What do we do with the nectarless hard pit? We toss it aside and throw it away and nature laughs.  In so doing, we have become a co-creator, joining the circle of life. For in throwing away the seed or pit we have cast forth nature's new life, awaiting to be transformed and born in places she, as a single tree and branch, could not have reached.

Would I, with the same wisdom, drink deeply the nectar of life and giggle and savor when the sweet juices trickle from the corner of my mouth and down my chin.  And when my teeth and lips, as they surely will at times, rest against the bitter pits and hardness of pain, loss and lostness, abandonment and confusion, may my heart smile as she releases the pit back to the sweet Hands of Life to be transformed into another sweet juicy tree of Life.  And as the pit, a seed, is willingly released and planted, to let my tongue dance upon my lips, gathering the drops of nectar still clinging.

Thanks to the human heart by which we live,

Thanks to its tenderness, its joys and fears,

To me the meanest flower that blows can give

Thoughts that do often lie to deep for tears.

~Wordsworth

Cooling relief

The house would not release the day's heat. Outside the night air much cooler.  I placed a wet paper towel upon my neck and felt my body's heat penetrate and absorb its cherished coolness.  The heat of my neck overcame the cool relief. I placed the towel, and its tiny remaining cool relief, inside my tank top, upon my chest and against my heart. It felt as if it exploded in cooling waters sending relief throughout my body. What had relinquished to the heat was renewed.


I look at life, our world and so so many needs, suffering, pain, lack and sorrow. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed, what can one such as I do? This morning the simple little paper towel waited next to my coffee pot. It made me smile. Perhaps if I can do nothing else for the world, for you, my other me, I shall carry a cooling little paper towel and whisper, 'Not for the neck that supports the brain of thinking, place it upon your chest, your heart and feel the river of cooling relief.'

Invitation

I must go and remove all the seed from the ground and feeders. The store was out of sunflower seed and I had to buy a mix with berries and fruits. The ants have discovered the banquet and the birds and squirrels can no longer eat. Last night sweltered in the oppressive heat, no air conditioning to cool the body, my head exploded as I tried to make eyes that cannot see, read about ways to display my feathers. I have images but there will be no other hands to do what mine cannot, but I will get what I see. I hung some of my photographs, that make me smile and feel the sacredness of being, in plastic sheet protectors, taking several hours trying to hammer or hold a tiny nail with a hand that will not grasp. I laughed to feel my mother’s shame of not having picture frames.

A litany of ‘have not’ and ‘cannot’? No, each one is an invitation. With a hand that tremors I extend my list to you. The invitation is that your open hand extends yours to me.  Take not my list and withhold your own. Nor will I take yours and in silence keep mine.  It is the exchange, the invitation and offering that heals. Oh yes, the ants may still be there, the feathers remain undisplayed, but the invitation, the offering and acceptance is what transforms the have not and cannot into Life itself. That is the beauty of the souls walking together upon this sweet earth.  Together….to gather. 

In Lak'ech - you are my other me.

Touch the water and rise

I remember my one and only experience gliding across the waves in a small sail boat.  I wondered how we could possibly get to where we were going when the wind was blowing straight on and against us. How could a sail gather the wind and glide us to where we wanted to be? 


A morning memory that led me back to this image and a smile. I remember how my friend stared into the sun, never a bad word was said, never a doubt. Only eyes fixed and his hand upon the wooden lever that turned the single sail. We glided with the wind blowing in the wrong direction yet sailing us to where we wanted to be.


Maybe to get to where I want to be, though the winds blow hard against me, I just need to let my feet touch the water and lift my wings to the wind...and rise.
Belief.

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.

A different earth

They were playing catch in a small stretch near the road. Not much space to throw the ball. A big brother and his much younger sister.  Outside the window I saw the yard that tries to defeat my body's strength and mocks my will to tend. Grass. Space.  I walked outside and offered the yard.  Now, as I sit, laughter fills the air. The snap sound of ball in glove.  The older sister has joined.  Play. Laughter. Joy. The earth will be different now, when I go to mow. My feet will feel laughter. As I push the mower up the hill my knees will soar like a well thrown ball of freedom. 

The Place I Want to Get Back To

is where
in the pinewoods
in the moments between
the darkness

and first light
two deer
came walking down the hill
and when they saw me

they said to each other, okay,
this one is okay,
let's see who she is
and why she is sitting

on the ground, like that,
so quiet, as if
asleep, or in a dream,
but, anyway, harmless;

and so they come
on their slender legs
and gazed upon me
not unlike the way

I go out to the dunes and look
and look and look
into the faces of the flowers;
and then one of them leaned forward

and nuzzled my hand, and what can my life
bring me that could exceed
that brief moment?
For twenty years

I have gone every day to the same woods,
not waiting, exactly, just lingering.
Such gifts, bestowed,
can't be repeated.

If you want to talk about this
come to visit.  I live in the house
near the corner, which I have named
Gratitude.

~ Mary Oliver ~

Q & A

Question: I need my eyes. I need to see, to read, to ..... When? Please.

 

Reply:  So much beauty in between. But who can deny the beauty of the pod containing the red flower waiting to explode in vibrant tissue like petals. Nor can the beauty of the empty cocoon, more fragile than the petals it nursed into life, be denied.  To see only the middle, is to miss the true beauty of softness and emptying.  

We all have rooms

We all have rooms, doors, closets or even sheds where the depth of our brokenness remains hidden.  Even the “No Trespassing” signs and barriers apply to us.  We do not want to remember those moments, hours, days, months or perhaps even years.  However fleeting the memory, it is enough to catch a glimpse of the door and remember.  Like the survivors of tornadoes, hurricanes, fires, floods or bombings, we stand clutching a broken picture frame as we gaze upon the destruction, the absence of what was, before quickly turning away.

I have not made peace with the door.  We have signed a truce.  It has made a persuasive argument for squatter’s rights having lingered in my soul for so many seasons.  In the legal world, if I had given notice to the squatter, the occupied land or shed would be mine.  Because I never told it to leave, never gave notice or attempted to evict, by default, I have surrendered the space.  Going forward, we will have to learn to cohabitate and live together.

Some gardens are meant to be wild.  Never weeded or pruned, their elegance is in their natural wildness and dance.  The order of nature determines the boundary and inhabitants.  Other gardens require more attention; nature’s fragility requests a helping hand to keep out unwanted squatters.  I will not tend the room’s garden.  Nature’s time will do her own pruning. Instead I need to learn to not waste my energy or strength trying to tame what should be wild, carefree and chaotic harmony.  I need to learn to focus my attention only upon those areas that may not be as strong or require vigilance to keep out unwanted weeds.  Not questioning or trying to tame creativity, laughter, love, and simple exuberance.  Diligent, however, with evicting the squatters -when I speak negatively of myself, let fear hold me back or dare to think I am unloved. 

We all have rooms, doors, closets or even sheds where the depth of our brokenness remains hidden.  But the house of Life in which I have been placed is ever so large and filled with both wild and tamed gardens.  The nature of life is to prune.  The nature of life is beauty.  The nature of life is vast and unexplored.  We all have rooms….Life is filled with gardens.  I choose the gardens over the room knowing one day, where a room once stood, a new garden will emerge sown from the rich moist soil of my heart.