Ritual made Fresh

Giggle, I do not sleep much. I tend to simply doze in bits. The pre dawn is my sacred time. Every now and then, my little body says it needs more time and I do not wake up as I normally do. ....this morning was such a morning. The little hobbit eyes opened and smiled to see the sun coming in the window. Then a start went through my body....sun???? Sun?! Birds? There is no sun, there are no birds in the early pre dawn. Ooops, I giggled. I had missed the sacred pre dawn. The sun was already just peaking over the mountain, the sky that wonderful blue gray pink color. I stood outside and where my eyes always rest upon the constellation, the moon, the pre dawn silhoutted trees, now I had to squint with the sun's bright smile. A wispy cloud streamed across the sky. The finches gathered in the trees and began their songs. The squirrel from across the street had already made his way over for breakfast and was sitting on his haunches like Godzilla. I giggled to think of him looking at his little arm with a watch and the thought, uuuhhhhh, breakfast please. So many sounds and images, that yes, I hear and see every every morning, but only after I have been awake for several hours. This morning, they were the first.

Oh my friend, the sacredness of rituals. I had missed my pre-dawn ritual. For a brief moment I was almost miffed, thinking myself "lazy" for not awakening as I do. And then gently the whisper came. The rhythm of ritual that brings meaning and mindfulness to our days, our steps, our breaths, our heart beats. But rituals were never meant to become the sacred. Rituals were never meant to become the rhythm. Rituals are like the vibrations and resonances of the singing bowl that calls us to pray and meditate and the celestial songs. Anahata - unstruck vibrations that resound. As I do in the pre dawn velvet of night, when everyone in the neighborhood is asleep, I stood and stretched my arms wide, lifted my head to feel not the moon's warm touch but the brightness and heat of the sun bursting through my closed eyes. I said "good morning" and drew my hands to my heart and bowed deeply, whispering "namaste sweet life. I do so love you." As I straightened and opened my eyes, the morning earth, already awake, smiled. I stood with my hands still to my heart which gifted the sun a sweet tear to drink as it lay in the crevice of my smile. Rhythm, ritual and dawn.... the resonance of being greeting the pre dawn moon and stars in full sunlight. To awaken and see the rhythm and dawn of morning's dance...fresh, crisp, waiting to be greeted. To open my eyes and heart. The ritual of life. The ritual of joy. Fresh. The trigger of my heart not my mind.

Earthen Clod of Joy

Last night, for some reason, the whispers of the moon's cycles called me to read. Farmers have long sought to join their planting with the cycles of the moon. Poets and mystics have likewise looked to the moon for the tilling of the earthen heart. When the moon is moving from full to new, is best to plant rooted plants or vegetables. The moon is drawing energy from the earth, and rooted plants would be deep in the earth where the energy abides. When the moon is moving from new moon to full is best to plant flowering or above ground plants for the moon is shining down her energy to nourish. And like the tides that move with the moon's cycle and pull, even the moisture within the earth moves like the tides drawing upward to nourish the seeds when the moon is full and ebbing back down when the fullness of her pull is slight. Within each cycle there are called barren days, when the earth simply needs to rest and abide in the energy that has been and is soon to be.

I remember years ago attending a Good Friday evening service. The service was somber. I looked around at an almost empty church and thought how odd knowing it would be packed come Easter morning. Those that did attend were elderly. Their presence was palpable and majestic as they listened to the somber service. At the end of the service the altar was stripped, all adornments were removed and the cross was cloaked in black. I know the power and touch of wind and storms, the warmth of the sun, the immersion of silence and yes, I know silence all too well. Never has silence held such presence as I watched the few elderly that were there as they moved about stripping the altar and not a word was said. When the last adornment was removed, the cross cloaked in black, they simply left into the night, again in silence, their presence adorning the sanctuary stripped of all else. Sunday the now stripped sanctuary would be filled with color, joy, and packed with people dressed in such finery and laughter.

We yearn for the glory of spring. We long for the abundance, warmth, growth and its folding into the busyness and play of summer. A week ago, in my own yearning of the seasons, I planted seeds. I watched the earth for their emergence. The earth and pots looked stripped like the sanctuary. Still I watered knowing the seeds were there. At night the moon shone through their window.  At last a sprout emerged but a clod of dirt weighted it down. I watched as the sprout pushed its way up, carrying the clod on its clumped fist of two leaves, lifting the earth, not to be denied.  The day after this picture was taken, the clod of earth had been tossed to the side and the sprout stood straight welcoming the touch of the sun and moon. And in its tossing of the clod, another tiny sprout waited to emerge ... and would do so free of the weight...the clod was perfectly placed.

May I learn the rhythm of Life, Love and nature. To know when to allow my roots to go deep. To know when to stand tall, blossom and flower. To know that barren days are but Hope's rest and silence, nurturing the strength within. To know when the weight seems heavy, to continue to push and then to toss aside so another may grow. To know the joy, the color, the beauty of being human and honor the days of feeling stripped of all adornments. May I, please sweet Life, never forego the rhythms of fullness, the celebration of Life's tides and pulls and attend Life only in the spring. May I be so wise. May I be so joyful. May I not deny myself the clod of earth...its joy, love, laughter and hope.

Seasons' Paths

Yesterday upon the earth I sat, my back supported by a tree, thinking my body could go no further. All around me I saw weathered rock sculpted like art, young trees that bent their trunks to find the sliver of sun between the canopies of older trees, fallen trees leaning against another and thriving. Even the path had changed from the wind the night before. This morning I fell into a fit of giggles as I looked at the thermostat and the same drop in temperature I would have danced to in the summer now made the house feel cold, yet the "drop" was the same. Years move me forward and deceive me into thinking life is linear and "progressive." Nature knows no end, does not expect to end. Even the smallest life form with the shortest life span explodes into life without thought that it will not continue. I shall grow and "age" with the seasons and their rhythms, knowing each season's wisdom, change, twists, turns, quietness, rebirth, renewal, the paths that suddenly become visible and their dance. As T.S. Elliot said, "There is only the dance." Hello.... I am 235 seasons dancing into forever naturally.

To not let myself or the world paint a linear path. We are an ocean in a dewdrop (Rumi). A "creation" which is truly both a noun (present state) and a verb (constantly creating, Flow).

Equinox Encore

Within the cupped hands of the timeless, the changeless and the changing rest. The seasons have changed only for those whose source of life returns to the roots awaiting winter's meditation. For the changeless the sap remains, not as strong, but enough to hold their adornment.  The timeless stands, weathered perhaps, but without sap it stands in its strength.

A picture to capture the beginning and continuation of all seasons. Like the dance of the soul unpretentious, flamboyant, graceful strength, stilled and lifted and a final pirouette. Tis the autumn equinox and the timeless holds forth Her cupped hands and gift, whispering, 'Encore."

First Migration

First migration! First migration..... first migration. If only computer typed words could sing the song of my heart to see the first dance of geese across the sky, silhouettes against the rising sun as I began an early morning walk. Sigh... if only you could know this simple childlike heart that stood breathless to watch.  First migration, the return home. The call in their hearts that lift their wings and the journey begins.

I have walked the seasons, counting not years, but the rhythm and dance of seasons as they turn the pages of my life. Sometimes the rhythm leaves dog eared pages turned down to remember or threads dangling as bookmarks.  As their dance carried them beyond my eyes, the sun drew my eyes to see the green leaf covered in morning dew. The green of spring's kiss glimmering in the sun.  Next week is autumn's equinox yet spring continued to bathe a leaf. 

 Just beyond the glistening drops of spring's kiss the sun painted what was to come. Against the yellow of autumn, shawled with the red of fire and life, the grass created a shadow of fall's naked dancing tree. Spring and summer's luminous kiss against the rhythm of fall dancing onto the stage.

First migration.  The call to journey home.  Spring's kiss and autumn's naked fiery dance.  Another page turned. Another threaded bookmark.  And a whispered prayer to all who might see and maybe even to feel this morning reverie, 'Lift your wings. Dance lightly onto the stage. May your heart rejoice in the rhythm with the assurance, she knows the way Home.'