Making an Entrance

With every doorway I pass through and every thought I enter the sacred. With every breath the newborn cry of life emerging anew. Simple, simple touches. As Rumi said, "Don't go back to sleep."

Winged Balance

Company has arrived. Human and dogs. My normal quiet sacred morning rituals upended. Woven into my body, mind, and heart's fabric I feel unbalanced. Oh, I will politely excuse myself later today, when appropriate, for meditation. But for now, my heart smiles and balanced is restored. Meditation has no ruler, judge, time clock or report card.  A reminder itself that nothing in life is fixed, change is constant and not to become attached to things, doing, or how's. I sit in meditation because I walk in this world of change. I am one among all, moving upon wings of love. I opened my eyes this morning with breath and heart filled with love. That is the meditation. That is the sacred ritual. What greater ritual than to simply breathe "Life. Love. Alive."

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.

Shadowed Pondering

Today I am on 24 hour call with the volunteer group for domestic violence. Today two feedings for the birds and squirrels the blizzard snow has not completely melted and they had a frigid night and early morning. Today, during meditation, I asked the sweet Hands of Life, that the calls would be silent, not because I do not want to respond, but that the need would not be there. Today I longed to walk but will wait for warmth and better paths and have to remain within a cell phone range.

               Today I wanted to honor last night’s longing to sit and write. So many threads waiting the loom’s weaving. Little sprouts from seeds planted in clay pots, pushing their way through the soil. I have been like a new parent, counting stems and leaves instead of fingers and toes. Some have emerged through the earth’s seams. Another, I call Atlas Shrugged, pushed up only to be weighted by a clod of earth. I watched as the tiny stem lifted the clod on top of its clumped fist of two leaves. The next morning, the clod was tossed to the side creating a lean-too, beneath which was another tiny sprout ready to emerge. Courtesy of Atlas, it would do so free of the clod. Do I write of the metaphors and threads from such tiny growths? Do I write of these little miracles that make me laugh and my heart sigh?

               Do I write of the wonder of how snow and ice melt when the temperature is 27 degrees but the sun is shining? Below freezing… water freezes at 32 degrees… so why is the blizzard’s snow and ice melting? If I fill the ice trays with water and put them in the freezer the ice becomes water. Even colder outside and the ice and snow are melting… beneath the presence of the sun.

               Do I write of the image that remains embedded in my mind, longing to be developed, to push through the earthen mind and sprout? The image of becoming the chalice, no longer the cup bearer. To see the transformation that I AM a chalice. I hold the light of communion with the All That Is…the sweet Hands of Life. My body is the chalice containing the light, love, joy and energy of Life, swirling and spilling, rolling like waves as I move and experience each moment. No longer do I see myself as simply the bearer of the cup, the sacred cup that must be handed to another who is worthy. No longer am I simply the servant who bears the cup. I AM the chalice. In truth, no one can carry the experiences of my life, the lessons, the scars, the joys, the love learned, parted, renounced and yet never absent that make up my chalice. No one can carry the gratitude nor laugh the way I do.  No one will see the world or experience nature the way of this chalice. Only I AM worthy of carrying this chalice. In carrying the chalice I become the chalice. That union, that union alone creates the unique experience of Life expressed through me. Servant and holder. Human and sacred. Bearer and embraced. The liturgy complete only in the union of cupbearer and chalice, as me.

               Or do I write, as I sit and look out at melting snow and ice that should be frozen, and the birds flocking to feed, of the shadowed Canadian Goose feather that fell behind the white Pelican feather both from the lake which I would love to walk this day? A squirrel hops across the snow that is melting, reaches with his tiny little hands to place a peanut in his mouth. Now he scampers, with the peanut dangling like an oversized cigar. Visually, he stops just above the white Pelican feather at a mound of snow with slivers of grass fingers sticking up, and begins to bury the peanut rather than eating.  I do not know about the writing part, but of all the threads, I shall sit with my hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee and ponder shadow feathers of black and white. I shall ponder a peanut buried into snow that should be frozen but is giving drink to the earth, and see what little sprout will emerge in the earthen chalice of my heart.

Namaste sweet Life…. I bow to you.

Wish List

I watched a piece of Christmas wrapping paper dance with the wind down the street. The present, wherever, had been unwrapped.  I laughed to think of the colorful paper's dance as one seeking another gift to adorn.

And as I pondered the season and recent events, Christmas wish lists and letters to Santa, the dancing wrapping paper left thread.  But one gift, perhaps is all I need to ponder.  To gift to Life, Love, Source, God, Yahweh, Allah, the Expression and Life sought when the Divine spark was lit within me.  

I AM, all ARE, the wish list of Life, Love, Source, God, Yahweh, Allah, the Sacred.  Perhaps the wrapping paper flew off the gift of my heart.

A Child

And the sacred whispers I have no off limits, no proper or must nots. Climb upon my window sills and look with wonder. Come my Child, be a child and look with awe, delight, innocence and delight upon my stained glass windows and know you are loved. Know, you are loved. Come my Child, be a child.............

The Heart's Magnet

This morning, holding the mala (prayer beads) their texture seemed different in my hands. As I do in nature I listened to see if there was a whisper.  My heart quietly whispered "see and touch each thought, moment, step, breath and person as a bead on the mala." Each bead on the mala gently and sacredly held and followed by another and another. All connected with a single thread. Each guiding my breath, prayer to the next, each bead a vibration containing the bead and space in between. And when the circle is complete, I begin again.  To see life as connected, sacred, within and without.

This afternoon I went walking by the lake.  As I walked, whispering the names of those dear to my heart, my own version of walking meditation, upon the lake was a flock of white birds floating that made my whispered prayers gasp. I had never seen white birds upon the lake and scampered to the shore. A bit distant for these poor eyes and suddenly they turned their bodies - white pelicans.  The first ever flock I'd seen.

I sat on the shore in wonder and awe as the wind gathered the ripples and sent them to the shore.  Bringing my eyes from the flock to the shore... drifting upon the ripples a white feather made its way to me.  As did another.  With sweet tears and gratitude I gathered them in.  Thanking the wind, the water and the pelicans, walking back the ripples sent more.

To see Life as sacred, connected and One draws forth compassion, Love and the willingness to be vulnerable with all of Life, including ourselves.  That can be quite daunting.  Holding the feathers to my heart, each beat a prayer bead one following another, I pondered perhaps the more daunting task is to truly believe the Sweet Hands of Life not only know what we need, but can and will direct the wind and waves to draw all to our feet, our hearts and our souls.

Unfamiliar

Familiars.  A school of philosophy, even neuroscience and psychology talk about how we create familiars in our minds as a way to anticipate the world. When you consider the barrage of stimuli that bombard you every single second, familiars remove those stimuli from thought so we don’t have to think about them.  In psychology, when events occur that clash with our mental or perhaps emotional maps of familiars, conflict arises, like a GPS that is lost and constantly recalucating or telling you to take a U-turn. At their essence, familiars are designed to help us function in the world.

Familiars, however, have a down side. They simply become, well, familiar and unnoticed. Mark Nepo, in his book “Awakening” suggests you take something familiar out into the sunlight and just notice it, let it become ‘unfamiliar.’ Sitting here at my little porch table I pondered my coffee cup. The thread lengthened and I pondered how everything around me is an act of creation. Think about it. The pencil or pen you hold did not always exist. They are an act of creation in someone’s mind. The paper, computer, Post-it note, phone, the light in your office or kitchen, the car and all its multitude of parts, the TV, cell phone, the house (not a cave) and every item (including indoor plumbing!) have not always existed. Each is an act of creation, an idea, a tinkering here and there until it worked, and voila – what did not exist is now a familiar. Even your partner, husband or wife, co-worker, friend, security guard at work who greets you, the delivery person, the mail person, the stranger in the elevator or checkout line – they too did not always exist, they too are acts of creation, shaped by Life and their own tinkering here and there as they respond to life and develop their own familiars and voila – a human being, a person now exists. The thread really gets tangled when you pause and consider how everything around you is an act of creation – and then consider the creative acts required, the individuals, logistics required to make that act of creation available to you right now at this moment.  

Both the fragility and resilience, the softness and devastating power of Nature remind us of the act of creation – and the loss incurred when we rely too much on familiars.  Even GPS systems come with a warning to not simply obey the voice – you could end up in a corn field, lake or drive through a building.

 I pause and ponder all the familiars – physical, emotional, spiritual and those people and objects around me.  Oh, we need familiars to function. But perhaps that is the key – function. They allow us to function they make no claim they offer a life or living. Function versus being or being alive.  To be alive, I have to stop, notice, and appreciation the act of creation, make the familiar – unfamiliar.  The essence of sacred.

It’s not that unusual

When everything is beautiful

Just another ordinary miracle today.

~ Sara McLaughlin “Ordinary Miracle”

And she soared- 2

I long for the solitude to be ended.  Her departure has not arrived. And so, I begin to make that, which is not wanted, sacred.


In the corner, the kite and the healing mountain and lake to keep her company. The kite dances with the breeze coming through the window. 


I still do not know how to fly a kite.  As before, I offer my acceptance of what Life has given, and in making it sacred, still, she soars.

Windbow eulogy

Sometimes the morning awakens such thoughts. Why I looked up the word "eulogy" I do not know. It is a speech or writing honoring or praising something or someone.


What if each footprint I leave upon the earth was read as my eulogy to the earth? What if each word I spoke to others was my eulogy to them? What if each action and choice I made, witnessed by others, was the eulogy they heard me give to life, peace, meaning, and sacred? What if I saw my life as a eulogy to all I hold dear? What would others hear? How would the sweet Hands of Life be praised?


And so, today, may every breath, like windbows in the sky, carry forth my eulogy.

What is that you express in your eyes? It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life. - Walt Whitman

Sat nam
I bow to the essence of being