Cradled Waterfall

I know suffering, my own and the world's. I do not deny, suppress, nor turn my gaze. I know the tears streaming down and the knots suffering creates. Perhaps that is why the Celtic cross is created with intertwining knots and circles. Pain, loss, fear, whatever the label, I call them each by name as I would a dear friend. Each is my teacher, my mentor, and even the path.

The knots bind me with my own tenderness and those of all beings and life. The knots bind me in the circle of joy, gratitude, this moment flowing into the next. The knots woven by suffering are the cradle and cocoon of my heart and tears. And when the time is ripe, I emerge with waterfalls of joy streaming from the knots. The streaming down now bathes all without and within.

Filling Choice

"Your joy can fill you only as deeply as your sorrow has carved you" (K. Gibran).

As deeply as I treasure Gibran's writings, innately this passage has troubled me for it seemed to suggest that in order to know joy we had to be carved by sorrow. Were we not born to know joy? Why then must sorrow cut and hollow our souls?

Watching a child reach for what she wants, pondering that one of the first muscular movements an infant learns is reaching, falling to my knees upon the lake path reaching in tear'd joy towards the gifted feathers, Life whispered the quote in a different voice. All spiritual, religious and inspirational wisdoms speak of being filled. Even enlightenment is a filling.  One cannot fill what is full. The vessel must be emptied. In its emptiness the vessel reaches and draws in its filling. It is not a carving. It is the hands of yearning reaching into the clay of my heart and soul's vessel, emptying all else so that the rivers, the blush of sun and moon, the dance of wind and grass, the touch of another's heart and eyes, the One Song of Love may stream in and fill. 

Two threads remain. In emptiness we reach...in reaching we are filled.  In emptiness we reach...in reaching we are filled...by what we choose.  

Sand art

Stone worn by time, the seasons, sun and wind.  It reminds me of a wave upon the Gulf.  Not the kind of waves surfers look for, it is beyond the tide’s pull, it will not crest. 

Sorry, nothing profound.  A restless night without sleep. This image came back to me.  Stone weathered, worn, now a wave. Nature’s own sand art.  May I likewise trust Nature’s sweet hands of Life, to leave the same gentle beauty in me.

Circled dance

I confess my heart was excited. Two feathers this morning awaited me in my morning walk. Then three, four...and my shoulders sank. There should not be this many feathers. A side of nature I try not to think about. I know the lion hunts.  I know the Orca goes after sea lions. I know the eagle and hawk hunt.  I know they never take in greed. I just try not to think about it.


I gathered several in the palm of my hand. Sitting in the grass I admired their beauty, amazing precision and delicateness. I wanted so to cry but knew the tears would be for me, not my precious dove. "Acceptance. Acceptance not abdication." I will not abdicate my trust. I will be more vigilant, beyond that, I will trust nature. I will trust the amazing feathers of wings to keep the doves safe. Walking in, nature gifted me a re-visit of such a delicate flower. A tiny dance of petals and grace forming a circle of life and a portal inviting entry. 


I placed the feathers upon a rock the mountain gifted me. Returned to the earlier photo of the flower.  Now....now I could weep.