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.

Future Attraction

I wonder if my reliance on my GPS has spoiled me. Sometimes the path plays tricks on our eyes when we try so hard to see. We seek clarity, a road map, points of interests and warnings of construction ahead, a voice saying our exit is 300 feet ahead. Though I admit, I have no idea what 300 feet looks like when driving.

Sometimes what you see just doesn't make sense, or perhaps it is only a peak of what is. The photo is untouched, it is what I saw. And like the path, I have to laugh and trust what I saw is a future attraction waiting to reveal.

Delighted Certainty

A morning gift as the coffee gifted a dance of steam and tiny droplets leaping in the air. My laughter joined the dance and swirled in awe. The certainty and clarity of life's path is neither possible nor necessary. What is certain, what is ever so clear....is the joy and awe when I pause and see.

Life's Perfect Timing

The litany of items I could list that delayed my return home. To see the mountains and winter's trees gifted a drive of soft gentle sweet tears. The list continued upon my return as I tried so hard to get out and walk with nature's mountains and trees.

Finally, just before sunset I scurried out. My heart so wanted to say thank you for nature's presence that traveled with me. As I rounded the bend, there she stood. As if she had been patiently waiting. We just stood and spoke in silence. Slowly she walked back into the mountains. I bowed and watered the drought hardened earth with my tears. The whisper so gentle...there are no delays or detours if I but listen with my heart and look to see what waits for me.

True Art

I did not know what to say when her tears fell and then my own to see the pain. I only knew each tear was a thread uniting all in the tapestry of Life. The fear was but Love's palette spilled of its richness upon the canvas of the heart. And both were framed in silence sung.

Blessing Placed

A dusting of snow upon the drought hardened earth. The sweet earth, her creatures, plants, trees, and thin lakes and rivers will be given a drink. I pray for more, the thirst and hunger is great. Trusting nature and Life I listen for the rhythm.

With a giggle I place the shell upon the snow. That which knew life as nothing but water rests upon that which  craves each drop. And then the whisper that when I too may feel out of place, perhaps my experience is simply Life's own blessing placed, saying "I too believe in you."

Resting Questions

I stepped into nature's doorway with a question posed by Elizabeth Matti-Namgyel "How do we live a life we can't hold on to?" It is almost the end of December yet my walk among the Colorado mountains gifted a sweat the weather so warm.  While my body was hot the lake moved beneath a sheet of ice. I sat and watched the migrating geese as they rested from their journey. How long will their journey be? Do they ever wish for a sense of home or a life they can hold on to?

I cannot say I got an answer to my question. I did lay my body back against the warmth of the rocks and stared at the sky. I even stood on one leg like the goose and giggled to think that would not gift rest. I took off my sweatshirt and cap so my body could cool. And with a bow to the mountains and geese I made my way back. Such contradictory images, sensations, and textures remind me that sometimes questions are like migrating geese...sometimes to leave them to rest and simply trust the journey.

Opening Christmas #3 - Opened Wrapping

Opening Christmas Day 3 I giggle to think of yesterday's attempt to open a package that was ever so taped and secure. I could not find a single opening to begin to peel back the layers of tape. I finally sat and just laughed at the box.

On this day 3 of opening Christmas may I ponder the soft layers gifted by morning. To know no matter how precious my heart, perhaps one could even say scared and bruised, I can offer it with openness and softness like the layers of morning and light upon the mountains. That is, truly, the gift I am giving no matter the contents inside a box. To release the tape and wrap with gentle soft layers that will greet the heart and hands that receive. No tape, no layers of protection, no fear...the gift is known in its opened offering.

Leap Day

So many wise ones have written about life as taking a leap of faith, going for it, and trusting. The hero’s and heroine’s journey is one of facing the obstacles, the mazes, and dragons. We leap alone, not clinging to others or things, nor do we push or force others to join our leap. It is a journey we make alone, leaping into the unknown…much like the way we entered this world. And if that inaugural journey, that first leap is what we now celebrate as our Birthday, then every leap we make is but another! I’m not getting older….I’m being born over and over every moment, breath, and emotion!  And so to all, may I offer a heartfelt giggle and wish you – Happy Leap Day!

Tags Released

The sweet joy of sitting in meditation before dawn. The stillness of love gifted within and without. All was broken by the scratching of my shirt’s tag against my neck. I started to reach and move the tag but stopped when I noticed how tense my body had become. I was not silent. I had become angry at the tag. In its silent scratching it had deafened my heart and stiffened my body. My mind had raced to fear that this was not a good omen for the day. It was just a tag. It was just a tag. And somehow it had transformed into something more than cloth and threads ever dared to think they would be. I sat with the tag, befriending what it simply was. A laughter meditation, but ever so humbling. A lesson best gently learned from a little tag, than with others, beliefs, and life. And when the unstilled stilled sitting was done, to leave a soft feather of trust and gratitude to this tag…releasing all others not made with cloth.

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.

To Touch

The haze of drifting smoke from wild fires have created a dance of colors with the sun. How can such destruction create such beauty? Perhaps, as Mary Oliver said "When the thumb of fear lifts, we become alive." To open my eyes and heart and see. Not to just see  but to look. To see. To look. To know. And then to touch....

Saint Francis and the Sow

BY GALWAY KINNELL

The bud

stands for all things,

even for those things that don’t flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;   

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely…..

Freeing Shadows

               What is the difference between knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the sea and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. 

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I sang and chanted the Knowing of Love, being Love and giving Love. In the wind I heard a whisper and thought it only the sound of my feet slipping on the rocks. But I knew the voice. I was walking into the wind. It began as a whisper. Grew quietly into a cry. “I am unloved. I am not loveable. I will never be good enough for anyone or anything.” I knew the voice and the 237 seasons that had shaped the words and then silenced them. Even the Knowing had, in some ways, silenced the voice but always knew it was there.

               I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. And as I walked I listened as the voice became stronger lengthening my stride up the hills. As I walked with Knowing I sat the voice free to cry, to yell, to fly. I walked the hilly mountain path. Into the wind. I walked with Knowing. The voice, the silent fear flew ahead, soared above and hung like a bird in the sky, so effortless, suspended in time. I found the Knowing and my heart chuckling softly as we walked into the wind. Even shadows deserve to be free.

               What is the difference between Knowing and feeling? It’s like the space between water and ice, the se and sea bed, or the wick, flame and wax. The space where no voice is silenced. The space where you walk into the wind with Knowing, watch feeling soar and fly no longer afraid. The space where feeling and Knowing become trust. 

Grains of Sand

               To ponder all the things and people we move from, outgrow or replace. We spackle nail holes to hide where pictures and objects once were visible and had significance. We donate clothes that caught our attention in the store, adorned us for special occasions or perhaps hold memories of simply growing. We move from a home that made our hearts gasp the first time we entered and saw all the possibilities or even simply a place to feel safe. Or to ponder all the things or people that have left us, maybe or maybe not with spackling, re-gifting so others would enjoy, or leaving us feeling safe or breathless with possibility.

               The wise ones teach that change any one and the “me” that writes this scrich would not be the same. Better or worse? Who can say.  Victor Frankl’s experience in the holocaust concentration camps led him to observe between every stimulus and response there is a space called choice. Remove but one of the experiences and another choice would have opened that may possibly have changed all others. As the Buddha said, everything and everyone is our teacher, the grains of sands upon the path of choice.

               To ponder all these grains of sand overwhelms my little mind and heart. But to ponder the choice, that space in between humbles me. In the humbling I am lifted by one thought…the gift of choice. The power of choice. That the Sweet Hands of Life, the Universe, the Creator of all would trust me with choice. To think of such love leaves my heart with only one whisper…

I shall trust myself for I am the Divine’s trust.

Uncapped

I opened a journal that has amazing photos of the sky for pages. Entries would be like writing in the sky. I open the journal and giggle. What would possess me to buy a journal when even to sign my name to papers or a check is an effort for eyes that cannot see and hands that tremor and stutter? To ponder a mystical path is to imagine a path of magic, images never seen, trees never touched, grasses and earth beckoning the souls of my feet, and plants reaching for the touch of my fingers. A mystical path that transforms illusion into reality. To step on the path is to leave the world of illusion - labels, fears, restrictions, judgment - and enter the reality of infinite possibilities from which one can choose.It is the path of choice. It is the path of sight. The pages whisper trust. The pen whispers embrace. My hands whisper dance, walk. My eyes whisper visible. I take off the cap and write but one word. Stroke the page. Close the journal. As I place the journal back on the shelf, my heart whispers "yes you are" and giggles. And so beginning week two I shall take with me the practical baby step of one word.....worthy.

Wisdom's Eyes and Hands

She has grown up. She doesn't think herself small. She can walk now. She is starting to talk. She is letting the world know what she wants and does not want. She laughs. She runs for hugs. She stands in front of strangers until they smile. She loves without fear. She never doubts that life will, with tender love, fill in the holes. She still looks out the window. She takes time to see.  

On the first day of 2011, I prayed to be so wise.

A year later, even more grown up and has found her voice, she looks with wonder into the Light determined to hold the Candle in her own hands.

On this day, may I too be as strong.

Dervish'd Certainty

Perhaps when life doesn't make sense, we do not feel we are moving forward and yet we know we are.... maybe, giggle, it means like Rumi, or a child in ecstatic joy, we are simply caught up in the spinning dervish, twirling, and dancing joyfully with Life and Light. And what we think is fear or feel as 'confusion' or 'uncertainty' is nothing more than our eyes unable to catch up with our dancing hearts and spirits.

cherish the dance............

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.

Summit's Path

I sat on a rock. It was not to be. I wanted so to return to the summit one more time before winter set in. I was as far as I could go. Sitting I remembered the view, standing on a boulder and my heart became breathless again.  And in my breathless joyful wonder the thread whispered, that the summit was still there. Because I did not arrive today, I still could remember, its essence had not changed.  A second thread quickly chimed that even if I had never seen the summit, its essence would still be there.  Suddenly an eagle screeched, and my body shivered to hear the sound again. This time the eagle was unseen. 

The mind would construct a world that says what cannot be seen, attained, touched or proven does not exist, or at the least, not for “me” – others perhaps.  Because we cannot reach the summit, it isn’t real or at least not for “me.”  The mind would even say the summit is off limits, frivolous, so many other important things to do, and yet it stands with foot worn path in plain view.

As I walked back I met a young couple who cheerfully said “Isn’t it amazing!” We shared a pause to gaze around and the young woman asked “Is it hard to reach?” I confess a laugh and a face size smile, “Not at all! Follow the path and listen for the eagle’s screech.”  Their faces lit up like kids at Christmas and we walked together going our separate ways.

The mind may construct but the Heart knows the Essence.  Our choice whether to follow the path and listen for the eagle’s screech or convince ourselves the summit doesn’t exist.

To Know the Dance

What is it about Autumn that draws so many souls to see? The trees aflame with glorious colored leaves are like the blush of the evening sky as the sun draws down and the day comes to an end.  Like the sun, the source of life has drawn down into the earth and nestled within the roots awaiting spring’s warmth.  The leaves, deprived of the sap, will fall without clinging, upon the earth.  They do so without fear knowing the tree, their essence remains. Like the brilliance of the evening sunset that inflames lovers, poets and artists, both leaf and sun know they will return and bid not adieu but simply ‘good night.’  To assure us of their return they inflame our hearts with awe, playfulness, excitement and wonder.  Like the moon that stands constant throughout the night, the stark naked trees hold vigil.  In their vigil, should we forget the passionate colors of Autumn, they offer their unshielded nakedness in a wild frenzied dance of life.  A dance unseen without the stillness of life drawn back into the earth.

Sweet Hands of Life, when my winter season arrives, may all that be said or seen point to the dance of the trees and a leaf aflame with color dancing her way without fear to the earth.