the will-full wind...

a playful wind

"We stayed around the house all day on account of the 'wind'. Don Juan explained that we had disturbed the wind deliberately and that it was better not to fool around with it. A sudden gust of wind made don Juan get up in one incredible agile jump.

“Damn it,” he said. “The wind is looking for you.”

I can’t buy that, don Juan,” I said, laughing. “I really can’t.”

I was not being stubborn, I just found it impossible to endorse the idea that the wind had its own volition and was looking for me, or that it had actually spotted us and rushed to us on top of the hill. I said that the idea of a “willful wind” was a view of the world that was rather simplistic.

“What is the wind then?” he asked in a challenging tone.

I patiently explained to him that ... different pressures ... made the masses of air move vertically and horizontally. It took me a long while to explain all the details of basic meteorology.

“You mean that all there is to the wind is hot and cold air?” He asked in a tone of bafflement.

“I’m afraid so.” I said and silently enjoyed my triumph.

Don Juan seemed to be dumbfounded. But then he looked at me and began to laugh uproariously."

                                                                                           Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda

A number of us stand huddled together in the still, cold, fall air, surrounding the casket. Our friend, a master schooner builder and winner of many  international schooner races, died suddenly a few days ago. He was a remarkable man and had won many honors in his eighty-plus years. In spite of his many accomplishments, he still lived in his old farm house by the sea and was always up at four milking his cows. His daughter now tells me no matter who has milked them in the past few days, from the barn comes a continuous, mournful dirge.

My husband,* who worked some week-ends on the schooners with him, has spent the last few days, since we heard of his passing, creating a three and half foot, sail-high schooner model. Other boat models line the grave site as well. A scripture is read, several people offer remembrances. The ocean can be heard in the distance. I look up at the tall cathedral pines amidst several white birches. The air is so still not a needle or a leaf flickers.

To my left a woman moves to the grave side. She reads about the intimate knowledge and  partnership this schooner captain has had with the wind. I am amazed at how she has captured the detail of this wonderful man. Her paper flutters. She continues pointing out how his relationship with the wind has helped him win many international racing cups for Nova Scotia.  A loud whooshing sound makes me jump.  Looking up, the trees tops are suddenly churning in all directions. The reader raises her voice. 

The ship models cannot resist. down goes one, then another.  In seconds, the only schooner model left upright is my husband’s -- probably because the sails are made of  chicken wire filled with flowers.  The gusts reach a crescendo. Now even the chicken wire gives way. All the models lay flat. My daughter, husband and I look at each other. Others are glancing around with disbelief on their faces, as well.  I catch my breath. The wind subsides.

At the reception and like Carlos, I know that “all there is to the wind is hot and cold air.”  However, people cautiously bring up what happened. His daughter brings it up again on the phone several days later. The wind's entrance was perfectly synchronized with the words being read. Not one boat model was left standing, even the one with lead in its keel. And, then the wind left as quickly as it came.

Dare I wonder, was this another honor bestowed on our friend or was this merely coincidence and a remarkable example of synchronicity? Or could it be, don Juan is still laughing?

* now, my lovely ex of some years...

Note: don Juan was a Yaqui shaman whom Carlos Castaneda (allegedly) apprenticed with in the art of shamanism in the 1960's 

the unnoticed prayer...

"If you put your soul against this oar with me," he begins, "the power that made the universe will enter your sinew from a source not outside your limbs, but from a holy realm that lives in us."
the Sufi poet, Rumi

What if prayer is not necessarily bowing one's head, kneeling or positioning one's hands in front of the chest? What if much of prayer goes unnoticed?

My friend has injured her foot so I have been doing some "work" with it.  Before beginning, I rub my hands on the sides of my shirt to waken them, to make them more sensitive to the patterns of energy coming from her foot. Then pausing, I briefly focus and feel into a larger space than the coffee I just brewed. I don't want to see the foot as damage but as whole or maybe, even as a new foot all together. Since I know nothing about bone, ligament or muscle, I truly am blind and at the mercy of the gods and those invisible helpers that some call guides, angels or entities.

Suddenly, I have an impression of myself from about ten feet away. My head is bent; my hands are folded against my chest in the middle of the kitchen. My friend is sitting there looking out to the lake, waiting for me to align my feeling and thought. Anyone coming into the kitchen would think I was praying. I share my impression with her, exclaiming, "And I wasn't even praying!" We look at each other. Pause. We start to laugh. Yet, wasn't I?

I am attempting to change my vibrations, shift my feelings to a higher level. I definitely have to lean my "oar" against something greater if any healing is to happen. I have to trust the "other side", the side I cannot see; as life experience tells me, this is a place where healing lives, breaths and has Being. This is the place I need to access: I need to ask. Not beg -- merely ask. And even then, I still know the invisible is a trust walk accompanied by a good dose of blind-faith.

Surely, the feeling is the prayer and must take many natural stances, as well, as religious. A lovely visit with a friend, listening to the loon in this early morning light or taking a few minutes to sit and color, at a request, from my Grands -- am I not hearing and sharing in a larger spirit with them and they with me. This must be praying, too.  Their energies invite me into a deeper-me and a more caring space.

The ancient Christian scripture also encourages us to "pray without ceasing." Now, how do I do that with my hands in the dish pan, digging in the garden or raising ten kids?

My grandmother who was born in the 1800's often told me her greatest accomplishment was that she raised ten children and not one of them had died. Yet, how many miles did she walk, how many nights comforting children, too hot from fevers, willing them to live.

She also did another round of "unnoticed prayer" with me. My mother and I lived with my grandparents during the war.  When I was four years old I contracted German measles and chicken pox at the same time. They kept my bedroom darkened as it was felt the pox in or around my eyes would leave me blind.  I remember them rocking and walking me for hours. I remember being lost in fever. Yet, there was something in their voices, the way they held me which kept wanting me, willing me to get better.

We each have that "oar" Rumi refers to, that power, that "holy realm that lives within".  We can lean body and heart into this "within" and transform our cell structure, our circumstance and even possibly,  heal a foot. The Tibetan abbot was right when he stated, "You have never seen our prayers because a prayer cannot be seen."* The unnoticed prayer resides in the heart.

photo source: scabrn, fotolia.com

* Secrets of the Lost Mode of Prayer by Gregg Braden

essence is always essence...

Recently,  on a lovely summer day I dropped in on an old friend I had not seen for years. We had been estranged somewhat when we parted; not because we did not care but life-stuff had gotten in the way. However, her essence many times had brought her to mind with a warm heart.

This particular afternoon, I am passing through a town I had heard she lived in a few years ago. Not being sure if she still did, I ask a woman walking down the street if she knows her. Following her directions, I find her house. Two care-givers meet me at the door. As soon as I enter her room, I know. We look at each other and understanding cascades between us. Then we hug, the old hug. Yet this time I hold bone. Neither of us is letting go. Breaking from the hug, she looks at me with a strength, a stillness, saying, "I am dying."

"I know, I can see and feel it." Then she asks how I found out and who told me. As I hadn't visited her for the last decade, she is sure someone has. I reply, "No one." A little smile touches her lips. She understands.

"Then, your coming is an answer to my prayer." And, I understand.

"I am glad." I reply softly.

We catch up on our lives and families. She does not want to leave her grand children. For periods of time, we just sit and look at each other. She is too weak to talk. Yet, her eyes at moments are alive with the twinkle I remember.  I ask if she recalls how dense I was when developing my "inner-seeing" those many years ago while walking along the railroad tracks, in front of her home. Knowing she was always better at it than me, she giggles a little giggle that is so uniquely hers. After another story from our past, she looks at me gently and states, "It is still here, our caring."

I nod, "Yes, isn't essence always essence."

Looking at my watch, it is well-past time to go. She insists on seeing me to the door which costs considerable effort to her helpers as she is beyond the wheel-chair stage. Walking in front of her, I wonder what I will say and in that moment, know she is waiting for me to say, something.  As the screen door is closing behind me, I turn. There she sits. Some moments in life hold no words.  Then, I bend toward her in a slight bow, "My friend, I will see you again in a better world." Later, I wished I had said, "Thank You..."

photo source: Lisa Teryl

a very simple secret...

And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.    Antoine de Saint-Exupery

When I was eight a thought kept coming to me. "What am I missing? What am I not seeing? What is around the corner?" A childish, nonsensical question? Maybe, but somehow I did trust there were magic gardens and another side to the moon.

As I grew I kept discovering there were various sides to life and that most were invisible to the human eye but not to the human heart. The latter seemed to have had its own intuitive powers of seeing. I also learned, if I wanted to claim life's freedoms, its sacred heart, I could not put my trust, merely in the side I could see.

In early adulthood, wanting to learn how to draw, I found a classically-trained art teacher who lived near our home. With pencil, paper and enthusiasm I arrived at his door. Ready to draw that first line, his first instruction stopped me as he said, "I am not going to teach you to draw. I am going to teach you to see. Puzzled I thought, "but I can."  As I drew and painted, I learned I had to account for the whole head, the whole tree and not just the visible part. That line under the cheek bone, for example, had to take the eye around the unseen part of the head and come out relating to the other cheek bone for it to complete its natural wholeness.

I proceeded to learn when seeing "rightly", everything natural completes a circle from visible to invisible. There is the other side of the moon, the earth and the rainbow. Winter is invisible to summer but summer will come. The sun cannot be seen nor its warmth felt through the clouds but it never falls from its orbit in the sky.

I continued learning. Another side of anger is sadness and of fear is love. Then, there is the other side of me. What does encompass my wholeness? What is beyond this one-sided self that is always in danger of poster-like living? As a writer I depend on the the next word, the next thought that comes from seemingly "nowhere". What is the other side of speaking; where do the words come from? Is there a language of the invisible? Maybe, it is our intuition, instinct, imagination and a knowing deeper than logic and reason. Maybe, the wind speaks at the exact moment of a deeper thought telling me to wake up, pay attention.

However, most times, this living is a trust walk or I might never take pen in hand. My ancient friend who was more on the invisible side than this one, used to say to my doubt-ings, "You don't need to see oxygen to know it is there." I only recognize wind exists when it moves the trees or cools my cheek. The white caps on the lake are dancing to something. When feeling moves me I know it exist and no longer have to wonder, "What comes next?" In fact, it all existed before I sat at the computer this morning. I merely have to "join the dots" from one side to the other.

Yet, I still ask "my eight year old" questions?  What am I missing? What can't I see? Where is my wholeness when drinking my morning coffee or suffering from inner and/or outer wounded-ness? Trusting only one side too often leaves me flying on less then one wing or maybe on one little feather.  Yet if I peek in, through and beyond the visible, there it is with it's palpable joy and a love force which cannot be measured but can transform one, instantly.* This magical garden where the heart beats and the rainbow points echoes through the canyons of my life.

Yes, there is a secret, a very simple secret... We are always larger than our stories. What is essential is, it's the sun's birthday,** the birthday of life, love and the invisible-visible...

photo source: us.fotolia.com
* paraphrase: Barbara de Angelis
** paraphrase: e.e. cummings

The Gift...

"This little flute of a reed (me) thou hast carried over hills and dales,

and hast breathed though it melodies eternally new.

At  the immortal touch of thy hand ... my heart loses it limits in

joy and gives birth to utterances ineffable."  Rabindranath Tagore

“My breath” I have always claimed as mine. I am healthy so I take it for granted. It moves in and out of my lungs unnoticed like a trusty old pump. Yet following my breath in meditation often leads me to a love of Presence.

Breath is a gift given to me at birth, taken from me at death. Even though, it is a life force of its own, independent of me, I think of it as merely air - lifeless and inanimate. Every living thing breathes.

A new thought startles me. What if my breath is not mine? What if breath is animate, a life force that the mystics call the Beloved. Many of the world religions connect spirit to breath. Tagore was a Hindu witnessing, “thou has breathed through {me}  melodies ever new....”  The writer of the old Christian hymn implored, “Breathe on me breath of God, Fill me with life anew....”  Both are a lover’s witness and a lover’s request.

So it is not me breathing, it is me receiving. Imagine, ordinary breathing is the breath of Presence which lives with me, acknowledges me, accompanies me and loves me unconditionally. Can it be, when I breathe in, the Spirit makes love, when I breathe out I make love?

As my fingers dance on these keys, I accept this Gift.  I draw this Breath in slowly, release it gently. I hear the bird songs which a minute ago, like my breathing, were ignored. And, I feel love.

Photo source: Lisa Teryl

spring green...

"Our task is to stamp this provisional, perishing earth into ourselves so deeply, so passionately, that its being (arises), invisibly, in us."  Rainer Maria Rilke

What a miracle spring-green is. When younger, I was always on my way to "somewhere"  that was more important than spring-green. This year my destination seems to be more Now -- walking now, feeling now, observing now. Everywhere, my eyes are taken with all the emerging every-things.

Looking out these windows the color green, except for the lake, fills the landscape.  As common as it is, how can I be enchanted? Yet, I rather am. Recently, I headed north from Arizona as did my friends the migratory birds. There is no green in my front or back yard in Tucson. The desert, having it's own unique beauty, is speckled with grey, purple-brown sand dotted with sun-worn cactus, sage and tumbleweed which is not the iridescent green we know here. When looking up at the night sky there are no young sprouts of grass on the moonscape, no early morning sun inching, feeling its way, caressing the newest leaf as it unfurls its sails. Nor does green exist on any other planet we humans know.

A decade ago, I also had a little help wakening my spring-green eyes. After an accident, I was stopped for many months. Everything moved slowly in me and by me. I wrote in my journal, "My new passenger status and cane offer me countless early-green encounters.  Looking out the car window a lacy pattern of new maples and poplar leaves dance their iridescences in a backdrop of blue. Grasses and new shoots pass me in slow motion. Looking to the top of the hill, in the distance,  cows are munching their fill of this rich spectacle. Lazily I wonder, "Will it give them a stomach ache?"

My journal continues, "Imagine, I have to wait another whole year before I see these exquisite sights, again. A thought stings me, death now rides a little closer on my left shoulder. There are no guarantees. I nearly missed this spring. And no matter how much belief I have in life continuing in some form, I also believe the texture, the solidity of my feet in this new spring-ness and the tender slide of the young poplar leaf velvet-ing my fingers may not be the same on the 'other side'."

Although this morning, a decade later, I try to describe what I see out my window here, I still can't. I go to the poets, they can't. So I won't. I can only take a deep breath, look and passionately desire another spring with it's iridescent green.  Like Rilke, maybe my task is stamping this earth into my being, so it's beauty and mystery can arise within. 

photo source:  Sunny Flowers, www.Fotolia.com

Duckie...

Spring is here in Nova Scotia and the first duck families are swimming by our lake-front.  A mother is often followed by a half dozen or so puff-balls. Initially, you can hardly tell they are ducks. Yet, every week they shape more into little ducklings. Sometimes, their daily path swimming by our lake-shore seems to be a "road-way" shared, morning and evening, by muskrats, geese and beaver.

In summer, we often have supper on the lake-side deck. My two grands like to sit on the "high" chairs so they can lean over the second-story railing. Tonight, my granddaughter, who is four, spots a duck swimming near the shore. She starts sporadically calling to it, "Duckie, Duckie, Duckie." Pausing, she eats a little more supper then starts calling again. Momentarily, the duck disappears behind the bushes on the shore line. With delight she repeats the call. A half hour passes. Her persistence is striking. 

.

After a few more bites of food and more calling, the duck lifts off and seems to head our way, but I know it will angle off over the trees. It doesn't. My granddaughter leans forward with anticipation as I grab her shirt-tail. I am suddenly looking at feathers on the inside of its wing-span.  

Now eye-level and seconds from the potential collision, I see fear in the duck's eyes. I instantly feel it myself. The bird's wings grab air frantically. I am looking at a "back-peddling" duck! A strange sight. I have never seen a duck try to fly backwards and for seconds, I think it does. My guess is that "Duckie" and I are having an identical experience, one of fear and confusion. After achieving a slight space, the bird makes an unnaturally sharp ninety-degree turn and heads over the trees. 

Regaining my wit and looking at my granddaughter, I see her experience is quite different. Her face is lit with delight and laughter. Of course, the duck comes when she calls. Magic happens. She, unlike the adults present, had every confidence this wild creature would fly a hundred feet in a straight diagonal to meet with her on the deck! She knows she can talk duck-language. She believed it would respond as strongly as I believed it would not.

My questions are obvious. How much of this world, how much magic do I miss? Most of it, I suspect. How important it is to feel out beyond my own "dead-end" expectations. And what doesn't happen because I don't?  Do I expect the wind to be more than the wind, that the prayer really will be answered in whatever mysterious ways prayers are answered? That old Christian scripture might have a point, "Unless, you become like little children..."  Will I ever enter the Queendom of the Duckie?

Drawing by Shawn Scott