"a very little tea..."

When human beings participate in ceremony, they enter a sacred space... Time takes on a different dimension.... (They) become filled with the energy of life, and this energy reaches out and blesses... All is made new, everything becomes sacred.  
                                                                                                       ~ Sun Bear*

In the late afternoon sun, I settle down to do some painting.  A piece of wharf for a backrest and slate rocks for a seat. I have a pristine view of the boats and fish shack. No one is in sight. Perfect for the work I want to accomplish. An hour speeds by.  Then chatter.  I turn my head,  Two men are coming toward me. They spread a rug on the rocks. My view of the fish shack is partially blocked. I am annoyed. With miles of unoccupied shale-rocked coastline, why did they have to choose here?  Yet the scene before me piques my interest.

A black-bowel-like object is placed on the rug.  A teapot is carefully placed.  Two small bowls, a whisk, and several other things are put in their proper place. The men kneel before the arrangement. I begin to realize one view is simply being replaced by another.

The tea is ready. Each movement, reaching for the cup, pouring the tea, using the whisk, bringing the small bowl to the mouth is executed in a slow, graceful motion. I watch closely. My breath deepens.  Passer-byes, walking the wharf behind me, whisper.  A seagull’s perfect shadow makes its languid way across the blue, grey slate rocks, guiding my eyes to pearls of bobbing color -- yellow, red, and white Cape Island fishing boats.  Sea and sky are twined in twilight rose-blue.

 My painting, my annoyance is forgotten. The ordinariness of the late afternoon has been penetrated. I am stilled by this tea ceremony or as Christopher Robin observes, this “very nearly tea”. Yet observing this ritual, this ancient tradition on these slate rocks I enter holy space. “All is (indeed) made new, everything becomes sacred.” And, I am served.

* Sun Bear was a writer of Ojibwe descent. 

What is essential...

"What is essential is invisible to the eye."
                                               Antoine Saint-Exupery

Though the years, when people mentioned angels, I have relegated them to wings and church windows. Yet, the other night I happened to see Lorna Bryne on YouTube while searching for some music. Her looks reminded me of a special friend who had passed away several years ago so I clicked on the link. Bryne was talking about her angel experience with such humility, unassuming innocence, and light that I listened. This woman was born, seeing angels. They helped her and told her early in her childhood that she would be writing books someday, in spite of having severe dyslexia.*

 From childhood, I have also felt well-guided. In crunch times, I asked and help happened. Sometimes this help was so direct, timed, and definitely responsive, I would laugh. Thus, I concluded early, I was guided so the name "guides" was a natural monogram. This help seemed quite down to earth and even had a logical response that my human brain could appreciate. Now, I walk in that presence without question.

However, my experience with guides seemed different. They felt particular, where angels felt a little "airy fairy" from my material perspective. Yet, I hadn't quite counted angels out because of a wise woman I have known for years who sees angels. No fuss is made, she never thinks it's amazing and I just think, knowing her, maybe she does. In fact, not long ago we were eating at an outdoor restaurant. Looking past me and smiling she tells me, "Oh, I was just watching that person over there walk through an angel."

And, at various times I have asked what they are like. She responds matter of factly, "They are light beings and are lovely. You know, like the light coming through the trees in the morning, like eagle wings which I don't always see. They have a poetry and prose loveliness."  Another time, she said, "I am seeing two eight footers, sort of transparent and when we walk through them they have a wonderful healing effect. You know they say ghosts feel cold, but with angels, I feel warmth. There seems to be a hierarchy but it is not that some are better than others, it is that some have attained. It's then a responsibility. It's about foot washing and about simple responsibility for what one has attained."

Indeed, I would say, my wise friend has an interesting angel acquaintance and I have an active guide response. I love asking and being answered. Is there a difference between the two experiences? I don't know. Yet, Antoine Saint-Exupery has it right, "What is essential is invisible to the eye." however, we experience it.

*Bryne's books have now been published in 30 languages and in over 50 countries.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIYJ22Cu0nI

god the parent...

Clean up day. The sidewalk at the front of the house is stacked with boxes, an old chair, and dismantled cupboards. The pile of junk is shrinking by the hour. At this rate, the pickup truck won't have to come tomorrow morning. While reorganizing the stack to keep the sidewalk clear, a young man in a plaid shirt, jeans, and a peaked cap approaches. He asks, somewhat disbelieving if he can take the cupboards away. I assure him he would be doing me a favor but I don't have a crowbar for him to dismantle them. He hurries off down the street telling me to hold them as he will be right back.

A few minutes later, bending on one knee and rearranging the cupboards, I spot a pair of very little running shoes standing before me. Looking up and staring me in the eye is a two-foot-high replica of the young man who left a few minutes earlier. I catch my breath -- the same blond hair sticking out under the ball cap, the plaid shirt, and the smallest pair of blue jeans I have ever seen. Yet, I think this can't be his child, the young man hardly looks beyond child-age himself.

As he re-arranges the cupboards. I make eye-level conversation with his replica. The child is a bit shy but surprisingly responsive. I ask him his name. He murmurs, "Gerrit". And the young man is indeed his Daddy. Incredible, either I am as old as antiquity, or parents are younger now. Surely I didn't look this young when I had my four children in my early and mid-twenties. Yet, I must have been near his age.

Finally, with a couple of cupboard doors in one hand and the child's hand in the other, I watch them head home -- two silhouettes backlit by the evening sun. Their elongating shadows ripple the sidewalk. The father skips, adjusting his steps to little steps. The tiny jeans bulging out cause a waddle. Diapers, without a doubt.

I wonder at the miracle, of kids having kids and of what the great spirit in her wisdom trusts us with. The child looks up to the father, maybe asking him a question. He knows his Daddy has the answer, yes, all the answers. He is supposedly god-wise and totally to be trusted. This young parent in blue jeans, plaid shirt, and ball cap is the beloved...

You cannot swish through prayer...

Below is an excerpt from a visit with the cottage woman several decades ago, yet recorded then in the present tense. The italics are my musings on what she is saying. That spring day I needed insight into praying and its validity. Her wisdom, always simply put, seemed to inform me from a deeper or larger perspective and still does today.

At the end of that afternoon visit and just before she was to leave, I asked how I could pray more effectively.

Each person must be given space and time...

Before the cottage woman leaves, I need to ask about my uncle Ned. He is my mother's youngest brother and lives in Florida with his partner.  He tells me on the phone how much he enjoyed our family talks, during the previous summer. 

Now he has been diagnosed with throat cancer.  I have started praying for him but feel it is a feeble effort.  I also want to encourage him to visit again this summer.

 Nodding, this wise, old woman instructs, "You must continue to give him energy if he is to visit again. You still have an opportunity to work with his pain this summer, if he chooses, but he must be given the energy to do that.  You just listen.  If his energy drops low, you will pick it up." Really, praying lends him energy. Then maybe, I can lend him not only healing energy but also love and joy.

"Indeed, yet prayer is not effective if you swish through it." Oh, I know she is referring to my on-the-run prayers. Besides, I still don’t have confidence that my praying works.

"Yah indeed, prayer does not look tangible but it is, indeed, real." She continues, "Each person you pray for must be given a space and a time.  A mere second is not a fact.  Effective prayer is individual space given to each person one is praying for.  Scanning is not the same as focusing.  Take each person in their own turn.”

Attention and focus are what counts...

“Well, I am feeling uncomfortable about not praying as much as I should." It takes time to stop and pray.

 She bends closer and a wisp of hair falls past her ear.  "Good.  We are watching when you are uncomfortable. That awareness of being uncomfortable and knowing that we are here gets your attention.  That awareness is listening." This kind of listening is something she keeps trying to teach me in almost every visit.  "Effective intercession does not depend on time but on attention.  Your focus is what counts."

 Then she adds, "The person (Ned) has the need to know love.  At this point, he feels isolated, needs to talk, feels very misunderstood and feels not seen or heard."
Being several thousand miles away, I ask, "Who can help him?"

 "In part, the person who feels so moved.  Each can send love in their own way."

What has stuck with me over time are her words, "You cannot swish prayer" and the person that can help is "the one who feels so moved." The latter reminds me of Gregg Braden* when he asked a venerated, Tibetan monk in the highlands of Tibet, how did he pray? The answer was profoundly simple, "The feeling is the prayer."

That feeling is for whatever catches me and I relate too, be it young families separated at the border, sixty miles away, or maybe the feeling for the earth trying to rid itself of toxins. Thus, when the feeling is really there, I am constantly discovering, the prayer begins to pray itself.

*Braden is renown for his work in the study of science and spirituality which I have referred to in other writings.

to the moon and back...

Several weeks ago, I received in the mail a large heart which said, in inch high letters, "to the moon and back." It hangs here in my living room, intriguing me when it catches my eye, which seems to be frequently. So, I ask, "What is it that draws my attention, makes my heart take a leap? What lures me like some magic, mystical magnet to this seemingly small, round ball in the sky? Some nights, out on the deck or standing on the desert floor, the moon and stars just seem to scoop me into this feeling of great upwardness. Then, I find myself flying through the stars and heading to the moon.

Yet, this is not really the moon the astronauts walked on, kicking its sand and dust. (Although they are one.) I want to go to the moon that is written about in poetry, fable, and song. "Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars, fill my heart with song, and let me sing forever more.... "* That's the moon Tiny Tim wanted to go to when he shouted with joy on a cold winter eve, several centuries ago saying, "I'd love to go to the moon."  Ah, the moon of intrigue, folk tale, and soul food.

Several years ago, in Copenhagen, I strolled past Hans Christian Anderson's house on the canal where he wrote thirty-four verses about a lonely boy and the moon, which, (somewhat paraphrased), begins, "I am a poor lad...one evening I sat in the window...opened the encasement, and oh how my heart leaped up with joy. Here was a well-known face, at last, a round friendly encountence, the face of a good friend I had know at home. In fact, it was the moon who looked in on me...."  I can see this small boy as I write, called Hans, looking to the moon and the moon looking in on him, as if it were not a century or two ago.

Yes, this moon does appear to look back with compassion on our human condition. So when I go to the moon, I'd like to visit the dark side, as well. I don't want to miss it. I think it is pretty amazing -- to be free of human stuff. For to know the dark side, is truly to know ourselves.

Tiny Tim, the poor lad and we, have a relationship with a little round ball in the sky. How seemingly insignificant? But is it really? What value can we put on a shout of joy on a cold, dark, winter night or find companionship in a velvet, silent presence in our loneliness? The heart expands. It's no little thing to walk on a beach or the desert sand in the moonlight with love -- be the companion, a child, friend, dog, lover, or oneself.

How invitational, this moon of the sage, poet, and storyteller. How do we explain this sacred coming home in ourselves to a place where we are not alone? I can't, of course. Yet, a sweet song of mystery and magic does breathe in our hearts.

*"Fly me to the moon..." is written by Bart Howard who sounds like he may have taken the same trip as Tiny Tim...

What does love want me to do today?

The morning begins early at 3 a.m. I listen to some beginner-blues-piano riffs on YouTube. Now, too late for more sleep, I look to the day. The question put is, "What does love want me to do today?" A slight surge of sweetness, anticipation, a tinge of excitement ripples, beacon-like -- invites a curious heart.

What does love want from me today? I will call my son this afternoon. Ah, a small round hole of dull light in the blind catches an eye. Suddenly, it burst into star-like rays of dancing color telling me its source is just peaking over the Rincons.  Later, it will ask me out to play.  Yesterday, an onion dropped on the floor and glancing down, there lay the mystery of the Nautilus, a circle circling to infinity and veins mapping its skin as they do on the back of my wrinkled hand. And, oh, how lovely that love calls us to play.

Love also wants an object to love.  A new keyboard makes me smile rather than frown, yet this smile need not move the lips as it spreads its warmth in the chest and makes the fingers itch. We say,"I love that."  I love the blouse I'll wear today. Yet, it isn't the blouse or the keyboard -- not the object, but the love.

And, where has love also led me? Being aged, through countless loses. You learn to take the knocks in one form or another. It isn't always chocolate ice cream Yet, love is the great teacher in this human school as it shapes us in its light.

What does love want me to do in this day, this world?  It invites me to witness to myself and to that larger essence?  Love is lonely by itself and needs to see, hear, and relate. It anchors, saddles me, and I am not alone. And even when I might be sad that can only be love, as, without love, there is no sad. It also puts me into kindness, compassion, and the beauty of its loveliness. Then, I see differently, more with magic eyes.

What does love want? An answer whispers back, love wants me to expand my little heart and love today -- be it an onion, a son, a tree, a lover, a prayer or a spark of morning sun bursting into rays of dancing color through a little round hole in the blind.  Love wants us to love and play at loving, no matter what it takes.

Waiting, a sacred act...

It's about 5:30 am. With a laptop on one shoulder and files in a backpack on the other. I head for Starbucks for four hours of writing. I have a small corner there that if I arrive when they open, feels all mine for a few hours.

I never turn the light on when I step out on the second story deck so I can see the stars and the lights rippling on the water from across the lake. Being in a slight hurry, with eyes to the sky, I make the usual sharp turn right for the stairs. Instantly, pain shoots through my leg, Then I am upside down in flight, and banging this and that. With the momentum of body, computer, and backpack I know I am heading down. I grab a white vertical rail and vicariously hold the position. My feet are on the deck, my back is on the second step, heading down. I attempt to breathe and there is not much that doesn't hurt.

The cause of this flying leap was a large plant pot in the corner of the deck. A wind storm the day before had blown it horizontal, and left it blocking the stairs. However, the good news is, I didn't break a bone yet back tendons and muscles took a beating and one leg needed it's dressing changed twice a day for several weeks. All in all, my life came to rather an abrupt halt. Ceiling-watching filled the weeks as the only relatively painless position I could find was lying flat which initially meant: no walking, no sitting, no computer, no writing, no piano playing, and no picking my Grands up at school for a dairy treat.

Now, ceiling-watching wears enormously thin rapidly and does not leave one many active options. It's rather like living in a void, an emptiness -- this waiting to heal, to getting back into life. Thoughts can dull and turn negative if one is not watchful. Thus, after the first couple weeks, when progress seems snail's pace, it is not the physical body but possibly the emotional body that may need some care. Yet, it takes an effort to drag oneself away from the gravitational pull of unhelpful thought.

However, thankfully, ceiling-watching has another partner called Waiting.  This non-activity appears to be a passive, tedious exercise.  Yet, within waiting is passion.  Both words, passive and passion have nominally, the same Latin root. I also discover waiting is like a box of energy which has space and dimension that can be used and worked at if I ask -- what thoughts, emotions will serve my higher self?  What does waiting want from me and what do I want from me?

Waiting to hear, I begin to watch differently, think and thus, feel differently.  The body does want to heal itself, inside and out.  The self and spirit long to expand. A richness, aliveness, and a fresh newness begin to enter body and spirit.  At one time or another, adult children, friends, my Ex, a stranger, and Grands occupy the blue chair at the end of the bed. And, I resolve that every face coming through that door will be the most special face in the world and I will love it.

Yes,  waiting is a passionate act and has a sophistication when giving oneself over to it. We wait -- to heal, to rejoin life, for a child to be born, and we wait for the beloved. Something is going to happen, some compassionate moment, some Royal visitor. Indeed, as scripture tells us, those who wait on Spirit will renew their strength and rise on Eagle wings...

I am writing now from Tucson, almost three months later, and still doing a little ceiling-watching as I continue to learn that, waiting itself is a sacred act.