tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-63612962302572363682024-03-12T18:39:07.082-07:00life, meaning, & joyful purpose: tips & triggersWhat are the "how to's" for living well? What sparks our spirituality? What triggers joyful purpose? What trips us up? These are the questions this blog will explore.Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-74148614832981163462020-12-18T08:21:00.001-08:002020-12-18T08:29:43.943-08:00Christmas, letting the light within merge with the light that guides us... <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwysT23GUaf43GegnXZ446Wj5KJZl-b9xK8pCG5FmDbeAP2NdGurFGEGwIcgC4lG0YDAnTiOIx9xBCDmUly8v32e7pGYmS8uhzxRt_LTMFhps7O1zTqrmha7iVu8s551WiU63PFU_i_g/s1920/christmas-3878222_1920.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmwysT23GUaf43GegnXZ446Wj5KJZl-b9xK8pCG5FmDbeAP2NdGurFGEGwIcgC4lG0YDAnTiOIx9xBCDmUly8v32e7pGYmS8uhzxRt_LTMFhps7O1zTqrmha7iVu8s551WiU63PFU_i_g/w358-h291/christmas-3878222_1920.jpg" width="358" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><i><span> <span> </span></span></i></p><p><i><span> </span>Stars when you shine - You know how I feel, Scent of the pine - You know how I feel ... <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></i>Leslie Bricusse and Anothy Newley</p><p>Every year since my two Grands were able to hold a Christmas ornament, they have excitedly created a manger scene on the mantle. Sometimes Jesus was supported by a little smarties box so the light shone right on him. Yet, this is the Christmas of the COVID 19. Unlike the last twelve years, the mantle is bare and will remain so until my Grands return. Nor is there any need to decorate the table for Christmas dinner which all feels a bit barren. A neighbor was telling me her dream the other day. She found herself in a desert, yet, not like the high desert I love in Tucson. Her's felt barren, lifeless -- a part of life that can feel prison-like and even under siege -- be it from boredom, loneliness, loss, or sadness as the COVID has its way. </p><p>The above observation, begs the question, who am I without all the (human) stuff, where is my happy place, and how can I find it? I am also sure we are on this earth plane to do just that - where no matter what the limitations, with its desert-like feelings, <b>s</b>omething deeper, richer, and larger always calls, "Do not be afraid. I am always with you. I call you by name."* This inner essence, this emanating presence waits. Its cadence, resonance, and longing are in each of us. </p><p>St Exupery tells us what is essential is invisible to the eye. The other night watching the news, a very tiny light at the top of a very little tree caught my attention. It's light looked like a star, reminding me of my meditation candle in the early morning. Its rays in some magical way spread up beyond my little altar, as it was doing with the little tree light. Light in the darkness, I lost myself in it or better said, found myself in both. </p><p>This happy place I am referring to really has nothing to do with anyone or anything else. It is between me and the mystery of me, as it is between you and the mystery of you. Know yourself, stay behind what you know yourself to be. It is not material. Tolle tells us, we have to let go of seeing things through the screen of concepts and knowledge. We call a tree, a tree and there it stops, we call a dog, a dog and there it stops -- until we spend time with each. When we go beyond the tree-bark and dog-fur, we discover presence in both as we find our deeper selves in what we love, in relationship, and our beyondness. And it's here we discover our happy place. </p><p>In Jacob Leiberman's book, <i>Luminous Life: How the Science of Light Unlocks the Art of Living</i> the author points out that presence is what arises when we embrace and allow the light within us to merge with the light that guides us and this life is magical. </p><p> Yes, it is a very different year, this COVID year. Humanity is crying in so many parts of the world. Yet, no matter the threat, no matter the table won't be set, no matter hugs are out, we each can find our happy place. The little tree light was hiding a presence that is invisible to the eye - a oneness in me and a oneness in the beauty of it. And like the wise shepherds who said so long ago, "Look, look, there is the star..." We can find it now, find it today. We all have it built-in." This light bounces off God. </p><p>*Ancient scripture</p><p>** P.S. Late yesterday afternoon, Nova Scotia announced it was easing restrictions so that ten can gather in a house for Christmas. I am happy, the mantle will come to life after all. </p>Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-8264822594891977672020-09-17T06:31:00.001-07:002020-09-17T06:36:06.945-07:00The sweetness of breath and the wrong doing...<p> </p><div class="separator" dir="rtl" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0rTCoNIGdwRvNAN_PI9HZkMdnHHZ2LVdTe0Fd-cyw71ROkFwRXnBQauc6cgBIzTTqTggrvsEUjiIs4iF7BW91PzejMn4V7N2OuoKWihkAVuS5nHjCRyS5R3WlzXerR6Bpx1ZYjwQAFs/s640/tree-832028_640.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="419" data-original-width="640" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ0rTCoNIGdwRvNAN_PI9HZkMdnHHZ2LVdTe0Fd-cyw71ROkFwRXnBQauc6cgBIzTTqTggrvsEUjiIs4iF7BW91PzejMn4V7N2OuoKWihkAVuS5nHjCRyS5R3WlzXerR6Bpx1ZYjwQAFs/w323-h232/tree-832028_640.jpg" width="323" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing</div><div><div> and rightdoing is a field.</div><div> I will meet you there. </div><div><br /></div><div>When the soul lies down in that grass, </div><div>the world is too full to talk about.<br /></div> ~ Rumi<br /><br />In my case, Rumi's "wrongdoing" was my body, the shingles ached, the rash burned, and the body dominated as I was driving to an appointment. The clinic doctor called it, in a two-second look, "shingles." It was drowning me and<b> </b>drowning<b> </b>the moment. I keep writing about how we are not our bodies. Yet, not that day. My body was me and certainly was keeping me from experiencing "the field." Gratitudes, enjoying the beauty of the trees and lakes I was passing was lost. </div><div><br />The body ached -- breathing was thin air going in and thin air going out. Everything else was an effort. Then, a thought, I have a choice -- let the body do me in or just breathe, which takes no effort I was doing it unconsciously, anyway. I decided on the latter. (By that time, I was parked outside the office waiting for the receptionist to call me in.)<div><br /></div><div>After a few minutes, I began to wake up to the fact, I was beginning to feel a little more than thin air. My breath contained an aliveness. I searched for a word, oh yes, sweetness, a seemingly funny little word for what I was feeling. Then drawing the air in slower, with a long draw as if I was pulling a thick liquid of magic up through a straw -- yes, this is the sweetness. Then I let it out slowly savoring this soul-ness moving in and out of my chest. And the more I breathed the sweeter it became. Then my mind went back to my body of aches and burn, my discomforts were all still there but I wasn't. I was escaping into Rumi's "field."</div><div><br /></div><div>A thought flickered, "Oh, this is how I would like to take my last breaths, as breathing is the last thing I will do on this earth plane when making my transition. </div><div><br /><div><div>I reflected later, this sweetness of breath goes into my body, nurtures the sweetness in myself (which I can hardly call mine,) and renders a quietness. This breathing maintains me, does something inside me. I know what I am seeking is seeking me. This intake of air is not an object or a thing I do. This breath is breathing me as I am breathing it. It is more than me. It comes to me. I give it back. It is not what it is, but who it is. </div><div> </div></div><div>Indeed, breathing does take one out <i>beyond</i> "rightdoing and wrongdoing", beyond the ache and the burn to the field of love and loveliness. My soul-self says, "In this place that's where I want to meet, My Darling. I want to meet You there -- beyond perception, death, beyond this reality of flesh and bone -- out there..." </div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-22667881114508090592020-08-27T08:18:00.002-07:002020-08-29T23:01:24.397-07:00Summer play, cultivating a sacred space...<br />
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I cultivate my garden, and my garden cultivates me.<br />
~ Robert Brault<br />
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Her face was lit with life and excitement. She and a friend are taking off for the weekend. She began to tell me how much work she should be doing for her Doctorate as she is coming to its completion.<br />
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As a writer, I too have felt a slight guilt that goes with taking the time to go to my favorite play spots. Yet, on reflection, how valuable. I have just come back from a long weekend at the beach. A garden of sunrises, sunsets, evening breeze on the cliff, walks, swims, and vast amounts of the sky's all velvety patterned.<br />
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I tell my friend about my book-friend Thich Nhat Hanh who is a great spiritual teacher. This renowned Buddhist monk, whom I quote often on this blog, was gardening one afternoon. A woman watching him asked why he uses his time gardening when he could be writing or sharing his enlightening presence with others. He replied quietly, that tending his garden is why he <i>can</i> write.<br />
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Another enlightened human being Jesus, who was teaching a new way, had a similar take. The crowds were waiting for him to heal the sick and perform miracles. Yet, numerous times, he would leave the people who had come for healing and wisdom and go off into the desert to pray, rest, and tend to his sacred garden.<br />
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After listening, my young friend hugged me, "Oh, I need to hear that." And I too, indeed, need to hear it again and again for I have a garden to tend -- a garden of awareness, of consciousness, prayer, and of holding sacred space.<br />
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Two days later, she texted me a selfie. Two friends in sun hats, laughing, having a glass of wine, and sitting with the sun setting behind them. New energies, new growth, a new freshness of scent -- and obviously, tending to their gardens.<br />
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<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-1533959365211171712020-07-27T08:45:00.000-07:002020-07-27T08:54:03.120-07:00Second-guessing death...<br />
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For life and death are one,<br />
even as the river and the sea are one.<br />
Kahlil Gibran<br />
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My doctor turns and looks at me, without any prior conversation or thought, at least on my part, he asks, "Do you think death has to be morbid?" The question is so sudden and seemingly out of context, it shocks me.<br />
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Having more wrinkles than I might like, having said a good-bye to most of the people of my younger years, I am glad he asks the question. My doctor works in many countries so I am sure he has his reasons. I look at him saying, "No, death need not be morbid. Because there is no death." We discuss it, then driving home I pondered it further.<br />
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My first encounter of aliveness, after what I thought was death, I have written about a few years back in this blog.* If anyone had died a morbid death it was my father. I was in my twenties. He was fifty-seven. His suffering was a darkness for him and us that lasted months. No light at the end of that tunnel or so I thought. Yet, coming home from the grave, relieved and thanking God it was over, I headed upstairs and was stopped on the first step. There was my father, healthy, whole, and standing looking directly at me, laughing. So much so it was catching. He stayed and I looked. He was more alive and free than I had ever seen him. That was the day in 1968, I first second-guessed death.<br />
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About twenty years later, my ancient, spirit friend, the cottage woman, kept correcting me every time I said the word death. She would always respond, "Death is change, a transition, a continuation of living, of life. There is no death as you humans use the word." Then added kindly, "We do not use the word and suggest you don't either." So I try not to.<br />
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The cottage woman also allowed me a look at times. I had a dear, older, friend who had a great faith that was challenged by her family which disturbed her. When she died I asked the cottage woman how she was doing. She said, after a pause, "A lot of energy. Very happy. Ah, yah, like a kid in a candy store. She received a lot of what she was seeking in her time on earth -- indeed, like a kid in a candy store."** Maybe a somewhat irreverent observation but, nevertheless, an answer full of joy, aliveness, and a certain sweetness.<br />
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The invisible does not have to be visible to be real. Life and death are doorways to another reality, to other possibilities, and other dimensions. The ancients, the enlighteners, and the quantum physicists know that all is energy. The wind blows because the leaves move, we know about virtual reality now, you press a button and are looking at a half dozen people in your living room, and flick a little switch on the wall then poof, fire in my fireplace, or the room lights up. A hundred years ago, fifty years ago, we humans would have said, "No no, only visible life is real, only what I can see, and physical touch is real."<br />
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Life is a kaleidoscope of dimensions, levels, planes, and realities -- and death, I believe is, too. We have been too quick in dismissing what is not visible to our human eyes.<br />
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* Also referred to in my first book, <i>Moments That Blink Back </i>(Amazon and in major book stores)<br />
** From the book, <i>The Cottage Woman</i> which is being published later this year or early next.<br />
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<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-28860453112919999342020-06-26T04:16:00.002-07:002020-06-26T04:35:23.158-07:00Prayer comes in disguises...<br />
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Considering what to write about this month, prayer is forefront. Demonstrations are happening around the globe as the COVID is seemingly catching its breath. Under the threat of a pandemic, in spite of the violence, the rubber bullets, and the flash grenades, the walkers just keep coming. And in such times as these praying needs to hit the streets.<br />
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Like fingerprints, praying is different for each of us humans. Some of us pray without saying prayers, some use words, and some have different physical positionings. Others sacrifice their lives as do the caregivers going to work each morning in a pandemic and some walk their prayer. Five hundred doctors in Russia have died and that is probably the least of it. In fact, whatever the religion, non-religion, or nationality, praying is a heart business, a compassion business. Are not the demonstrators walking for justice, fairness, and for healing?<br />
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Yet, how do I pray? It all seems too big, too overwhelming. Where do I start and would it do any good anyway? However, I do have to join them. An inner voice says, "Take the leap." Looking out over the bay and beyond, I slip down from my head, that place of conventional reality that keeps telling me, my little prayer won't work. Then entering my house of compassion, hope, and daring, I know differently. The heart is never overwhelmed. Here is where I can sync with the walkers and the caregivers. This is not about being religious, or pious; this praying is about vision and humanity evolving.<br />
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This prayer, I can feel. As the days pass and in spite of all our human imperfections, it dawns on me, I am watching a flowing, golden river, not separate walkers. They are desiring and demanding something fairer, more just, and more caring in this world. A slice of humanity struggling for a new paradigm of meaning.<br />
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Now I am part of the river. It is beautiful, elegant -- a heart and mind coherence transforming us en route. City buildings form the banks as its water spills out into parks and thoroughfares -- cautiously beaconing us each to a new spring and to be a living prayer.<br />
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P.S.<br />
While I was writing this piece, I woke one morning to an aliveness in my room. Words fail here, however, I felt silken, gentle waves of energy that I only can call love. Not the conventional "love" but the deep, abiding, faceless source-kind that was flowing through me like a river, through the bed, the air, and then, I realized it flows all the time tangibility through each of us. I began singing quietly the old, worn-out folk song, "Love is flowing like a river, flowing out through you and me..." And I had never sung it or felt like this before.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YRM-eHgXCY">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1YRM-eHgXCY</a>Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-15857752331180574722020-05-27T04:17:00.000-07:002020-05-28T04:31:45.201-07:00The everything-ness of One moment...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The morning is sunny. With a laundry bag in each hand and still here at the chalet in semi-isolation, I head down the hill to my daughter's house to use her washing machine. Starting across the lawn, I turn to glance at the bay. The beauty of it stops me. The sun is brilliant, the Atlantic is endless, islands sprinkle its edges and the sailboats lean in the distance. Yes, here is the "eye kissing light, the heart sweetening light, my darling..." in ocean-blues and island-greens with the distant horizon disappearing somewhere out there -- somewhat like myself as I am beginning to see/feel as if from another place, in another space, yet all so very right. This I have not experienced before.<br />
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I want nothing more. Suspended out of this life, yet totally in and through it. Amazing, this is the one-ness that I always think I understand but not like this. This is something else -- inside and out, around and under. There is no time here, no past, no future, no death, and there is no me.<br />
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Ah, so this is it, there is only One moment, this moment -- holding everything -- all of heaven and earth. This is what the ancients know, the mountain monks, the yoga's, the enlightened ones of history who went before us, created morphic fields so we could follow. Everything, all I could want to be, and could never guess -- I am standing in it, right here, right now. A nothingness which is an everything-ness. What words? Really there aren't any. I, like the words, can only point...<br />
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And if I hadn't set my laundry bags down and stopped to look at the bay I'd have possibly missed the most important moment of my life? Wait, but how can I write that when I think of all the trillion moments I have lived? Yet, not like this one. Breathing in, I feel Tagore's great lines from the <i>Gitanjali </i>again, "Ah, the light dances, my darling, at the center of my life, the light strikes, my darling, the chords of my love; the skies open, the winds run wild and laughter passes over the earth."<br />
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<i>Post Script:</i><br />
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I expect the experience to fade. Yet, a wise woman tells me, "bring it back and live in it. Then it will expand like a rainbow into prism colors."<br />
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Four days later, my granddaughter has a birthday, her tenth. Her aunt and I drop in on their lawn (keeping our social distance) for a visit. Both Grands, freed from house confinement, momentarily are attempting handstands and cartwheels. Watching them, a little breeze brushes by. Turning, fluttering cherry blossoms fill the air. And instantly, again, the everything-ness in One moment.<br />
<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-19222791530274294242020-04-27T13:59:00.000-07:002020-04-30T12:43:42.906-07:00How do I hug the wind?<br />
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"The answer my friend is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind..."<br />
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Several Nova Scotia readers have told me of their tears for the carnage that was wrought here in the province several days ago. Indeed when one thinks of the lives lost, the suffering of those who loved them, family, and community members, the experience is devastating.<b> </b>And of course, the backdrop to this horror is Covid19 and its threatening presence to each of us. Tears indeed, sometimes I think even God cries.<br />
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Thus, I need to pray but that will be as hard as hugging the wind in this heaviness of spirit. How do I become the prayer? I will be lost if I follow such tragedy down its steep slopes with my conventional heart, thought, and mind. I can't clunk around in this dense solidity called skin and bone which feels at zero frequency in the moment. I know the feeling is the prayer and this isn't it. After all, the frequency of the vibration does create the nature of the particle - plus or minus. And, mine is the latter.<br />
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I do have to go somewhere else, invite those elevated feelings that wait in that deeper caring of spaciousness with its seeing beyondness -- that inner vibration for prayer with its compassion, healing, and the peace that truly does pass all understanding -- possibly better known in the Christian scripture as the balm of Gideon. </div>
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Is the answer in the wind -- that east wind, that south wind? I love it and know it as a companion. This divine wind that tips me on my toes and roars through this roof every few minutes in perfect timing, which makes me jump as I write. Its invisible power invites me to bow my head in reverence and reminds me of a childhood poem by Christina Rossetti.<br />
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Who has seen the wind,<br />
neither you nor I,<br />
but when the trees bow down their heads<br />
the wind is passing by.<br />
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"And you think of it only as wind?", my ancient friend observed wisely. Then I did and now, like the tree, I also bow my head. Prayer transforms this solid density. The divine, by whatever name, meets me. I lift my hand, place on a little leaf, my compassion, caring, and the feel of a peace that is a balm for such suffering. The wind takes each on their way. And, on arrival at the doorsteps of their destinations, some broken hearts may feel a holy breeze and say, "Oh look, a little leaf ...<br />
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How do I hug the wind and know it's hugging me? Of course, the answer my friend is blowing in the wind, the answer is blowing in the wind..."<br />
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<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-30861986689862044422020-03-30T07:13:00.000-07:002020-04-02T12:33:38.688-07:00a place of choice...<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Bay</td></tr>
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"If I could catch the feeling, I would: the feeling of the singing of the real world, as one is driven by (aloneness) and silence from the habitual world."<br />
Olivia Laing<br />
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My park is a gated community in the middle of Tucson. I decided to stay there till the first of May -- that sounded safer than Phoenix's Sky Harbor airport which already had stopped two sick Canadians a day or two before, then hours on the plane and taking my chances in New York/Newark. Then the phone rang last Thursday morning -- concern in my daughter's voice. I told her my reasons for staying which were solid. She put forth others. I said no. However, hanging up, one of her points hit me. What if I could not get home till summer or later -- that gets me into border and IRS stuff. I called her back, told her it would take a week and a half to pack up the 5th wheel. She suggested 48 hours. Impossible, a million thing to do -- buy a car cover for the summer sun, get my Mr. Fix-it guy to paint the awnings with sun protection, etc, etc, etc, etc, etc. My other daughter arranged to get my ticket exchanged.<br />
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In twenty-seven hours, I was on the plane home and arrived a week ago just under the wire. Now, of course, I am doing my two weeks of isolation along with most everyone I know. Yes, as I read the news, weeks now may turn to months while the virus follows its curve.<br />
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Someone observed last week, you must be getting a little wacky out there on the hill by yourself. Not really, but it's early in the game. Will I be frustrated because I came here straight from the airport with one change of clothes and no files -- yet, potentially small annoyances. I may not see children, grands, or dear friends in the flesh for a time -- a higher price. (Family deliver necessities and there is no burden of worry thanks to them.)<br />
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Yet, indeed, these are challenging times and will only be more so, I expect for each of us, in one way or the other. Life was full -- family get-togethers, movies, eating out, favorite activities, and a lot of old ways of doing things -- indeed, a social life being stripped clean. However, with these new circumstances, this new sparseness, is this not a place of choice, a gift of opportunity and possibly much more?<b> </b>My inner voice says, "Take it." The invitation is out, make an inner-dive.<br />
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This is a weird gift of difference in our lives,<b> </b>with its<b> </b>challenge<b> </b>of being physically alone or with one's house-mate or family -- being the extent of our contacts. Yet, it all has its obvious pluses, new adventures, new discoveries, as well as, its dangerous waters to cross. Thus I ask, where do I want to be in two months, what opportunities will be offered, what new land will I take, and what river within myself with its dangers will I cross?<br />
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I expect the most<b> </b>dangerous water for me<b> </b>to tread will be my thoughts. What currents will I let run through -- the small ones or the large? And how important to remember we are all larger than our feelings, our circumstances, our self-definitions, our supposed identities, and our roles. This is the creative place of choice.<br />
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Every thought is an energy that vibrates, that weighs or lightens my psyche. Thoughts create my reality, the environment, and will be the eyes I see and feel it all through. A simple little thought and where does it lead and what reality will it create? My inner voice cautions me to be careful as thoughts are real and as solid as this table holding the computer. They have the power to calm me or upset me. They have the power to encourage a light and merry heart or depress me. Treacherous ground.<br />
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And then there is the gift of time. Two weeks ago, almost everyone I met, myself included asked, greeting-like, "How are you doing?" "Busy" was generally the reply or "I can't believe how fast the time goes." "Me either." Laing (the author above) observes, "Most of us are (usually) short of time and now we are hanging in it." Maybe these moments and hours in the next months can be considered a gift too. The world need not interfere -- an opportunity to own our time.<br />
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The manuscript is finished. This blog may get written. What else will I fruit in these days? A gift of far-seeing and near-seeing? A rare time, a space-time, an alone time. but not surely a lonely time. Am I talking nonsense, maybe? However, as Virginia Wolfe observes, such times can be "intensely creative" and in them, one can "discover thrilling moments."<br />
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Last night the deck called at dusk -- rolling dark clouds folding in on each other, a cold wind, the trees bent, and a sky wrapping the earth with a magenta tinge. I had three hats on -- my toque, my overall hat with fake-fir and flaps, and a wool scarf wrapped around both. I was indeed a sight but I was mesmerized in this half-lit night, this gorgeously, alive sky with its wind tipping me on my toes, and the lights across the Bay were beginning to twinkle. It was like standing on an ancient, sailing ship, drinking in its alone endlessness. I was in love. I knew it. I was home in a much larger way than I could imagine. And it wasn't the chalet, it wasn't Nova Scotia, as grateful as I am. I had come home to a much larger part of what? I suppose me. I am not sure.<br />
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Yet, what I knew was, "If I could catch the feeling, I would..." And there it was, "the feeling of the singing of the real world," driven by its own aloneness and silence.<br />
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<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-12965104380811843212020-02-29T20:04:00.000-08:002020-03-02T18:17:05.201-08:00Thank you has a You in it...<br />
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Gratefulness is the great task, the how of our Spiritual work because rightly understood it re-roots us. </div>
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~ Brother David Steindl-Rast*</div>
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Through the years, I began to see a larger, smarter, and more enlightened hand than mine was helping which left me feeling cared for even in the smallest of incidences. Lately, I've taken note of how<b> </b>many times I say a heartfelt thank you to an invisible someone or something for the little things which are no longer dismissed. And the more gratitude I feel, the more the incidences seem to multiply and now are too numerous to be relegated to mere coincidence or a random act. </div>
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This developing feeling of gratitude is different. It has a life and aliveness to it. I cannot personally relate to a coincidence or consider some mishap as being saved by a bell. Often pulling into a full parking lot I put up a little request for a space near the store. And like magic, there it is. I might be mildly thankful for my good luck but that is not the gratitude Steindl-Rast is referring to. </div>
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In addition, too often in the past, I have also dismissed wisdom, instinct, and insight as these too remained more object than subject and thus, none personal. I wouldn't say thank you to an instinct even if it helped me avoid an accident. Yet, I know these three concepts are larger than mere human logic. </div>
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So what is missing? The answer -- Relationship. Thank you has a You to it -- an acknowledgment of a relating life force behind everything which has a larger intelligence than the human brain possesses. Yet, this You is personal and is caring in an, "I love you kind of way." A dear friend of mine was telling me the other day that she was standing up on a step ladder in her<b> </b>entrance, lost her balance, fell, and somehow landed perfectly seat-down in a chair a couple of feet away -- that had only been put there the day before for her to catch some sunlight while reading. </div>
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Yes, she could have dismissed it as a coincidence or concluded she had been saved by the bell/chair. However, she didn't. I also knew if she had landed on the hardwood floor it could have been serious as bones break easily. I don't know what she would call it but when she was telling me about it excitedly, her eyes were alight, and her thankfulness was catching. She knew she was saved by a larger hand than hers and exuded gratitude with its sweetness, caring, and its presence. This is the thank you with a You, felt to the bone and beyond.</div>
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This is the gratitude that Steindl-Rast refers to as "the how of our Spiritual work" rightly understood does re-root us. It comes out of our eyes, our fingertips, causing us to bow our heads and raise our hands to the sky. The other night I was watching TV. It was desert-night cold and I was warm and cozy on the sofa. The last thing I wanted to do was go out and stand in the darkness. Yet, gear up I did. The night sky was a crystal, star-glittering magnificence. No painting ever sold at Sotheby's for millions could match its beauty and there standing, looking up, it was mine or better said, I was its. With chest swelling and eyes singing, I shouted quietly, "Thank You." </div>
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To what? Some call the You, God, Jesus, or Mohammed. For others, it may be Spirit, mother earth, Gaia, or the universe. Herein lie relationship and Presence -- what we personally feel and are loved by. Without a You, without the larger than human self, I miss out on reality and a relating beyond my comprehension -- where everything waits for us to look out, look within, and walk in this awareness. </div>
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"What does gratitude mean to you?" I asked a wise woman last week who also exudes thankfulness for the rainbow she can see in a drop of water, glistening in the sun. She paused, then whispered, "Gratitude is like breathing in and breathing out. It is very large. I feel its loveliness, Ah, it is quiet. Yes, all is done. The universe is smiling back. Now, everything is beautiful." </div>
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* Brother David Steindl-Rast is a benedictine monk, author, and lecturer. Some years ago I was privileged to spend an afternoon with him and six or seven others which created a wonderful opportunity for personal interaction. I will never forget him. </div>
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Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-18378917405448741012020-01-29T04:15:00.001-08:002020-02-05T13:41:10.958-08:00err in the direction of kindness...<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-left: 36pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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My grandmother came for a visit several times a year when I was a child. She lived three hours away. My strongest memories were always the day she left. Sitting out on the front steps, watching the back of the car driving away, I remember feeling very inside-sad and inside-lost. Then, I probably went off to play.<br />
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However, crawling into bed those same evenings, there on my pillow, wrapped in a little tissue was enough change to buy some one-cent candy for a couple of days. I felt special and very cared for. Yet, the odd thing was that every time she came, I never remembered she might leave me something, so the discovery always held excitement and surprise. A simple act of kindness remembered decades and decades later still lights and warms me as I write. <br />
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Yesterday I happened to look down in my Tucson garden. And there was this little rock that smiled up at me with a dog, flowers, and inviting me to "Be Happy." Caring and delight washed through me. Then the question, who left this little gift next to the ceramic iguana. Later in the day, one of my neighbors had an impish little grin and twinkle.<br />
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Last week my cousins visited and more little acts of kindnesses, like tightening my shower hose (it just needed strong fingers), the flat tire of the bike was fixed quietly without a word, and from a neighbor this a.m, cooked shrimp and sauce arrived at my door. Oh, I also have a new hummingbird feeder on my deck put up this morning. This has all happened in the past week which reminds me of a quote a reader kindly sent me this past year.<br />
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"Do all the other things, the ambitious things - travel, get rich, get famous, innovate, lead, fall in love, make and lose fortunes, swim naked in wild, jungle rivers... but as you do, do to the extent you can, err in the direction of kindness. Do those things that incline you toward the big questions, and avoid the things that would reduce you and make you trivial. That luminous part of you that exists beyond personality - your soul if you will is as bright and shining as any that has ever been. Bright as Shakespeare's, bright as Gandhi's, bright as Mother Teresa's... Clear away everything that keeps you separate from this secret luminous place. Believe it exists, come to know it better, nurture it, and share its fruits tirelessly." George Sanders<br />
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My cousins, my neighbors, my grandmother all incline me toward the big things -- simple, little acts of luminosity. It is a new year and a new decade. I would like to err in the direction of kindness, leave little surprises of delight and caring along the way that will warm hearts decades later. I want to "clear away everything that keeps me separate from this secret luminous place," this part of m<span style="font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">yself "that exists beyond personality" which hopefully will leave such trails of luminosity. </span>Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-4207841681385883612019-12-23T06:48:00.000-08:002019-12-24T03:58:37.953-08:00The little light that spreads beyond...<br />
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Christmas is a time of lights, be it a tree light, candlelight, friend-light, family-light -- all capture the divine light. Looking at the Christmas tree the other night, one little bulb attracted my attention. Spraying out from it was a wider circle of radiating, golden, white-ish glow which was four or five times larger than when the tiny, dull-ish bulb was not plugged in. Now, being connected, the little tree light was transformed into dancing, sparkling, prism colors -- it felt and looked alive.<br />
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Then a thought, are we not<b> </b>like that little bulb that needs to be plugged in?<b> </b>To be light in the world<b> </b>requires intention. I have to do something. This fall I re-read Sanaya Roman's book <i>Spiritual Growth. </i>Her invitation is to build a larger, light body. After several instances lately, I concluded I definitely needed it -- a light that spreads out beyond me where love, hope, kindness, understanding reside, and where it is felt, heals and inspires inside and out. Light is a living presence and does come when called, is drawn to us by our thoughts. I want its warmth, its healing properties, and its heart sweetening light. I want to be plugged in, switched on, shine out, and build a light body, at least, five times my skin container.<br />
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Yet, how do I charge this body of clay? Roman encourages us to actually image seeing light like a luminous liquid filling up the spine. Initially conjure the feel of it if you have to as imagination holds power. Then wait for it, watch the spine fill gradually, then feel light as substance spread out like little rivers to all parts of the body, the heart, mind, toes, and to the parts that hurt (inner and outer). Then release this luminous light out beyond the body, expanding its magic like starlight which does the same dance as it too radiates well beyond its shape and form.<br />
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This morning I woke with a <b>s</b>houlder too sore to move without pain. I had a full day so somewhat in desperation and using my imagination, I put the image of the little candle I use when praying with its spray of dancing, light particles right in the middle of my shoulder and kept it there seeing it doing its healing all day. Whenever I went into the living room, the lights from the tree landed there as well. Did it work? Yes, in some mysterious way and not so mysterious way, it always works.<br />
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If I want lights on the tree or in me I do have to flip the switch, be it on the wall or in myself in order to become consciously aware of the divinity within. Here is the glow, here one sees with eyes of love, compassion, and beauty even in the darkness. Like the wise ones who followed the star in the desert to the child of light, one discovers en route that our hearts are the star.<br />
<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-19906576692172127302019-11-27T12:03:00.000-08:002019-12-17T03:53:17.353-08:00Are you in the wind?<br />
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My Ex made his crossing Sunday gently and normally. One minute he was breathing and the next he was not. His wife was with him and then our children, myself, and hers arrived minutes after. We had held the watch and his younger sister took the nights for his last few days. He was never left alone.<br />
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Sitting at his bedside I thought, "Your presence, your love, and your wit were stronger and met us at every turn in spite of a label called dementia. You've been with us through it all. And now leaving your body, it is time or almost past time, almost."<br />
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Love seemed to saturate the room, yet I found myself thinking, "But you are so obviously not here." I kept feeling myself out. Yes, at least a million memories, at least. And no matter we were divorced after being joined for decades as life grows its issues but they were not soul issues, or integrity, nor love issues. And, we have been indeed blessed since with decades of caring.<br />
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Later in the afternoon, the minister gathered us around the bed for prayer, his wife on one side of his body and me on the other. In joining our hands, I reached for his wife's hand and she for mine. I don't know how it happened but we each took one of his. It was still warm. The circle was joined and we bowed our heads.<br />
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Next morning and waiting for one of our sons to arrive at Cora's for a very early breakfast, I step out of the car into the wind, its freshness, its chill. I love the wind, it often speaks to me. Thus, I had to ask, "Are you in the wind, my love?" As if alive with force and presence, a gust tips me back on my heels. I laugh at the possibilities and feel connected in this simple mystery we call wind.<br />
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An ancient friend years ago, when hearing me dismiss the wind as merely wind, reflected quietly with compassion, "Ah, and you think of it only as wind." Now I needed to ask, "How come you are so present here in the parking lot, so here in the wind, more so than when you were alive and living twenty miles down the road? How come I feel elated, but the question is, can I trust it? I feel happy. Can I trust that? I don't understand. This is like walking on thin ice and I don't know when I will go under. I expect to feel hollow lostness, a bleakness but it is just not there. Should I feel guilty? No, it's definitely happiness."<br />
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Rabindranath Tagor, who I have mentioned before, wrote a poem in the Gitanjali after his beloved wife, daughter, and best friend had died within months of each other. Mourning his loss, he went up to the mountains for months by himself. From there he wrote, "Light, my light, eye kissing light, heart sweetening light, the dances my darling at the center of my life, the light strikes my darling the chords of my heart, the skies open, the winds run wild, and laughter passes over the earth." I have wondered for years how could he feel such a heart sweetening light after such loss?<br />
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Now, somewhere in my awareness, I must have arrived at a new point. I get it. At least enough to say, "Maybe you, who left your body yesterday are more in your essence, your greater understanding in your here-ness, now. This has nothing to do with belief, this I am experiencing.<br />
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"So, yes my love, I do feel you in the wind. You are as free as the wind in the Bay we brought our children up on. How can I not be happy, you gem of a man?"<br />
<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-710705114120178282019-10-30T05:10:00.000-07:002019-10-30T11:04:26.861-07:00It doesn't matter...<br />
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My Ex has had a type of dementia for a decade. Sometimes he is better than others and some days he isn't. Today was an isn’t. On the good days, he could always remember the past. For years when I would leave, he would come to the door of the unit, I'd unlock it, he would hold it open and wave, knowing he was not supposed to go further.<br />
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In spite of this afternoon being an isn't day, I drove back from his complex after a lovely visit of two people caring for each other. I felt it. I have been away in Tucson for the winter, it didn't matter. It didn't matter if I hadn't seen him for a while, it didn't matter if he could remember where he was, or who I might be. And I had no interest in asking.<br />
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When I arrived his eyes had just come from sleep and there is -- what to say -- a slightly absent look about them almost as if they are out of focus. It didn't matter that we divorced twenty-five years ago after being joined at the proverbial hip for thirty-four, plus the two years of seeing life differently. No, none of this mattered this afternoon, none of it.</div>
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Driving back from the complex he has been in for a few years, I thought, “Oh my land, you do not need head-memory to remember, to feel, to be moved, to laugh, to catch the joke, to find a situation funny, to be wise” And he was always wise in his way. We shared all those things today. He has memory, he can feel someone's love, someone's laugh, and that we did. I told him stories of people he had known well but does not remember, not today at least. However, I knew when he hit meaning, he was moved. The soul heard. I put the ginger snap cookie under his nose for a smell, enticing him to tea, down the hall to the dining room. It didn’t take much. He knew it was a bit funny and he laughed. His eyes twinkled when we caught that look of understanding and care we always had. <br />
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I asked him if he wanted to take a little walk around the perimeter of his unit. Indeed, he did. Walking, as we had done countless times, I thought, "We are like two old shoes." We were experiencing that feeling between us, we recognized each other -- all those years and all that love, we had built our own energy body together. Doesn't matter if he has a wife or children he loves dearly as he also has built a unique soul body with them that does not need a mind to be clear crystal or anywhere near it. He merely does not have head-memory, today. <br />
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Yet, the heart remembers well, his spirit-self, his soul-self recognizes and responds. No need of mind-memory today as a million, zillion moments of coming together as one big feeling of truth, that needs no words, was lapping each of us like gentle ocean waves.<br />
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I was so excited by the time I got home I wanted to tell everyone, you don't need memory to remember, as we are so full of feeling without it, so full of freedom, of joy. All this he gave me today, all this was wrapped in a ginger snap. And if someone asks how was the visit, I’d have to say “Just great.”<br />
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*I am now getting ready to go back to Tucson for the winter for a new season. Yesterday, he left his body, turned on his side as if he was sleeping. So he too welcomes a new season as well. I am sure.<br />
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Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-34956564433548872862019-09-27T03:29:00.001-07:002020-10-04T11:40:55.006-07:00When concern adds weight...<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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How many times have I felt badly for a person? How many times have I entered a hospital room with a heavy heart? How many times do I feel sorry for a person seeing/feeling their lead-weight of loss, illness, or misfortune? I consider myself a caring, concerned, and supportive person. And that is true and sounds good but is it really? What kind of energy might I be imparting? <br />
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The words remind me of the old cottage woman's wise caution one afternoon years ago. I had a question about a young man I was counseling. He was under a lot of stress in his home. Relating his circumstance I tell her, "He is only young but he feels tired, is not sleeping or eating well. Is he sick?<br />
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She nods, seeming less concerned than myself. "It is as it must be. When you are concerned for him it weighs him and adds to his weariness because you don't see it positive but as sick which adds to the negative force. You must help others change their perspective. Subconsciously, he knows you fear for his health." <i>Imagine our thoughts can be that powerful. This is fascinating. My genuine concern can add emotional weight and negativity to my young friend's spirit. Amazing, it can make his energy heavy and denser. This then applies to everyone I encounter! If I look at them or at the situation negatively, with weighted concern she is telling me, I can add to a person's weariness and heaviness. And he can even be affected by my fearfulness for him.</i><br />
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I never forgot her comment which has me checking since, "What kind of energy do I give people under the guise of support, care, and concern? Was I wrapping them in a heavy, wet blanket of negative undercurrent through my good intention of caring ?<br />
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However, in those days of the cottage woman, it was not commonly known that we humans are not solid but essentially 99 percent dancing energy and light particles. We also were not aware then that when two entangled particles are separated by miles and scientists tickled one, the other responds instantly in kind. Plus, I had never considered thought as being a thing with weight, affecting the energy and spirit of others.<br />
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The cottage woman’s words still guide me. We are, each and every one of us, hurting about something at this human level. There is a lot to feel bad about. However, there is another place other than weightedness that is not so limiting as my old friend pointed to -- a different space in us, a place bigger than us with a bigger feeling.<br />
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Others, indeed, need our care, concern, and support as we need theirs. Yet, I have learned my Light body has more magic and power than that heavy one my old friend was addressing. And every time I/we connect with Light as a living consciousness, we are building a bridge between ourselves, others, and a larger reality that offers much more than weariness, heaviness, and possible fear.Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-2758641300101379662019-08-30T04:35:00.001-07:002019-08-30T04:35:10.357-07:00Let the little things explode...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This week a reader was telling me that some big things are coming up that will leave her at times unhappy and emotionally challenged. After sharing her difficulties, she asked, "What can I do for my soul and spirit?"<br />
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Reflecting on those seasons for myself, when life feels vacant, unhappy, when the big things seem in disarray, I<b> </b>go for the little things.<b> </b>Through them, light, largeness, spirit, and magic manage to arrive and I am served.<br />
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Yet, I need to stop and look to see larger, even at the commonest object. Let's say this hand typing here. Taken for granted, it didn't even exist in my awareness until I just stopped to notice. Slowly, lifting it off the keyboard, I move it sideways, beginning to feel air, space, and then five fingers. The slower the motion, it comes to me all the work it has done, all the dishes it has washed, all the care it has given in one form or another, all the love it has touched and been touched by.<br />
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I begin to feel differently. This appendage I hardly ever notice is not so common. In these few moments of stopping and pondering, a little caring flutters, no matter one finger is crooked and the skin is as wrinkled as a raisin. I also know a courageous young woman that looks down to no hands, no feet which she lost recently. Again I spread my hand before me, move it slowly across in front of me, feeling it, marveling a bit, and actually loving it. This is a different inner space than disarray. This is love, I have a hand. Ah, and here comes gratitude, the route and root of prayer -- soul and spirit food.<br />
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We can make an intention to see the world differently, to feel the world differently, to relate differently. Let stopping, let slowing a movement, let feeling the energy field, and let the little things be our teacher. I experience mystery and magic in the little bee, outside my window. It should not be able to fly because its aerodynamics is against all the laws of aviation. The wings are too small. Yet, flying is how it pollinates much of the world's flowered beauty and food supply.<br />
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Last week I swam with the sandpipers, thousands of them in flight. They are feeding up for their non-stop 5000 km flight to South America. They are 23 cm long! I heard the swish of their wings. felt their miraculousness and let the disarray of spirit dissolve in the seeming mundaneness of bird, bee, hand, and heart.<br />
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Ah, the power of little things, they strengthen the spirit and fortify the soul. One need only stop in the middle of what one is doing and look, feel, ponder for a minute or two. It's all there. Let the outside become the inside. A wise woman tells me, "You line up your heart and mind. Hold them in this tension. Then it is different, it is only with the heart one sees rightly, the light comes through from the divine, it explodes and a beautiful thing has happened."<br />
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<b><br /></b>Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-60745222101004107892019-07-31T08:20:00.002-07:002019-07-31T08:55:23.724-07:00"a very little tea..."<br />
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> ~ Sun Bear*</span><br />
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<span style="text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">In the late afternoon sun, I settle down to do some painting.</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">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.</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> Then c</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">hatter.</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">I turn my head,</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">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?</span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;"> </span><span style="text-indent: 36pt;">Yet the scene before me piques my interest.</span></span></div>
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A black-bowel-like object is placed on the rug.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A teapot is carefully placed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Passer-byes, walking the wharf behind me, whisper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sea and sky are twined in twilight rose-blue.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.<o:p></o:p></div>
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* Sun Bear was a writer of Ojibwe descent. </div>
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Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-49351097167096788522019-06-27T06:38:00.000-07:002019-06-27T06:41:05.829-07:00What is essential...<br />
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"What is essential is invisible to the eye."<br />
Antoine Saint-Exupery<br />
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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.*<br />
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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.<br />
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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."<br />
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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."<br />
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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.<br />
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*Bryne's books have now been published in 30 languages and in over 50 countries.<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIYJ22Cu0nI">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EIYJ22Cu0nI</a><br />
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Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-33632854724362718572019-05-28T12:59:00.001-07:002019-05-28T12:59:11.488-07:00god the parent...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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...<br />
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<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-71536236477005746042019-04-18T13:16:00.001-07:002019-04-18T21:24:31.576-07:00You cannot swish through prayer...<br />
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<span style="font-size: 18.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the end of that afternoon visit and just before she was to leave, I asked how I could pray more effectively. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Each person must be given space and time...</b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Nodding, this wise, old woman instructs, "You must continue to give him energy if he is to visit again. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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." <i>Really,</i> <i>praying lends him energy. Then maybe, I can lend him not only healing energy but also love and joy. </i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Indeed, yet prayer is not effective if you swish through it." </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, I know she is referring to my on-the-run prayers. Besides, I still don’t have confidence that my praying works.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"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.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">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.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Well, I am feeling uncomfortable about not praying as much as I should." <i>It takes time to stop and pray.</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She bends closer and a wisp of hair falls past her ear. "Good. We are watching when you are uncomfortable.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That awareness of being uncomfortable and knowing that we are here gets your attention. That awareness is listening." <i>This kind of listening is something she keeps trying to teach me in almost every visit.</i> "Effective intercession does not depend on time but on attention. Your focus is what counts."</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Then she adds, "The person (Ned) has the need to know love. At this point</span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">, he feels isolated, needs to talk, feels very misunderstood and feels not seen or heard." </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being several thousand miles away, I ask, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Who can help him?" </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 12pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> "In part, the person who feels so moved. Each can send love in their own way." <i> </i></span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">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." </span><br />
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">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. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman"; white-space: pre-wrap;"> *Braden is renown for his work in the study of science and spirituality which I have referred to in other writings.</span></div>
Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-46518114625478955652019-03-21T11:27:00.000-07:002019-03-21T11:32:41.526-07:00to the moon and back...<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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*"Fly me to the moon..." is written by Bart Howard who sounds like he may have taken the same trip as Tiny Tim...Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-89768727717394686872019-02-22T17:07:00.000-08:002019-02-23T05:47:59.767-08:00What does love want me to do today?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-39557058534072540782019-01-28T04:46:00.003-08:002019-01-30T05:22:38.097-08:00Waiting, a sacred act...<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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...<br />
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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.<br />
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<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-59536939469201070822018-12-17T13:03:00.003-08:002019-01-30T05:56:01.334-08:00The many beams from the Star in the East...<br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span> <span style="text-align: center;">The real story comes from a love-source that cannot be understood with the intellect. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"> ~ Mark Nepo</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;">A couple of weeks ago, my eight-year-old granddaughter asked the dreaded question. Is there really a Santa? </span>Her brother who is now ten asked the same question a few years back and catching the parents off guard, things did not go well.<br />
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Four years ago, I wrote about my Grand stopping on her way out the door at the <span style="text-align: center;">newly unwrapped foot-high Santa standing on the chest in the hall. She fingered his beard, his red velvet coat and then took her time to feel all the little presents sticking out his pockets. Gazing for as long as a four-year-old gazes, she finally looked up sideways at me and states, almost solemnly and with considerable passion, "I love that guy." And from her look, I knew she meant it down to her little toes. Her face revealing she had entered that special place of wonder and love. </span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>She has held true to this passion for the "guy". However, now four years later, her father texts me last week saying, "She asked if Santa was real yesterday. We said, yes, he is spirit. She was quick to reply, "Good, he's spirit." Then she tells him she is relieved, as she thought it would be kind of creepy having someone in our house while we were sleeping.<br />
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My first thought was, how natural it is for her to accept the invisible and know there is more to life than what we see with our human eyes. Just because Santa is not in the flesh, not visible, does not mean he is not real. This great spirit flys through the sky on a sleigh pulled by eight tiny reindeer (an amazing feat) bringing light, joy, and love to every boy and girl. Yet, unfortunately, he does tend to become more calcified and non-existent for adults.<br />
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However, Saint Nickolas (270AD) was always intended to be more spiritual. He was known for his great generosity and gift giving. Miracles happened around him. He became a metaphor and we need to think more metaphorically.<br />
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There are many beams from the Star in the East. It just did not happen in Bethlehem. Artists, mystics of the great religions, enlighteners, higher beings in whatever form and the angels among us often were and are moved by the experience beyond bone and flesh. They leave behind their scent -- kindness, compassion, an ocean deep wisdom and most importantly, at center, each is love. The way we identify wind is when the tree bends. The way we see electricity is when we turn on a light. A reality cruises through the invisible. Everything is larger than it looks.<br />
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I love such mysteries as they are beyond my wildest understanding. So yes, Granddaughter, there is indeed a Santa Clause as you so wisely observed -- who is a magical spirit, who loves every boy and girl and lands on every rooftop with bags of joy, wonder, fierce anticipation, and heaping generosity.<br />
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Indeed, we do need to think more metaphorically as it allows many approaches with many faces. If we see it only as who we are as humans then a greater power is missed. Yet, if we see it larger, the universe is ours, mindfully and spiritually.<br />
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<br />Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-64093696231279383562018-11-30T16:01:00.000-08:002018-12-03T08:24:37.370-08:00How finely tuned we each are...<br />
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I often underestimate how sensitive the larger spirit is and how willing it is to help us in every minute and intimate detail -- when we explicitly ask. Yet, the other day I was surprised again. I had an unhappy spot that I had been suspicious of for a while. No matter how happy I was the previous day, at times, a dullness of spirit was present on waking. I am now suspicious of the influence the iPad I watch at night might have on my spirit first thing in the morning. I want to wake in elevated feelings like joyful purpose and a merry, eager heart.<br />
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Crawling into bed at the end of a day, I usually catch the news, an interesting interview or podcast, and am asleep in five minutes -- which is a real perk. Thus, I was not looking forward to putting the iPad out in the hall. Besides, would it do any good anyway? Would something larger than my human self hear? Plus, habits are hard things to break, especially when you enjoy them.<br />
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After pondering it a few days, and another touch of dullness, I set my intention and asked for a little spirit intervention. With the iPad out in the hall the next night, I try for sleep. An hour later and much churning, I am still button-eyed At some point I must have dozed off.<br />
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Usually, on waking I literately roll out of bed to the floor and meditate. However, just before waking this morning, I am floating in water with kayaks (one of our fun activities on the lake) passing me like sandpipers when swimming at the shore. I love the feeling. Then the experience changes. I am floating on my back watching this lit candle floating in front of me. The experience leaves me with a serenity, sweetness and indeed, a light and merry heart.<br />
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Waking, gratitude and excitement weigh in. Something in me did hear! I roll out of bed laughing, realizing this morning there is not much difference between waking and meditating. No dullness, only the hum, and feel of spirit. I asked and was responded to! A coincidence maybe, yet, I know this land too well and have experienced it's magic too often to say, "Nay."<br />
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Truly every hair on our head is counted. An invisible reality/that great love does care, <span style="background-color: #f6d5d9;">hears</span> and responds to the smallest intention and littlest act. At the same time, in each of us, something larger than our humanness also hears and responds. Indeed, how finely tuned to the divine we each are and what magic we can discover by setting a resolve and asking. Dullness can become candlelight.<br />
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Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6361296230257236368.post-35027788980078810082018-10-13T05:44:00.001-07:002018-10-13T05:53:54.415-07:00The night the sheep got it's hind foot caught in the hedgerow style...<br />
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The days were golden and the memories are still there in my veins...<br />
Ahhh, that were my childhood days...<br />
~ Aanchal Valecha<br />
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My Grands have stayed up late to toast marshmallows over the outdoor fire pit. They now are just tucked into new beds, in a new room downstairs. Two aunties sleep in the guest room across the hall so they can intercept if the kids (now eight and ten) are uncomfortable with this new sleeping arrangement.<br />
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After all is quiet, I tuck into bed upstairs with tea and cookie. It's been a full day. I even got an end of September swim with the youngest. My eyelids are heavy. Before tea and cookie are gone, footsteps on the stairs. The door opens and two Grands are standing at the end of the bed, each with a twinkle and a grin. "Grandma," they announce decisively, "we can't sleep!"<br />
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Not so enthusiastically, I ask, "How did you get past your aunties?"<br />
I am informed, "We looked in but they are asleep." Now, it is about ten-thirty. We chat and then I tuck them in again. Going upstairs and just dozing off, two little silhouettes appear at the end of the bed. Now, I do know they honestly cannot sleep. So out we go for a snack. Food works, sometimes. Not this time. So another try, then another, and another with books being read in between. Finally, back to their beds again. Then, one asks if I will go right to sleep when I go back upstairs. I assure them, I will "in a blink." It is now going on three in the morning.<br />
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That did it -- oh, me of little forethought. Both sit straight up, stating, they can't sleep if no one else is awake in the house! The final solution. Upstairs they come. One crawls in with me and the other falls asleep in the bed across the hall.<br />
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Yet, I still have this little face on the pillow looking at me with the sweetest smile, all buttoned-eyed. What to do? Sheep, I haven't tried sheep. I explain how it works. We will count sheep jumping over hedgerow styles -- counting back from ten to one. I begin, taking my time describing what a hedgerow might look like (with a little embellishment) and then we got those sheep all lined up and ready to go. Eyes are shut, little hands are up under the chin as if in prayer.<br />
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All ten get over and eyes are still shut. Yeah, it worked! Then, eyes pop open with a little giggle. Resigned to my fate, I sigh, "Ok, let's start at twenty." My turn to pray. Fifteen sheep make it, I glance over, not a twitch in that little face. Sleep has thankfully arrived. Testing time. Without breaking cadence, now didn't one of those darn sheep get its hind foot caught in the hedgerow style at number five. Holding my breath, I wait for a response, none. Silence and gratitude twin my moment. Oh, a little giggle but not from me.<br />
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I am out of ideas and now it is three-thirty. Defeated, I turn out the lights, drape my arm over my Grand's chest hopefully for comfort and suggest we just lie still. Five minutes later, without sheep, books, or food, we both succumb.<br />
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I could look at the night as a bit of a disaster if I had wanted rest? Yet, we had twinkles, laughs, and stories. Eventually, they didn't know how to solve the sleep problem any more than I. We were indeed bonded in helplessness.<br />
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At the family dinner the next day, my youngest Grand turns to me and announces with excitement and a giggle, "Grandma, it was the number five sheep that got its hind foot caught going over the style."<br />
"Indeed it was, Granddaughter." <i>Hmm, a little gold tint from a sleepless night -- maybe a childhood memory? </i><br />
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Could it be in years to come, my Grands will say, as Valecha observed,<br />
"The days (and even the nights) were golden and the memories are still there in (our) veins...<br />
Ahhh, that were (our) childhood days..."<br />
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Augustahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08303645036747604724noreply@blogger.com2