2016 - the answer always waits in the question

2016 and a New Year to begin -- life anew. Where will be my growing edges? What will enlarge my story, my being, my sacred space, my happiness? What, in the coming months, will turn sadness into joy, fear into freedom and love. What ancient or present wounded-ness, that has been hiding out in some protective corner, do I want to extend my heart and understanding to? What larger-self will I continue to discover, explore and stake my claim to -- this year?

As a young monk* was leaving his teacher's sacred space, the old man called him back saying, "My son, you can do it better." The student instantly realized he had approached the door without awareness. And that awareness, that sense of larger presence does make love: as it waits for each of us in every "god-smacking" question we dare to ask. Thus, my 2016 question (or at least one of them) will be, "Augusta, how can you do it better?"

photo source: fotolia.com
* Thich Nhat Hanh

I need to open something...

"It's the best time of the year, Grandma. We love everything."
                                                                                                Mr Will, age six

We need Christmas. I need Christmas. Do we not each need that magic something?

My Grands began talking about Christmas in July.  I don't know how the subject came up but there was an illustrious amount of enthusiasm considering they were standing on sand in bathing suits. Their little bodies wiggled and giggled like a bowl full of jelly just talking about it.  I journaled, "They can't wait and it's July!" Is it the presents, those great conveyor of magic? Partly, I am sure. Yet, that is not what I hear. They have no idea what they may be getting in December. They probably don't remember who gave them what, amidst the colored paper rumbled on the floor, last December. However, they do remember something.

My daughter called several days ago. Her voice laughs with excitement. "I can't wait, I have your Christmas present." The red sweater will be warm and much appreciated. Yet, it is her excitement that is delightful -- this magical something that holds her gift.

After all,  magic is the reason for the season. A wise friend tells me. "I have to find it somewhere because I want the awe, the quietness, that something Christmas that is enchanted. It is the season to be jolly, to be sensitive, to wonder and be in wonder. It takes us out of the ordinary. The season may be exploited, complained about but it transcends our daily stuff.  We've modernized it, done everything to change it. Yet, at bottom it is still magic."

My grands are proof of that. We each are. I know the feeling, that enchantment -- those lights on the mantle, this love in my heart. That something is all about beloveding. And in that, it also speaks to our sadness. One cannot love without sadness. The two walk hand in hand. Regrets, losses are in it, too. All these hungry children part of ourselves. Like a ball, light on one side, dark on the other, yet, all the same ball, not different than. Twins because love is love whatever it's form.

My friend continued. "We need magic, we need candlelight, we need the angels and we need to be taken out of the ordinary. We need to wake up, to come into the parts of ourselves that are in the Christmas lights. Presents are magic, we need to open something. Even the stores can't wait and I am sure it is more than material gain." It's in the lights, the Christmas music -- from a Red Nose reindeer being asked "Won't you lead my sleigh tonight?"  to that breath-taking holiness of a "Silent Night, Holy Night." And in it all, there is something that rings little bells for me; that says, "It is so."


Photo source: Maksim Pasko, fotolia.com

"Too much humbug in this house..." stated the Christmas tree

"Too much humbug in this house..." stated the Christmas tree

Tis the season to be busy, oops, I mean tired, oops, maybe the word is jolly.  And in this season of upcoming hectic-ness could it possible mean, Tis the season to feel a silent-night holy?

Next week we start decorating this year's tree, all eight feet of it. I can feel the "get 'er done" list growing. Yet I also remember the lessons of that fallen Christmas tree called Timberrr of two years ago. The one that crashed and shatter and scattered shards of light across our living-room floor. After much laughter by anyone who viewed the spectacle, I sound myself rather impartial to my list of "yet to do's". Somehow as important as it all seemed before that "right honorable mess", I understood better as Las-tzu observed, why sages see "the ten thousand things as straw dogs".

My grands, who contain a guru-like element, do not have any humbug-busyness in them. They are free to experience the glow, excitement, magic and dancing joy of the season. Yet, their grandma is not. How can I hold this sacred, Christmas space in the seemingly upcoming, umpteen-things to do?

I need to remember the lesson of a crashing tree and what that "disarray" felt like after it tickled everyone's "funny-bone" and finally, tickled mine. Looking at the shambles before me, I thought, Oh me of little insight, maybe the tree feels "this human needs to light up. Too much humbug-busyness in this house. She has forgotten the spirit of Christmas. Let's call 'Timberrrr' and down goes her hectic-self."

And indeed, down it went.  "Getting 'er done" did lie peacefully on the living floor replaced by much merriment.  The different positionings of scattered pieces of colorful ornaments caught the lights from the manger scene and were almost beautiful. Reminding me that, the mere birth of a babe in a barn with some cows still summons us from this hectic world to a different positioning -- inviting each of us to that sacred, light-filled, breath-holding place in our own mangers.

Of course, the question remains, did this human learn the lesson of the Christmas tree? Will she stop and sing a deeper song? Will I remember again that the sacredness of the season will be "found in acts of breath-taking simplicity: a simple prayer, a sip of wine,"* a kind word and an exchange of blessing.

*Wayne Muller

"never send to know for whom the bell tolls..."

Every (person) is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less... Any [person’s] death diminishes me because I am involved in (humankind); and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
                                                                                         From Meditation 17 by John Donne 1624

I love the "Meditation" by John Donne three centuries ago and was reminded of it, again last week when a friend lost her mother, unexpectedly. I did not know her.  On hearing the news I felt loss. It also reminded me of a journal writing in August of '04. "A 'part of the main' broke off last week and I am less for it. Sergio Viviera de Mello, who many people identify as "the conscience of the world" and who has worked “miracles” to help reconstruct shattered societies in Lebanon, Kosovo, and East Timor, died yesterday in Baghdad when terrorists blew up the UN headquarters there."

And now, 15 years later, when I check the news, I still hear about  bombings in Syria and Baghdad before I have walked one block. And then there are the faces in rubber dingus trying to escape war that also leave me sad. Why should I feel loss? I didn’t know Viviera de Mello nor did I know the others. Yet my feelings tell me “a part of (my) main” has broken off.

These same feelings also shout, "Augusta, from the sages and enlightened hearts through the ages, you know you are not an isolated enclave of separateness." The scientists also confirm our connectedness. Jeff Kimble, a Caltech quantum physicist, finds that on separating two entangled particles, when one is tickled it is like the other particle laughs at the exact instant, no matter if one is on another planet. I suspect a similar event happens when we focus the higher qualities of human feeling: love, wisdom, understanding and a felt compassion toward a situation on the other side of the world.

We are all particles. Imagine, how one and connected we are! However, I do live in a fractured world. Humpty Dumpty falls off the wall every hour and for the most part I still feel hopeless to put it together again. Yet, I do (as we each do) have the power of the universe in my particles and heart-tip. I am a part of this earthy-main. The invitation is out; I need not be a bystander. I know too much to live in hopelessness and impotency. I can Be in my sacred self; flesh and heart the higher human qualities of wisdom, compassion and justice. I can Be those particles that tickle other particles in this fracture world. And maybe, I can shift, change and influence what happens. 

So the Sergio Viviera de Mellos' and the Putins' still have me asking, what energy am I releasing into the world? What kind of emotion, passion?  How am I affecting those around me and those on the migration from Syria and Iraq?  Maybe my energy can help tip the balance of Humpty’s precarious position on the wall. I am a global citizen. Maybe I can help to create a new world. I need not “send to know for whom the bell tolls”; it does toll for me.

a most honored state...

"Doing the human (emotional/spiritual) work is the most honored state."
                                                                                                            an ancient friend

My grands are back in school. At five and seven a new world of learning and challenges begin for them. They move from one grade to the next until they supposedly "finish" their education. Yet, having lived a life or three, I discover, there is no "finish". Human experience can be dense and hard and yet wildly liberating. This earthy-school room is packed with soul-lessons which offer me constant invitations to become more than I was yesterday.

However, in order to move from one grade to the next I do need larger containers of understanding and compassion to rescue me from myself.  Where are my blind spots, my insecure places and my judgments? What battered world or sacred wound is their source? What inner-parts are hidden which must be identified and healed if I am to live authentically? New ways of seeing, feeling and doing allow the emotional clutches that feel prison-like today, open to be freedom's path tomorrow.

And, here, is my school room -- where living into and answering such questions are my "home work." As my ancient friend informed me when I was overwhelmed by my own density, " Human work is the most honored state."  Yet, isn't it rather ironic, these are the places one never wants to expose to the light. In fact, this denial, this hiding from ourselves keeps the gates to our healing, freedom and expansion locked shut.

Generally I "hang on" when the kids go back to school.  Lessons are in the air. And, one would think a person who is aging like rather "passable-wine" would have said good-bye to home-work. However, not so and September didn't let me down. I got my (confidence) "feathers ruffled", again. Several days ago, I went to a near-by community to play piano. I had great fun. After, I was informed I had played too loudly and missed some downbeats. And that is probably true. The person may have wanted to help but it had the potential of feeling like an old "put down".

Yet, surprisingly, I had no emotional reaction, no gut-punch and no hurt feelings. I was still in my music glow.  Feeling around for some reaction, I could fine none! Quite frankly, I felt around all the way home and still no reaction. I was elated. Past "homework" (struggling with the questions above) had paid off.  I was detached from the old, confidence-taking messages. Congratulations were due. I probably had done as well or as worst as any of the other "wanna-be" musicians.

An hour later, while taking a solitary walk and mulling over the event, an old voice from a damaged past crept in. "I am not good enough. I don't know enough. Maybe, I'd better not go back and play, again." A confidence wipe-out, hurt feelings and a dose of self-pity attacked. By the time I came back from the walk I, me alone, had wrecked my still, very tender-shoot of a budding, music "career".

During the night, a dream told me, a self-criticizing part of myself was deceiving me. On waking, I instantly knew, in allowing those old, eroding messages a space to re-run, I had actually, betrayed myself!

This morning, reclaiming the soul-work I had accomplished in dismantling those old voices, I am alive and free again. My head has dropped down into my heart's understanding. Tonight, I am off again to dance those eighty-eight keys with joyful purpose and a hard earned confidence.

We have a rendezvous -- our soul's lessons. Where are the "blind spots" and what betrays the inner voice? The hard work is asking the hard questions -- "our reply to the soul's urgent query: 'Do you value what I am showing to you? Shall I show you more.'"*

And indeed, my answer is, let the angels come in their disguise...

photo source: fotolia.com
*Susan Shaughnessy from the book, Walking on Alligators

the will-full wind...

a playful wind

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                                                           Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the unnoticed prayer...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

photo source: scabrn, fotolia.com

* Secrets of the Lost Mode of Prayer by Gregg Braden