Never a written understanding...

"Spiritual knowing will never have a written understanding."*
                                                                                              author unknown

There is a place here in Tucson where I go to stand several times a day under a palo verdi tree. This is a great shade tree with lots of feathery hanging branches. It also gives me a closer look at the Santa Catalina Mountains and the Pantano Wash.

This year, standing under that palo verdi, just after I arrived for the winter, a flash of ruby-red bobbing up and down on a branch caught my attention. A little humming bird was resting there not four feet from me.  I thought the breeze moving my large, floppy, sun hat would disturb the bird and initially it did. After a week or two, it began to stay longer. I generally stood about ten to fifteen minutes in stillness. Sometimes, I would do some editing which would extend the time.

I started to play a game of who could be in stillness the longest. Off it would go, yet strangely, every time it returned to the exact same branch, five inches up from the tip of the lower branch, to sit at the top of the V.

We stood there daily and sometimes twice a day if I was home. One morning, I wondered if this bird was ignoring me or just didn't see me. Seemingly, as soon as I had the thought, it zoomed like a projectile past my left ear and in a flash landed back on its spot. Had it miscalculated its flight pattern? But not so, for this past month I have felt the movement of air close to my ear, repeatedly.

One day, standing in stillness, looking at the cloudless blue sky, I was trying not to think, not to label, not even to judge this beauty as 'sky'. I also did not want to notice this little creature keeping me company as a 'bird' -- thus reducing beauty, aliveness and intelligence to mere object.

 In a few days I fly back to Nova Scotia, I am almost packed.  Standing under the palo verdi tree this morning, a thought, "I am going to miss this little bird but will you even notice my absence?"  Ruby-red lifted off its branch and before I could blink it was a foot from the middle of my forehead, hair level, hovering in one spot, then back to the branch.

Two days before leaving: I take my place again, the bird is here. I watch it a little differently, thinking, yesterdays flight has 'gotta be' coincidence. Again, it darts toward me, same hairline positioning but this time it makes a perfect 180 degree semi circle around my head. A premeditated  flight plan? I don't believe it. Yet, it is so fun to hear the vibration of wings, to think maybe it is responding and to get a close look at its under-feathers.

I check Google. How long do humming birds live? Ruby-throated humming birds live five to nine years and apparently, he is male. They are seasonal, solitary and not necessarily social. Plus, they can travel nine hundred miles over water without landing.

Back in Nova Scotia: This morning, I miss his four months of daily presence. Spiritual knowing indeed "will never have a written understanding." Yet, maybe, he will be back next year  How will I know him? Oh yes, he will be 'five inches up from the tip of the lower branch, above the V' in the palo verdi tree.

* www.sound.shift.com

Don't take anything personally...

Don't take anything personally. Nothing others do is because of you. What others say and do is a projection of their own reality, their own dream. When you are immune to the  opinions of others, you won't be the victim of needless suffering.  Don Miguel Ruiz

I have had several 'big-bangs' of awareness in my life.  One of the most freeing and caring things I discovered over the years is what Ruiz says is wonderfully true. "Don't take anything personally." Others' expectations, opinions and judgments I have discovered with great relief are not about me. Every human being is relating from their own sense of self or lack of it, their level of consciousness and how they see the world. Yet, when such statements are delivered they can feel very personal and very hurtful. Worse still they can rob us of our own sense of worthiness as they are, too often, offered as truth.

When I was young and discovering an identity in the world independent of parents and others, I needed society to mirror a nurturing value and identity back to me. I needed all the things we need until we don't need them. Thus, peoples' opinions mattered, most everything anyone said about my value pro or con, mattered.

Another season in life where opinion and judgement ruled was my divorce.  Everyone seemed to know what it was about but me. I experienced it as a 'good wife' waking up to the fact that marriage itself was a social institution and not a holy writ. Love and relationship are sacred but the institution, at times, does not necessarily serve that end.  Thus, I left the institution but my husband did not come. I was asking too much. Nowadays, people can "live together" wonderfully in relationship, but not then.

Adult parents of adult children also need a good dose of, 'It isn't you and it isn't personal.'  This is a great training ground. When we wonder: why don't they call, why don't they visit more often, it merely is another opportunity to learn this most freeing of soul-lessons, 'It isn't about you.' Parents are loved, no matter if they are 'axe murders.' So most of us have made the grade. Maybe they don't call because they are engaged with growing careers, family, etc -- or -- yes, maybe their actions are neglectful, careless and thoughtless.  Thinking back, I know mine were, at times.

We are all growing, shrinking and achieving more insights daily. I still catch myself judging others, will half-know a situation and then pontificate as if I know the complexity of others' lives, what their soul-lessons are -- their wounds and heart aches. Yet indeed, there are places for opinions and assessments as long as we know whose they are and don't accept them as gospel.

Thankfully, over time, a freeing immunization from others' opinions has developed. "We don't see things as they are, we see things as we are."* I love the freedom of knowing "It's not personal." I love others' 'light-being-ness' as well as my own. Thus, my litmus test is when hurt or my value gets a dent, I ask, "Would a 'light-being' which we each essentially are, be careless, neglectful, put me down or make damaging remarks? I don't think so. Plus, my guess is, if I lived with the angels and in my own sense of Presence, I'd feel wonderfully helped and alive after most encounters.

photo source: fotolia. com
* Anais Nin

My name is day...

"Would you like to swing on a star?
Carry moon beams home in a jar?
And be better off than you are?"
                              lyrics by Johnny Burke

Waking I hear a knock. Opening the door, a voice dressed in beautiful colors, says, "My name is Day.  Do you want to live with me today?"
"Oh, I'd love too but I can't. I have this, this and that to do." I sigh.
"I'll wait, you might come out." (I probably won't.)

I close the door, a niggle thought. Maybe Day doesn't want me filling it with stuff or rushing to a fire that wasn't lit. Maybe it just wants a little quiet, hum and some relating-time. I know it loves to swing on stars and carry sunshine in a jar?

However, regrettably we share a long history of 'no's.' Some times when Day knocks, if it's not busyness, I might be feeling sad or even lonely.  I don't want to swing on anything and my moon jar has vanished. Then 'she' will whisper gently, "Oh Augusta, I can comfort you in countless ways. My joy flows deep." Another time it might be pain, then Day responds, (and 'she' always responds) "I offer you healing balm." I close the door and tend my stuff.

Taking Day for granted, invitations are ignored. What if Day didn't exist and days don't in space? Ah, but they are faithful, always giving me second, third and endless chances to come out of stuff and be alive -- which is quite different than existing.

Another knock, and there Day stands in rainbow colors of hope and trust. 'She' smiles so wisely, so knowingly. "I will accompany you in your loneliness, your pain and your sadness. Just come out. You see I love you. You are as beautiful as the sunsets, the bird song and your own breath. Breathe me in and Breath me out. You will see..."

Yes, days are groovy. They like to be appreciated and love to carry magic in a jar.
And so I wake, the sun peeks over the Rincons. There's that knock, Day sings, "Hi, do you want to come out to play? Do you want to think about who I am before you close the door, today?"
I smile, "Indeed."
Day bows and says, "I am your Gift, you will see."


Photo source: fotolia.com
Excerpts taken from a fun dialogue with a wise friend...

a step into joy...

T'is so much joy. T'is so much joy!
                                                      Emily Dickinson

Sometimes one has to go small to go large. What small act can I practice that will add to my aliveness, expand my consciousness, leaving me different, next year? I just want one little thing, one simple thing to do. Nothing complicated. The other morning I was reading a little book by Thich Nhat Hanh titled, The Long Road Turns To Joy. It's one of my "go to" books but this time I read it differently. The author is talking about discovering joy in one little step. I look down at my foot and think, "Imagine, joy is that available!"

This feeling is no stranger to me or any of us. I know it to be essence, presence and when present it can feel like an ocean of love and laughter emerging from some hidden artesian well deep with-in. So this year, I will attempt to build a place where joy will be more present and more consistently
independent, whether it is a sand-day or a laughing moment.

Zero though seems to be my starting point. I just walked to the kitchen to get tea. Hurrying to return to this writing a few minutes ago, any feeling of joy, presence or steps were lost to "fast forward, next!" And, needless to say, that is not what my book friend is talking about. He suggests each step be a "bell of mindfulness."

A bell of mindfulness. Last year I wanted to feel presence when taking a breath. Initially, I merely felt air in my nostrils. If it was cold enough, I could feel the matter-of fact-physical breath moving down to my lungs. So I wedded myself to observing one little breath as often as I could.  (It truly is amazing how much I ignore breathing in any form!)  After months of practice, my breath is no longer merely a physical thing. Quite frankly, it is beginning to feel like "God" has coated my lungs with what, a velvet caring -- rather like a deep friendship one attends over time.

However, initially in any practice, I often meet boredom, non-feeling and discouragement. Rich feelings cannot be depended upon to propel me forward; they seem to develop along the way.

Thus, in these next months, I want to trigger a feeling of joy, at least in one step en route to the tea pot. I want to instill that small act with a word-feeling, be it a "thank you" as I walk on a beach, catch a sweetness in the face of my grandchild or hear the sound of the sun when it peaks the mountain out my window here. This year I want my step to be a "bell of mindfulness" when I fly down the stairs on my way to nowhere.

photo source: fotolia.com

the train to Florence...

"The shore is safer but I love to buffet the sea -- I can count the bitter wrecks in these pleasant waters and hear the murmuring winds, but oh, I love the danger!
                                                                                              --Emily Dickinson

Life offers many opportunities to "buffet the sea". Several years ago, I wanted to get back to traveling again in Europe. I had done some with my former husband several decades ago. This time I would do it alone. Venice and Florence were my first destinations. History, architecture and art where the draw. Arriving at the Rialto Bridge (built 450 AD), I spent an enchanted week in Venice.

Florence, next. A day earlier, I scout-out the train station, buy a ticket and check which of the twenty-one tracks my train leaves from. Next day, with ticket and luggage I head for the station.

One imperative, I must arrive in Florence while it is still light as spotting the Basilica dome (Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore) against the skyline is to be the beacon. My hotel is on a little street, one block away.  Good walking shoes are required as the city center only has a few taxis.

Travelling alone, details are important. There is no one to call within an ocean's distance. I arrive a hour and half early and retrace my practice-run the day before. My train pulls in. Yes, track 19. The crowd rushes forward and me with it. Seated and relieved I enjoy the country-side at it flashes by. The gauge at the head of the car says 275 to 290 km's an hour.

Forty-five minutes later the conductor arrives to punch my ticket. He pauses, scowls, I hear, "Out, out," the rest is in Italian. What does he mean, "Out, out"? We are in the country-side. Then he points to a little box of a station that may have been open during WWII but certainly not now! Windows are boarded.  Looming, he commands, "Back, back," then, "Venice". He points to my luggage and reaches for the chord.

Within five minutes, my luggage and I watch the back of the train, shrink. I am so lost.  Should I cry or start walking? The latter holds more hope. Crossing five or six tracks, passing the little station, I head down a dirt road which is tough on luggage wheels and praying to see a human who speaks English. I spot an old man and show him my ticket. He points to a building down the road. Again, no English yet the clerk sells tickets but not to Florence.  I buy one for Venice. What else to do?

Finally, arriving back to my starting point, I find a ticket agent who speaks English. I had to restrain myself from jumping over the counter and hugging her. My third ticket of the day and I am still in Venice. Now, it is mid afternoon instead of early morning. Again, I find the train and settle in. As it begins to move, another passenger arrives and ask to see my ticket. Wrong seat, wrong compartment, wrong car but at least the right train, I think. He looks at my luggage, nods and smiles. I thank him for his generosity. I have a seat.

An hour later the train stops. Country-side again and the light is fading.  Some passer tells me the train just hit and killed a man. We are waiting for the police. People pile out. I keep my "nice-guy" seat. A couple of hours and we are on our way again. I won't make Florence in the light.

Finally, Florence, the train slows for a stop. I show my ticket to the woman next to me. She knows a little English. This ticket is not for Florence but a station outside the city. The ticket agent has sold me short. Now, I have to get off, find out where to buy a bus ticket, etc. Not an easy task.

An hour later, I finally arrive at my beacon point, the Firenze Santa Maria Novella, Florence's main train station. The sky is indeed dark and has been for hours. Yet there against the sky line is the Basilica. Old Florence has many little streets without much lighting. Now, just one foot in front of the other. Entering the lobby of my little four-star hotel, I raise my arms and announce to all, "I have arrived."

The clerk, looking uncomfortable, informs me I cannot stay as they have had an emergency and have booked a room for me "not far and an easy walk". Experience tells me, the latter statement rarely proves true. A half hour later, the buildings through the dark little streets are looking seedier. Finally I see it. The glass is broken on the sign. No, choice, I have to go in. The lobby is three flights up. (My hotel must have been desperate.) The clerk shows me to my room. "Do not touch anything," goes a voice in my head. With clothes on, I fall on top of the covers and am instantly asleep.

Next morning and the sun is shining. I make my way back to my hotel. Instead of the assigned room on the second floor, I ask for one on the top floor as was recommended by the web site, Trip Advisor. Entering the room, one wall is open to the roof gardens, tea-tables and chairs. Yet, what surprises me is the bed spread of red roses. Instantly, it shouts my mother's favorite of all flowers. I don't believe in coincidence. A breeze freshens the room.

Two hours and a shower later, I am standing among the Renaissance masters, Botticelli, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Raffaello, etc.-- surrounded by magnificent paintings and sculptures in the great Uffizi Gallery. I breathe in a thrill of thrills.

As Dickinson muses, "The shore is safer but I love to buffet the sea..." The train to Florence, indeed, buffeted me and I didn't like it: wrong train, wrong ticket, wrong seat, wrong compartment, wrong car, wrong ticket again, wrong station again and wrong hotel. Plus, the night walk through those little, dark streets at mid-night, I suspect, held their dangers.

Yet, thankfully, storms do not go on forever, seas calm and the sun returns. The travel to Florence held a bitter taste. Yet it got me there. That week, I explored the heart of Florence, ate looking over the Tuscany hills and met interesting people. Each morning, I woke to the bells of the Basilica tolling and then calling me to presence periodically through out the day.

I suspect, we each can count the bitter wrecks, be they travel or other. Yet, there are always those murmuring winds to hear which keep one praying, recognizing 'coincidences' and feeling that seemingly invisible help that is always, always there.

Photo resource: fotolia.com
Note: A week later I had a seamless trip back to Venice (to catch my flight home).

An invitation is out...

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, share its fruits tirelessly.  
                                                                                                                         George Saunders

What sacredness will I continue to discover, explore and stake my claim to -- this year? What "bright and shining" part does exist beyond/underneath this personality called, "me"? What extra passion, aliveness and consciousness can I "free up", today? 

I had a teacher in grade two and her name was Mrs Smith. She was ancient and even at seven,  I concluded, she was mean. She loomed over us, constantly pointing out our deficiencies and often accusing us of only using "a tenth of your heads". Ten is not even close to the best mark on a test. As defeating as the fact was meant to be, it "took my fancy". And here, I thought I was using every bit of me. Plus, I had everything, a dog, a Mum, Dad and a Gram." Yet, Mrs Smith apparently knew something I did not.

Did she know what Mr Saunders points out, that our larger stories, the luminous parts of us are as bright and shining as the greats he mentions? Whether she did or not, this is the place of arrival at my growing edge. What intuitively do I need to change today? The morning is early, where in this day will I get out of my way, my habitual comfort-zones and reclaim my luminosity?

Yet, resistance lurks. What stops me are the "same old, same 'olds'." I don't want to wrestle with my "I don't want to's...", nor pull the plug on familiar habits. Procrastination also waits, "I don't feel like it, right now." Yet, what if I did pick something, practice it every day for a week or month?

Years ago, an ancient friend instructed, "Nature increases one's frequency, one's inner space, one's light. Outdoors is a good place for you." So, last year I decided: several times a day, I would stop/interrupt whatever I was doing, go outdoors, set my iPhone timer for a few minutes and stand where I could see sky, trees, ocean, mountains and/or desert. I would try it for a week -- on the ground (no veranda or deck) and breathe. Initially, fidgeting seemed to rule and clunk-thoughts had a pixie-playground. The timer would never ding!

A year later, and this morning the song of the yellow finches and the Santa Catalina's are waiting for me to interrupt this writing. The iPhone timer will go off quicker than a blink. Some thoughts can now float through my head without sticking. I have discovered, again, light does pour from stars and mountains do dance. This fresh aliveness, this deepening awareness makes love to me, inside and out.

Decades have passed. I don't know what percentage Mrs. Smith might rate me at now. Yet, I do know she was right. There truly is more than a dog, a Mum, Dad, Gram and a ten percent.  Mr Saunders is right, too. We each are "bright and shining as any great that has ever been." And, as he encourages, "Believe it exists, come to know it better, nurture it, (and) share its fruits tirelessly." The invitation is out...

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