What does love want me to do today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Waiting, a sacred act...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The many beams from the Star in the East...

The real story comes from a love-source that cannot be understood with the intellect. 
                                                                                                                                     ~ Mark Nepo

A couple of weeks ago, my eight-year-old granddaughter asked the dreaded question. Is there really a Santa? 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.

 Four years ago, I wrote about my Grand stopping on her way out the door at the 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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

How finely tuned we each are...

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

Truly every hair on our head is counted. An invisible reality/that great love does care, hears 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.

The night the sheep got it's hind foot caught in the hedgerow style...

The days were golden and the memories are still there in my veins...
Ahhh,  that were my childhood days...
                                                      ~ Aanchal Valecha

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.

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!"

Not so enthusiastically, I ask, "How did you get past your aunties?"
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."
"Indeed it was, Granddaughter."  Hmm, a little gold tint from a sleepless night -- maybe a childhood memory?  

Could it be in years to come, my Grands will say, as Valecha observed,
"The days (and even the nights) were golden and the memories are still there in (our) veins...
Ahhh, that were (our) childhood days..."

My first inkling, the seeming death of my father...

We only part to meet again.
                                         ~ John Gay

My first inkling there may be life after death happened the afternoon my father was buried. He was fifty-seven and I was twenty-eight. Being brought up a Protestant, I had accepted by word of mouth, there is life everlasting. My acceptance was too surface to have anything to do with belief and certainly nothing to do with experience.

For months before my father died of a brain tumor, he disintegrated before our eyes and before his own. He went blind within weeks, lost his body functions which embarrassed him greatly, and shortly after that, his ability to speak. It was horrible and his death was a relief. My mother, his devoted younger brother and I had been traumatized by merely watching his dying. I could not imagine what he had been going through.

Coming home from the cemetery after the funeral, feeling the darkness and angst of the past months and the grave, I started to plod my way upstairs to change my clothes.  As my foot took the first step, there on the third step up was my father -- as clear as if he was standing in the flesh. He was laughing! Shocked still, with no time for disbelief, I watched him, captivated. He was looking directly at me. His mouth was open, his head thrown back and his face was full, not skeleton-like as he had been for months.

 He kept on laughing, a happy, joyous laugh. It struck me on the spot, "My father is discovering a great surprise, he lives!" His aliveness permeated the stairs. Then, what seemed like minutes of me staring at him, he was gone (at least beyond the limits of my human eyes).

As I climbed the stairs, laughter began in my stomach. His happiness was contagious. As I reached the top of the stairs, joy was changing my insides. I was laughing out loud. I could not believe it -- joyous laughter juxtaposed with grief, pain, and darkness of these past few months. The graveyard feeling an hour ago was now culminating with his and my laughter.

My awestruck spirit felt pixie-light for the first time in months. I knew my father was great. At core, I just knew he was alive and swell. Amen.

We are all it ~ and the cactus couldn't resist.

The other morning I woke into the most velvet feeling moving through my chest. It felt material, tangible, alive, and it didn't even feel like a feeling! I didn't want to call it love although it landed me in that place, that aliveness which rather felt like a river flowing through my chest.

Generally, I hop out of bed, sit for prayer, and start the day. Not that morning. I was spellbound. And thankfully, it was the weekend; I didn't have to move. After a while, I grabbed a pencil and wrote the following, "Stay here, here, here in this alive, living flowing, captivation. Draw it in, in, in, like a substance, thick and breathtaking." Maybe this is what every Buddha monk sits in, what every yoga and mystic experience. Maybe this is why they can sit or stand in meditation all day if they choose.

"Several hours later, and here it is still humming, moving, and there doesn't seem to be any little me in the way. It feels so tangible, powerful. A thought, I am going to soak-pray every one I know in this liquid, oceanic love. Ah, then it dawns in me, this is who and what each person is made of. We don't have to be a monk, a yoga, or a mystic to experience this. I merely happened to wake in it."

Just breathing this pure feeling of high love, loving, moving kept reminding me of ocean waves hitting the shore endlessly, ceaselessly -- still coming and still humming. Certainly unnameable in every way yet, so beautiful I could have died in it and been in bliss. And, I was already in bliss, whatever bliss means.

If we could only know this is who we each are but it gets covered over with life stuff -- dents, conditioning, upbringing, education, and old patterns.

By next morning the feeling was beginning to fade, as I hunched it might.

Dropping in on a reader a day later, I began telling her my experience, that we each are this love, loving but we just get covered up with life-stuff dents. When concluding that this must be what every Buddha, yoga, mystic and an enlightened person sits in; she pointed over my shoulder and suggested, I turn around.

I honestly had to look four times. There was her garden Buddha and it appeared the cactus could not resist. It was growing toward the figure, wrapping its tentacles over its arm and around its neck. We both laughed at the seeming absurdity.

Yes, and isn't it great. We are all it -- at core, at essence, at soul -- this river of moving love flowing through this chest, this being, and this room is what we are made of, is our essence. Expanding as it does out beyond time, matter, and any me-ness. I say it, feel it, and have written it but this time the question is like God asking, "But do you really get it, Augusta?"