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

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