Weaving Anger, Palm Sunday, and April Fool’s Day
I took refuge in a comfortable, quiet neighborhood restaurant after a busy and inspiring
day of being at an all day workshop with hundreds of other dedicated writers. I stretched out my legs as I sipped my cup of dark house blend coffee. I appreciated the uncluttered walls and the leisurely feel of the energy that surrounded me. I was happy to be alone after a day of workshops, book signings, and conversations. My body surrendered to the softness of the cushioned chair. I took another savoring sip of coffee and reviewed my week hoping to lasso a theme for my blog.
Suddenly, my eyes darted to a couple sitting next to a large window. The energy coming from the man and woman who appeared to be in their late twenties felt intense and compelling. The music from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons played in the background and I tapped my fingers and feet to the escalating rhythms. The music drowned out their conversation. I felt like I was watching or perhaps even participating in a silent movie. No longer revisiting The Maine Festival of the Book in my mind or figuring out what to write about in my weekly blog, I stared at the couple.
The young woman leaned forward, slammed her coffee cup on the table, wrapped her arms around her chest, and shook her head vigorously from side to side. Her lips moved but I could not make out her words. The man sitting across from her pointed his right index finger close to her face, then pulled his hand back, and lunged for her arm. Motion and emotion collided as I watched the energy erupt between them.
Then the woman abruptly motioned to the exit sign, grabbed her coffee cup and winter coat, and stumbled from the table. The man ran after her, only a few seconds of space separated them.
I looked around me. People sipped coffee, conversed, read the Sunday paper, or concentrated on their computers. I was surprised that I seemed to be the only one aware of the angry encounter that despite a change of scenes continued in the parking lot. Looking out of the large picture window, I realized that I was holding my breath. I was afraid that someone was about to be hurt in this angry collision. Still no sound as the action outside continued.
Watching the interaction between the two warriors, reminded me of times I had reacted in anger, usually directed to a partner who I thought had betrayed me or some value I held sacred. I remembered how I, too, expressed my outrage because I needed my feelings to be acknowledged or to be right. Usually my anger created walls, more distance than intimacy and often counterattack rather than reconciliation and tenderness.
I shook my head and smiled as I remember my seven year old grandson, Noah, remarking, “Oh, you foolish mortals,” when he watched the long lines of people waiting to buy tickets for the biggest US lottery in history.
Returning my attention to the escalating drama outside the cafe, I watched the woman throw up her hands, hurl the coffee cup against the pavement, and make an “It’s over, or I’m done gesture in the air. Then she spat at him—her gesture carrying more meaning than words. Without looking back, she opened her car door, slammed it shut, and careened out of the parking lot. I doubt if she saw him sticking his middle finger up at her before he ran to his car which was parked in the next row, and raced out of the lot after her.
Their story did not end here. I finished my breakfast, satisfied that I now had a beginning idea for my blog and headed for church. As I drove, I reflected on the couple aware that this was both Palm Sunday as well as April Fool’s Day and somehow that seemed relevant. Before I figured out the connection, I noticed flashing blue lights on top of a police car on the opposite side of the road. I recognized the two cars even before I spotted the two silent warriors. Another character had entered the silent movie. The police officer stood between them writing on a pad. I don’t know if he was issuing a ticket, preparing to arrest one or both of them, or writing out the preliminaries for a restraining order.
As I drove past slowly, I imagined the angry couple’s relationship permanently damaged. Even though I had heard not one word spoken from either person, energy can scream. Yet other times it can overflow with love, compassion, and forgiveness.
We do react like April fools when we forget that love is for giving, or when we over ride the Palm Sunday message to love and serve one another in favor of being right. Both frozen anger and out of control anger diminish our ability to love ourselves and each other. I know the truth of that statement in every cell of my being. As I looked though my rear view mirror and realized the silent movie had ended for me, I committed myself to live in love.
Anniversaries, Choices, and Perception
3.23-2012
Have you ever thought about something and then things happen that seem to connect to what you were pondering? Last week I started to anticipate the approaching anniversary of my son’s death. This will be the 35th year that I have counted off the days until March 23rd has come and gone. Each year I am surprised by the vividness of the details of Mike’s death and life. My emotional memory knows no time.
For the past few years I have deliberately chosen to carry on with my normal activities instead of devoting the day to remembering Mike. My perceptions and understanding have changed over the decades. I no longer need to devote an entire day to remembering Mike because I now honor his life by celebrating myself. This year I decided to join my swimming buddies for my regular workout. None of my new pool friends knows me as the mother of a dead son.
I returned to my journal to continue to reflect on perception and how personal perception is. Then the phone rang and I learned about the death of another friend—the fourth friend who has died this year. I sent out a prayer and felt my sadness that Jim and I now no longer would be evolutionary buddies-at least not on this dimension. Then I was over whelmed by a deep appreciation for the privilege of knowing Jim this lifetime. one of the lessons that has surprised me over time is how subtlety expressed grief shape shifts into appreciation. I sighed and smiled and then returned to writing about perceptions and how uniquely personal our perceptions are. Mike’s death changed forever my perception and relationship with death, life, and the process of honoring all.
Later in the day I wrote:
Normal was disrupted today. My first clue was the crowded swimming parking lot. My second clue was the loud shouts that escaped from the swimming pool building even with the door closed. My third clue was no empty lockers in the changing room.
When I opened the door to the pool, I felt like I hit a wall of screams. The kid’s side of the pool overflowed with elementary aged children. Their shrieks and screams and whistles made my head ache.
I walked toward the steps and tried to shake off the noise. As I walked closer to the edge of the pool, I noticed that each child was smiling and enjoying their “alternative exercise.” The parents and teachers who supervised seemed happy, too. As I searched for a vacant spot to jump into the pool, one of the teachers motioned the kids to move over and shouted in my ear that she hoped her class would not disturb my swimming routine.
I smiled and said loudly, “ I am glad to see so many happy kids. Good for all of you for arranging this and even getting wet yourselves.”
When I joined my quiet, senior group, everyone commented about the unexpected invasion of children. One woman, shrugged, grimaced and said sternly, “At this moment, I wished I were deaf,” and swam off. Another friend covered his ears and said he was leaving because he could not swim with all the noise. Willy shrugged, smiled and said, “Good kids, good parents and teachers” and later I watched as he initiated a game of ball tag with half the group. Still anther disgruntled senior swimmer said, “I’m glad I didn’t put my hearing aids in today because even without them, this noise is intolerable.”
Perhaps because i was conscious of appreciating the lives-now gone-of Mike and Jim, or maybe because I delight in being outrageously spontaneous, I screamed, “I’ll bet we can scream even louder than they can,” to the group who gathered at the far end of the pool near the diving board.
One woman looked me in the eye and said, “Do you really think so?”
“No question,” I replied. “I’ve been a mother, a grandmother and a teacher and I have had lots of experience exercising my loud voice.”
“What do you say? Are you in? I know we have the power to out shout them and surprise them, too.”
One by one, my swimming companions swam off. Only one remained.
“Are you in?” I challenged.
She pointed to our disappearing friends and said, “It’s only the two of us left.”
“So?’ I said.
“Do you think we have a chance?”
“How many kids did you raise?
“Five,” she responded.
“How many times did you raise your voice?
“Too many to count,“ she replied.
“Are you ready to have some fun?” I asked.
She nodded. We moved closer to one another. Our friends watched us from a safe distance.
“At the count of three, let’s scream like we mean it. Let’s play kids.”
One, two three. We opened our mouths wide and our screams echoed around the pool, circling several times before we both ran out of breath. All activity stopped. The four lifeguards stared at us. Then two rushed over to see what was wrong. Silence reigned in the pool. In unison we burst into boisterous laughter, followed by high fives.
Then one of our friends who had deserted us swam over and said, “You two are acting worse than the kids,” in a disapproving voice. We laughed louder and splashed him with water. He splashed me back and we both ducked under water. When I emerged, I hugged myself and remembered Mike and felt connected to him in joy-not grief.
I left the pool marveling again about how unique our perceptions of events are.
In the evening, I returned to my journal and wrote:
I enjoyed acknowledging Mike’s memory today. I had no need to share the meaning of the day with my new pool friends. I appreciated my playfulness and ability to be light and felt like I had honored both of us on this day.
Kindness Multiplied
I am continually amazed by the blessings that happen to me and others when I align with my soul purpose. Being aware, awake, and appreciative resonates with my soul purpose.
My airport story begins as I take my shoes off, load the gray buckets with my belongings, and notice an elderly woman in a wheel chair in the line across from me as an attendant helps her remove her shoes and socks. Both of her bare feet were bandaged. I heard a security person yell, “Random Check” just as I was about to push my bags on the silver rollers for a security check. When I realized that the frail, white haired woman in the wheel chair was the one to undergo a search, I watched more closely. An airport attendant leaned over her and told her he would help her stand up. She looked confused but obediently tried to stand up. I watched as she struggled to stand up. Her hands shook. I shuddered, noting that she was about five feet from the walk through security apparatus. Without thinking, I left my line and belongings and said to the security agent,
“Please let me take her place. She is having a hard time even standing up.”
The security agent replied, “This is against airport protocol. Go back to your line.”
I looked at the frail woman, who had returned to her wheel chair and said, “You announced this was a random check, right? So doesn’t that mean you have no reason to suspect that the woman in the wheelchair is a terrorist. I am volunteering to let you search me instead.”
“This is not your choice,” he barked. “I will call my supervisor if you do not return to your line.”
Motivated by kindness and aided by an adrenalin surge, I turned, walked behind the wheelchair and pushed the silent woman to my original lane. The attendant waved her through. I returned to face the supervisor.
“What’s going on here, ma’am?”
“Nothing now,” I said, waving goodbye to the woman in the wheelchair as she left the security area. After I explained my actions, the uniformed supervisor said,
“He was only doing the job he is paid to do.”
I smiled and replied, “I, too, was responding in the only way that made sense to me. That crippled woman might have fallen or panicked if he had forced her to submit to a random search.”
“We train our personnel do things by the book, Ma’am. He was following protocol.”
“I observed that, Sir, and I asked your employee to make an exception based on age, fragility, and the fact that it was a random search.
“I could arrest you,” he warned.
“Yes,” I replied. But in my heart I do not believe I did anything wrong. I guess that is my personal protocol.”
He nodded, uncrossed his arms, and looked around at the people who were watching and listening. I had not noticed anyone but him and his employee. Then he motioned me thorough security. I smiled and said, “Thank You.”
That could have been the end of the story, but it wasn’t. When I arrived at my gate and sat down, a ticket agent approached me and asked to see my ticket. Still recovering from my recent stand off, I asked her why. She invited me up to the ticket counter. I feared my previous action meant I was being banned from flying.
Then she asked, “Where is your final destination, please?”
“Why?” I persisted.
“Do you have any layovers?” she continued, as if she, too followed an invisible rule book.
“Can I see your ticket, Ma’am?” she asked.
“As soon as you tell me what this is about,” I said.
“Well. Ma’am apparently some man thinks you are a heroine. He pointed you out to me and paid for your ticket to be upgraded to first class.”
“Who is he?” I asked, looking around the lounge area.
“He’s not here. He had to make a quick connection. He followed you here and used his credit card to upgrade your ticket. He wanted to re-pay your kindness. Happy New Year,” she said and smiled for the first time.
I boarded the plane, took my seat in First Class, and ordered a complimentary glass of wine. Then I toasted the nameless woman in the wheelchair and the anonymous man who rewarded my kindness with kindness.
My Swimming Community
I swim three or four days a week in the neighboring town. I joined the Senior Swim group about a year ago when I moved from my home town in southern Maine to the small town of Hermon, Maine. For the first four months, nobody spoke to me although occasionally someone nodded in my general direction.
Clearly, I was an outsider. Imagine being with women in various stages of undressing, showering, and getting dressed and nobody speaks to you. I felt invisible.
I comforted myself by remembering that I was absorbed writing and then editing my book, Awaken, and I was not looking for community. However, I missed a smile, a greeting, or a sense of connection, however small.
I convinced myself I was shunned because I was the only woman who swam laps. I joined to exercise and I swam vigorously. I did notice that only men occupied the lap lanes while the women banded together on the shallow end of the pool and talked,never wetting their bathing caps.
I am an outrageous extrovert by choice. Initiating conversations is a hobby. Clearly, it was my choice to initiate contact or remain nameless and disconnected. I was determined. However, I watched and waited for someone to welcome me for twelve weeks. Then one day I locked eyes with one of the women in the locker room, held out my hand, and introduced myself.
She looked confused, or perhaps afraid, gasped, took a step backward, and then tentatively reached out and shook my hand. “My name is Karen but all my friends call me Kareen.”
I smiled and asked, “What would you like me to call you?”
“Kareen, of course,” she replied.
“My friends call me Rosie or Rosalie,” I said with a smile and squeezed her hand.
In the coming days and weeks, Kareen introduced me to every one of my swim mates. I repeated each person’s name and made a note of what each person looked like. Each day I swam I repeated their names. Within a few weeks, people waved to me and called out my name as I entered and left the pool. I smiled and waved back.
I appreciate how we watch out for one another. For example, Polly does not hear well and has had cataract surgery and does not see well, either. She rules the lanes when she swims. Everyone looks out for her or we risk a collision.
Rich, an 85 year old man, exercises his legs which are stiffened with arthritis. I asked him if he tried acupuncture and he replied , “Too old. Besides I prefer bourbon.” Tom, a giant of a man, who wears a yellow bathing cap claims the inner lane. We all give way to him. It is after all, his lane. When he was hospitalized for hip surgery, nobody swam in his lane. Instead we shared lanes and waited patiently for our turns.
Before long everyone knew I was working on a book. A few people asked what I was writing about and how long before they could read Awaken. Others asked if I wrote in my head while I swam. At lunch today, I was introduced to non-swimming husbands and wives as, This is Rosie, our writer swimmer.”
When Awaken was published, the local newspaper did a feature story about me and my new book. Someone posted the article and my picture on the community bulletin board with a big red heart around my picture. Everybody commented and promised to come to my book signing at the local library. I felt like a celebrity.
One year later a few of the women swim with me. We sputter words of encouragement as we pass one another in adjacent lanes. One women boasts that she swam her way through depression after the death of her husband. Another woman is a cancer survivor and says that swimming gave her back her life. One of the men returned to swimming and our group after surviving a heart attack and said our group was his heart’s home. Another woman records everyone’s birthdays and passes around a card for us to sign.
Today was my one-year anniversary and I joined the swimming squad for lunch. Spouses who do not swim dined with us. Putting faces and names to people I heard stories about for months was fun. I chuckled as I wondered how they would respond if they realized I knew intimate details about them? Mattie, a woman about my age, whose husband died a few months after he retired, made delicious chocolate turtles for each of us, a ritual she and her husband did every year they were married.
I feel welcomed in the group now. I also honor the long history these people have shared with one another. Some of them were classmates in elemenatray school and taught in the same community. Many of them are godparents for each other’s grown children. They have supported each other through births, accidents, celebrations, divorces, retirements, and deaths. Two women shared the same husband althoughnot a the same time!
Moving into a new community at the age of 67 is difficult. Most people have long established friendships and little time to add a single woman to their list of friends. Being retired is another challenge. No longer do I meet colleagues and chat about our mutual interests and challenges over tea.
I appreciate how important community is as a safe harbor and also a jumping off place. I spoke to a homeless veteran a few weeks ago and he said one of the worst things about being without a home was that seldom did anyone call him by his name.
Today I smile at strangers and shake hands with people I do not yet know. I introduce myself and ask their names. I tell them I am new in the community and ask them for suggestions about what to see and do. Occasionally, I invite a strange to share a cup of coffee or lunch with me. My treat! That is how I met Carl, the man without a home or family. I smiled as I appreicated that I welcomed him the way I wished I had been welcomed when I first joined the Senior Citizens swimming hour.
Yes, the maxim feels right: If you want more love in your life, or community, fulfillment, fun, or lightness, become that which you desire.
Prayers for Our Ancestors
Have you ever needed to pack an overnight bag and get away?
That is what I did last weekend. No destination in mind—only the need for uninterrupted quiet and solitude. My journey ended in Bingham, Maine, a small town, fifty miles from the Canadian border, inhabited by hunters at this time of year.
I obeyed an inner calling from my heart to climb to the top of Moxie Falls, in Bingham, Maine. I spotted the rock I wanted to sit on from below the falls and negotiated the fallen trees and bushes that obscured the path to reach it. I seemed to be under the spell of the big bolder as I climbed the cumbersome trail. I felt like the huge brown rock had chosen me and I had no idea why. However, I trusted that if I relaxed, opened my heart, and listened, I might learn more.
Once I sat on the rock, and flung my legs over the edge, I surrendered to the passionate pull of an unspoken prayer. Although I was not aware of whom or what I was praying for, I sensed that forgiveness was the focus. I do not own a watch, so I had no clue how long the prayer lasted. I only knew I was finished when I felt tears running down my cheeks.
When I opened my eyes and looked down to a big pool of water 85 feet below, I spotted a tall, slender man staring up at me. I was not sure if he belonged to the expanded dimension of my prayers or if he existed in every day reality. Then he waved his arms and cupped his hands to his mouth. I arched my body closer to the edge of the rock in an attempt to hear him. Maybe then I could figure out what dimension he resided in.
He shouted. I could not hear all the sounds. More syllables echoed over the whooshy sound of the waterfalls. I repeated fragments of his words to myself. Louder still, he hollered,
“Mitakuye Oyasin,”
My body trembled in recognition. I first learned that Indian word when I lived in Taos, N.M. twenty years ago. Native Americans use it to begin and end prayers. It means “All my relations.”
Without thinking, I stood up on the rock, cupped my hands to my mouth, and repeated, “Mitakuye Oyasin.”
“May I have permission to approach?” he hollered.
His request seemed to me like he was speaking from another time and I again questioned what dimension I was inhabiting. I nodded.
As I watched him nimbly climb the rocky trail, I wondered if I was making a mistake. Nobody knew I had driven to Bingham, Maine and spent the night in the only motel within a fifty-mile radius. He could push me off the rock and I could end up 85 feet below. I breathed and unhitched myself from my worried imagination and asked my body for a vote. I sensed no anxiety or stress. Too late to make a different choice. My inner story was interrupted by the man’s voice asking, “May I join you on this rock?” I moved over a bit and he sighed.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said with tears in his eyes. I sensed he was not just thanking me for moving over and sharing my rock with him.
“My great grandfather’s spirit is now free. He can move on now.”
I shook my head, feeling as though I had walked into a movie midway through.
How long have you been watching me?” I asked.
“Since you came into the clearing and started climbing up the trail,” he said quietly.
“Why did you come here this day? I inquired.
“My heart ordered me to be here, he replied.
I gasped, “Mine, too.”
“I watched you pray and I listened to your prayers and I knew my great grandfather was free. My family’s prayers are finally answered. I can tell them this is a good day,” he replied.
“But I did not pray out loud,” I said, as if grounding myself in my present reality.
“My heart heard your prayers,” he replied.
“Let me tell you the story of my family. A long time ago there was a battle between your people and my people. My great grandfather killed a white woman—a grandmother. My great grandmother buried his bones beneath this rock and since I was a small boy I’ve heard the story that his spirit could not be free to return to the ancestors until a white woman prayed for him.”
My hand clutched my heart and I began to cry understanding at that moment the meaning of my passionate prayer. Within the same moment, I also understood that more people had died and appreciated that they, too might be moved on in their journey by prayers even though their bones were not buried directly under the stone on which we sat.
Would you be willing to offer prayers to the others who died in that skirmish?” I asked.
He nodded and invited me to begin and assured me he would add his prayers when I had no more words. This time I knew our prayers needed to be spoken out loud. I began.
When I had no more voice, he continued. Intuitively I knew when he had run out of energy and I took another turn. I felt like we were singing a finely crafted and practiced duet. The power and peace of our mutual prayers gave me full hope that any spirits that might be hanging around were now free. He prayed for the land and asked that the earth be healed now and for all future generations. I asked that our prayers extend to the stars, remembering that Native Americans often refer to stars as campfires of their ancestors. Our prayers encircled us until we both knew we were finished. The sacred hoop was complete. For the first time, we smiled at one another.
May I walk with you down the mountain?” he asked.
I nodded, knowing in advance our walk would be completed in silence.
He walked me to my car. We shook hands formally. Then he asked me my name.
“Rosalie Deer Heart,” I said, and we both laughed. I had no idea why and I have no need to understand any of the coincidences that conspired to create the blessing of that day. All I know is when I follow my heart’ s directive, I often visit other dimensions and other times. Then I feel like a bridger and a midwife and my heart leaps with joy.
Mitakuye Oyasin.
November 30, 2011.
Soccer and Love
My seven-year-old grandson delights in playing sports. He lives for soccer in the fall, basketball in the early winter and baseball in the spring. He claims all sports as his “favorite.”
His coaches describe him as a natural athlete and I marvel at his “kinesthetic intelligence” as I watch how naturally his body serves him as he moves in the direction of the ball and has an instinct to know where to be in order to assist or score points.
He dreams sports and entertains me with magical plays he sees in his dreams. I listen and go back in my memory for sports dream and find none.
Noah is also a romantic athlete. Ever since kindergarten, he has “crushed” on a girl and she resides in his heart for the entire school year. The first day of first grade, his heart opened to Sidney and she has continued to be his heart’s love for the second year.
They both play sports although they have never played on the same team. Our town is small so boys and girls play together on the same team until fourth grade.
Soccer and love collided during the final game of the season. The score was tied with two minutes remaining in the game. I was standing with Sidney’s mother as we both cheered Noah and Sidney on! Then it happened! Sidney claimed the ball and began
methodically kicking it down the field. Noah was on defense. He crouched lower to the ground as he saw her heading in his direction. None of her teammates were around and it was clear to us that she was the designated one to score or not score. Noah was the only opponent who stood between her and the last win of the season.
He had defended his zone masterfully the entire game. Sidney scored two goals. Noah scored two goals for his team.
I held my breath, no longer hollering encouragement to Noah. Sidney’s Mom was quiet, too. We both appreciated that the stakes were high. I was glad I was a grownup and not a soccer player on the field.
Sidney continued to control the ball and she move fast. As she approached Noah, I watched as he looked directly into her eyes. With one motion, he threw up his hands, moved aside, and smiled as she scored the winning goal.
His coach looked at me and said with a smile, “Guess love is more important than winning to Noah.” I smiled and nodded.
As we walked off the field, Noah grabbed my hand and said, “ Grandmom, do you think I did the right thing?”
“I don’t know, Noah, do you think you did the right thing? That’s what’s most important.”
“I didn’t expect my teammates to be angry,” he said. “But they will get over it,”
he said philosophically.
Then I asked, “How did you decide to let Sidney score, Noah?”
“That was the easy part, Grandmom, when I looked into her eyes as she was racing down the field, I knew her heart would be broken if she did not score the winning goal and I wanted her to be happy. And I would do it the same way, again.”
I nodded and hugged him and told him I was proud of him. Then I said, “You know what, Noah, I believe that whenever we make a choice from our heart, we win.”
“I learned that today, too Grandmom.”
Soccer As Moving Meditation
October 12, 2011.
Soccer season kicked off a few weeks ago. If you want to find anybody in our little town of Hermon, Maine (population 3,405) on the next 8 Saturdays, head to the school field. Parents, grandparent’s brothers, sisters, teachers, neighbors and fans gather to watch and support the children. Everyone cheers boisterously for each goal, no matter which team scores. Good sportsmanship and humor reign in the stands and on the field.
Boys and girls play on the same team. I am amazed by how many inches they grew over the summer. Boys whose heads used to stop at my waist now almost reach my nose. Girls who were flat chested at school’s end now wear training bras. Boys and girls play on the same team and I marvel at how well they cooperate and give each other strategic advice, hugs and high fives whenever a team mate has blocked a goal, scored a goal, or needs support
I am intrigued by how similar the soccer practices and games are to my moving meditations. Although I will bet that not one of the coaches would identify themselves as meditation teachers, they urge their mini-athletes to be present in the now. Here’s how! I hear the coaches chanting, “ Pay attention. Stay awake. Connect to the earth before you kick the ball. Don’t pay attention to the goalie, focus on the ball.” I feel and sense the concentrated intention of the players to be aware, and present. Furthermore, I watch as they move up and down the field without getting attached to who scores or even who wins. Detachment bring delight.
While other spectators catch up on their friendships that summer interrupted, I watch the moving meditation before me and give thanks for all who participate. I am grateful to be in the midst of flowing awareness where nothing feels forced and everyone is grounded in their bodies and also ready to be present for the unexpected. For sure, this sport is an essential life skill that gifts the players and their fans with focused awareness, appreciation, and community.
10-4-2011
Completions and Giveaways
I am ever on the look for cycles. Whenever I bring my attention to cycles, no matter what kind, I also track myself. Now that I am a senior woman,
I am no longer tuned into the cycles that marked my life when I was younger. Now I visit with the moon each night before bed and doing so I not only connect to the waxing and waning cycles of Mother Moon, I also connect to my own inner and outer rhythms and forms.
Last week I was acutely aware of celebrating the completion of an intense two-year cycle. My two book launchings of Awaken Your All –Knowing Heart served as the catalyst. I staged my two Book Giveaways at Scarborough Library in Scarborough, Maine and Sadhana Meditation center in South Portland, Maine to thank the librarians and the staff at Sadhana for the loving kindness they extended to me as I labored and gave birth to Awaken. The librarians asked about my progress, ordered books they thought might assist me and referred to me as “the resident writer.” The staff at Sadhana offered me hugs, tea, silence, and a clear space to meditate. Before I shipped my manuscript to the publishers, I carried the manuscript back to both places and thanked people for their support and inspiration.
Celebrations are an important part of any cycle. Community support is an important public ritual for me. I was excited as I greeted people at the door. My energy expanded as I read stories from my book and people laughed and cried in all the right places.
Love led and I followed and invited everyone to join in experiencing the presence of love. I invited everyone to commit to love as a way of expanding consciousness as well as the path to creativity, intuition, spirituality, and healing. I also tithed money to demonstrate my appreciation and belief in abundance and donated a soul reading.
A completion demands reflection. I pause and write about what I have learned.
I leaned how much I enjoy playing with words—massaging them, stringing them together, and inventing new ones.
I learned how hard I push myself when I have made a commitment to create something new.
I learned how I use discipline and lose out on inspiration some times and I plan to be more aware of inspiration and trust I know lots about self-discipline.
I learned how writing permeates every aspect of my life when I am in the midst of a creative project. Words and ideas invade my dreams, my conversations, my swimming, my reading and even my harvesting my garden. I am not safe from being struck by writing—in the shower, on a walk, star gazing, or meditating.
I learned how delighted I am when I celebrate with people.
Next, I invite a name to commemorate this cycle. The word “Immersion” instantly fills my consciousness. I add a date to this cycle and declare it complete.
As an unexpected bonus I discovered I had completed another cycle when I retuned to my familiar swimming pool in South Portland, Maine this weekend. About the time I began to work on Awaken, I committed to swim three or four days a week. The Olympic pool is divided in half between lap swimmers and leisurely swimmers. On Friday, I took a risk and dove into the lap swimmers section, trusting that I had built up my stamina and speed in the year I had continued to swim at a local pool near Hermon, Maine. I reveled in my ability to swim the laps effortlessly. When I emerged the lifeguard gave me a high five and I danced a wet jig.
Another completion and another celebration. I wonder what new beginnings await my awareness!
Equinox Blog
I celebrate Mother Earth as a living consciousness each Solstice and each Equinox. You probably already know that the Equinox is a time of perfect balance of daylight and night dark. Did you know that an egg could stand upright without falling during the Equinox? Try it and you, too will appreciate the balanced energy field of our planet. Seasonal passages and cycles can support us as well as alert us to places to balance and expand our own consciousness.
Every Equinox I challenge myself to look at where I feel balance in my inner life and outer expression as well as where I sense imbalance. One of the patterns I notice is how much energy I devote to nurturing others. Like many women, relationships and caring and connecting bring me joy and meaning. The balance practice that I committed myself to maintain until the Winter Solstice in mid December is to gift myself with six hours of silence for one day a week. Time for a word fast, self-care, and going within to discover who will show up.
In Maine autumn is a time of relaxing in front of the fire pit with sweaters, apple picking, getting lost and finding our way in corn mazes, cider pressing, and seeing your breath in front of you in the early morning. My grandmother traditionally made pickles and my mother made jam to celebrate autumn. I concoct nourishing homemade soups and cutback on tabouli and green salads fresh from my garden.
Living in Maine, allows me to be receptive to seasonal passages. For instance, I notice how darkness descends earlier in the day now and mornings take longer to be light. Each morning when Noah, Malia, and I take our beholding walks at 6 AM, we have to figure out if we wear shorts or sweaters and long pants. Soccer and football games replace swimming and kayaking. Roses and cosmos are replaced by asters and mums. Early morning frost kills tomato plants and decorates the maple trees. Cats grow thicker fur and no longer leave behind traces of themselves on furniture.
When I lived in Taos, New Mexico, the doors to the Pueblo closed to visitors for six weeks. Native Americans used the forty-two days for going within, deep dreaming, and meditation. My word for their going within was “ fermenting.”
As a prelude to Equinox, I began to feel a deep stillness when I sat in meditation each day. My inner stillness sustained itself for a week and I felt a sense of deepened peace and possibilities. When I shared my experience with a soul friend, he wondered if my deep stillness was the spiritual equivalent of human contentment. I considered his comparison for a moment before I realized that the deep stillness is balance.
May you, too, experience the blessings of balance during this time.
September 11, 2011.
September 11th is complicated for our family because it is also the birthday of my grandson, Noah. I have felt an unnatural mixture of sadness and celebration for the last seven anniversaries of 9/11.
“Grand mom, you have to admit, it’s a man’s world and all that matters is war and muscles. Being a girl is pretty useless.”
Picture Malia, my ten year old grand daughter, and I sitting on our front steps watching six 7-year-old boys tumbling, wrestling racing, and challenging one another. Juice boxes transformed into squirt guns and carrot sticks became projectiles. Toasted marshmallow on long sticks became flaming swords.
My first response was to reassure Malia that she had power and vision and could impact the world. However, I squelched my knee jerk reaction to launch into my own historical perspective.
In my twenties, thirties, and forties, I marched, protested and joined millions of other women who demanded more personal power and power in the world. I also wanted a different world for my daughter. And that happened. When I went to college in the early sixties, teaching or nursing were the professions open to women. I wanted to be a photojournalist. I surrendered my ambitions to be a photojournalist and studied to be a teacher. Years later my daughter chose to be a doctor. My vision did not extend to the world my granddaughter might inherit.
I breathed into my heart, and let go of telling her about my participation in peace marches, consciousness raising groups, sit-ins for Roe versus Wade, and even a short jail sentence for a peaceful demonstration for the Equal Rights Amendment. I imagined she would be shocked to know I also drove conscientious objectors across the Canadian border in protest of the Vietnam War.
Then I invited my curiosity to lead. I know at age 67 that I learn more when I let go of my assumptions and my history and connect more deeply with others and myself. Then I naturally enter a woman’s world of relating and caring. Instead of lecturing Malia about my passionate pursuit of equality, I instinctively reached out to hold her hand, a sign of intergenerational sisterhood and comfort.
Without taking her eyes of the boy posse in front of us, she asked,
“How many do you think will call their Mom’s in the middle of the night because they want to go home?”
“None,” I responded without thinking. “Boys don’t usually do that.” I sighed as I realized I just bumped up against my own stereotype.
“Why not?” challenged Malia.
“Because even if they were scared or homesick, they probably would not admit it.”
“That’s what I am saying, Grandmom, it is a boy’s world. Maybe if they knew it was okay to talk about their feelings, our world might be different.”
I imagined we both remembered her first pajama party when she was seven. Like Noah, she had looked forward to her first sleepover for months. Like the first day of school, an all nighter was a rite of passage. Her best friend got scared and missed her parents. Before ten o’clock the party was over. It took three or four more unsuccessful dress rehearsals before a girlfriend slept over all night.
“Did you expect the party to be as rowdy and rough as this, Grandmom?”
I nodded over the noise. I know boys. I was the mother to my son, Mike, for almost fifteen years. I grew up with a younger brother.
“I kind of like to play with fifth grade boys, but second grade boys are just wild and all over the place. They don’t mind stepping on each other, getting dirty and smelly, and peeing together in the woods.”
I laughed as I admitted that most of the action taken place in front of us was horizontal not vertical.
Then Malia’s friend, Laura, who is 11 years old, arrived on the back of a motorcycle with her Dad. Malia dropped my hand and rushed to hug her best friend. Moments later they returned to the front steps holding hands and giggling.
“Bye, Grandmom, we are going into my room to do “girlie stuff.”
I smiled and felt hopeful because she already knows the value of girlfriends and caring. And she has me to remind me that she will grow into her own voice and vision, and that she will learn about her power in relationship with other girls. Perhaps, in time, this world will become a people’s world in which relationships and creativity replace war and muscle.
September 6, 2011.
Stones, Frozen Music, and Soul
Join me as I weave the themes of sculpting, soul readings, detachment, and angels. Staying present is the thread that connects the threads.
Pythagoras, the Greek mathematician and philosopher, believed that stones are frozen music. I agree. Ten years ago I developed a passion for sculpting stones. Full time grandmothering for the past seven years left little time for my artistic passion.
I was surprised how instinctively, I merged with the pink and white alabaster stone to hear the hum of its inner frozen music. Without plans for what the stone might become, I listened and reflected deeply. In a meditative state, I settled into my body and invited my intuition to guide my hands—not knowing anything and trusting everything.
I smiled as I remember Mary Shephard, my first sculpting teacher who insisted I let go of the first ten forms that emerged from a stone. She stressed that the moment I thought I had a sense of the possibilities, I needed to surrender the form and return to filing. I resisted her guidance initially because I felt relieved to see even a hint of a form emerge from within the stone. Plus, I was eager to begin and finish.
Today I honor her wisdom of waiting and witnessing because I trust that I will hear the stone’s hum if I am quiet and overflowing with appreciative awareness. Practicing detachment feels like watching the passing clouds change shapes and disappear.
A shape or story always emerges. I participate in this ongoing co-creative process by filing away stone that does not add to the essence of the emerging shape. Sculpting is a subtracting process unlike clay building, which is an addition process. For me sculpting and soul making are similar. As we align more deeply to our destiny, our soul purpose, any aspect of our personality that limits us, is filed away.
Imagine my delight when I spied the outstretched wings of a bird within the stone. When I turned the stone a bit to the left, I caught a hint of the beginning of a small head. I filed and the fine white dust flew into the air and reminded me to stop, look and listen for more cues. Then my mind challenged me to remember exactly how a bird is structured. The ratio of head, body, and wingspan felt foreign to me. Back to nature. Since we have three cats, the bird population is scarce around our home. So I disappeared into the house and grabbed a bird book and studied the proportions of a bird. Better prepared, I returned to my workbench and the stone.
Enter the angel. If you have read my earlier blogs, you might remember that my awareness of angels is expanding. As I turned the stone over, I beheld a distinct image of an angel. Then I breathed gently and looked deeply. Inwardly, I felt the inner music of the angel’s celestial signature. Instantly, I was inspired to add my energy and talent to the emerging shape. My head did not distract me with ratios and right proportions. My heart and hands knew exactly how to cooperate with the stone to release the emerging angel.
When I do a soul reading, I follow an identical honoring process as I listen inwardly for guidance. I behold a person’s essence just like I honor a stone’s essence. I relax, merge with the soul of my beloved, let go of knowing everything or anything, and the soul’s story emerges. Being present is the only requirement.
The angel sculpture is complete except for sanding and polishing. I am not in a hurry to finish. As long as the angel is unfinished, I remain present. When the angle is polished and secured to a base, I will continue to listen to the flowing music of the stone angel as I make a commitment to listen to the music of my own soul.
Send
August 26, 2011.
Centering myself in love this week and reflecting on the many ways that love graces my life was a gift! Love abounds in my life. I am delighted to be a student in this School of Love. I giggle each time I reflect back on School of Love that I introduced in my book Awaken Your All-Knowing Heart. So I followed my own advice and wrote each day about what counts for love for me. Then I began a gratitude journal to savor the different meetings I had with love each day.
Here are a few of my awakenings: I wrote about love of self, particularly when I sculpted, walked in the rain, and danced to the music of Wah. I also wrote about personal love, the intimacy and vulnerability that I experience in partnership, divine love, which asks everything and nothing of me, love of nature which extends to the lusciousness of my salad garden, love that erupts while watching children frolic under a sprinkler, love of friends and celebrating the birthday of Ted turning 70 years old, love of a circle of 1500 women from 60 countries in a web course I am taking, love of my two grandchildren Malia and Noah who return home tomorrow after being with their Dad in Florida for 6 weeks, love of each bright and waning day of the summer.
This morning I awoke at 3 AM with a dream that asked me, “What about love matters to you?”
I responded, Everything.” And woke myself up.
I leave you with the simple truth that whatever we appreciate, appreciates.
Join me in adopting a loving awareness for this week. Here’s my mantra for the next seven days: I am love loving.
August 21,2011.
I decided to write a weekly blog as my form of a creative and spiritual discipline. I will write about what is showing up in my life, including what is “working me.” Yes, sometimes I pursue God and other times God pursues me since I believe we abide in an emerging, reciprocal realationship (misspelling is intentional.)
Angels have been on my mind and in my heart for several weeks. They show up in surprising ways and at unexpected times. For example, an angel cloud in the sky, an angel card floating in our nearby pond, a dream about a visiting angel, a conversation with my soul buddy, John, and a song about angels on my car radio.
Synchronicity and angels converge. I remember reading Soul Making: The Desert Way of Spirituality by Alan Jones as I worked on my most recent book, Awaken your All-Knowing Heart, and marveling how the early religious fathers welcomed seekers who crossed the desert to find refuge at their monasteries as if each one were an angel—because who knows, perhaps she was!
Before I became conscious of being tracked by angels (they do leave traces), I started to wonder how angels see our world, especially the people who inhabit our world. Then I began to wonder how angels treat each other and how one might treat us. In my imagination, angels were light hearted, playful, loving, wise, and spacious. As I continued my inner gathering of experience, I realized that angels simply behold.
Spontaneously, without my mind realizing that my heart had voted, I committed myself to interacting with each person and every experience I created with my inner angel awareness.
Since researchers tell us that a minimum of 28 days is needed to develop a new habit, I commit myself to an initial angel apprenticeship for one month. I invite you, too, to practice angel awareness for 28 days and let’s share our experiences and expressions.
May 4, 2011.
I am eagerly awaiting the arrival of my seventh book, Awakening Your All-Knowing Heart. Soon it will have covers and a spine. My friend, Ed Rosenberg, describes this book as my “life’s work,” and I agree. Basically, this book contains the major themes and passions of my life including: love, intuition, creativity, consciousness, writing , spirituality, and healing.
At the request of friends, I also included many personal stories that reminded me of the importance of my voice and my visions. Many people who know me will be surprised by some of the stories. Friends I have not had the opportunity to meet yet, will say, “What? You’ve got to be kidding me?” All the stories are true.
I am very much in my heart on this day as I am on each May 4th. My son, Mike, was born on this day 49 years ago.
For 34 years I have remembered his birthday without him being in my physical life. For me, this day is a time of sweet rememberings and sad regrets. I light a candle, say a prayer, hug myself, bless Mike’s life, and move through this day.
