The Gift of a Wreath

A wreath of artificial everygreen and artificial fruit and berries - real pine cones and nuts. It sits in the center of the coffee table in my living room.

I don't remember the origin and historical significance of a wreath with nuts and fruits ,pine cones, and dried berries. I remember being mesmerized by them when I was young,  eventually creating one every year for the center of the table. Nowadays, I pull out of storage one I made of jeweled fruit several years ago. After, reattaching the one or two which have fallen from their hot glued place,  I put it in the center of the table, and in the center of it, I place a candle.

The encounters with these wreaths are enough to fill the wreath with meaning. 

One of the memories, or maybe more than one, was the relating the story of its historical significance. Even though I can't remember the story, I remember that there is history embedded in the wreath with fruit, nuts, pine cones, and berries. 

The wreath itself, along with its tokens of a harvest, stand as the unending recycling of life.

Best of all, is the priceless sense of awe I observe in the eyes of someone who never saw this kind of wreath before. The energy in the room begins to dance in wonder.

Then the questions begin.  What is it about a wreath that makes us more human? 

Happy New Year Everyone!

Solstice Full Moon Eclipse

Painted on a storefront window in Ybor City

There must be singing -

A choir, a chorus, a lone bird

Or an aria center stage,

  Carrying the journey

To point of Return,

For a moment

Resting gently on the edge

Of  a disappearing sun.

Full moon eclipsed by

Shadow of Earth passing by.

Dark and starry sky.
Reflection.
Silence.

Then, a deep chanting
Heartbeat,

Sound of Sun

Beginning its return.

Celebration. Joy. Peace

And music - Singing in
Another incarnation
of new possibilty. 

What is it that no longer supports your journey at present? Are you willing to let it go now?

Where is your heart beating its drum of beckoning?  How will you respond this year?

May we celebrate this holiday season together, wherever we are, with joy, with hope, with peace.

Empathy for a Racoon

 Mama Raccoon on the porch, looking for dinner.

Crescent City is a very small town. There is no "down town" as such. Shops are spread out along a couple of main streets. There's a church of about every denomination. This is a rural area which rises between two lakes. While the homes of the original block are built in close proximity to each other, there is still plenty of room for possums, squirrels, raccoons, snakes, an occasional fox or bobcat, peacocks, sand cranes, sea gulls, and alligators.

For the past two or three months, a raccoon has been making the rounds to cat food dishes in the neighborhood, which are outside for the most part.  There were two attempts to shoot the raccoon with a 22, but the raccoon was on a serious mission for this food and was not about to get shot. Most of us did not agree with this anyway - not to mention that discharging fire arms in this block is illegal. We all did, however, agree, that the raccoon had to go.

One day recently, the raccoon was on the porch. I had climbed the stairs and turned the corner. There was the raccoon at the cats' food dishes, eating away, seemingly oblivious to my presence. I stood there,  calm and centered, watching the raccoon. Finally, it noticed me and was spooked.

Instead of running away, it looked up at me and we stared in each other's  eyes for a moment.Then, off it scooted within one inch of my boots as it passed.  I was convinced that this was a mother who had little ones waiting for her return. She was looking me straight in the eye, appealing to my own maternal instincts, I had no doubt

Sure enough, the next day, she was spotted, leading her babies to the nearby  cat food bowls. They have grown past their gestation phase, and ready to face the world. . I was grateful for the  nurturing mother archetype which has late-bloomed in my Soul.

Mama Raccoon up a tree, either scoping out the neighborhood for food sources, or about to raid a squirrel;s stash, or...

Shooting her was no longer on anyone's agenda. The animal control person is no help at all. We, the neighbors are having to figure out how to gather up the family and take it to the "real" country where they can thrive and survive. There was still some concern, occasioning caution, that, since the raccoon gets so close, that she might be rabid.

I would say, EMPATHY HAPPENED, when Mama Raccoon looked into my eyes and I back into hers. Rabid or on a mission, this creature is alive and we are connected as One within this neighborhood.

Occasionally, we are  reminded that creatures and people coexist in the same environment. We have the opportunity to share the space. This is a different perspective than one of eliminating all annoyances as they disrupt our plans and routines.

Will you share an encounter you have had with a creature,, one in which Empathy happened?

Advent Aging

 Send in the clowns. There must be the clowns.

At this time of year, I am always filled with anticipation. It may be because I was brought up involved in church and it is now Advent. I remember, now, the four weeks of  "O Come Emmanuel" , lighting a new candle each Sunday in anticipation of lighting the white one in the center on Christmas.  I loved living in New York City at this time of year. I especially miss Paul Winter's presentations of the Solstice celebration at St. Johns Cathedral.

Here in Crescent City, at this time of year, the Presbyterian Church holds its annual holiday tea. There are gifts and crafts that the Women's Club spent all year making.

Some of the crafts made by the women during the year

The silver tea service comes out of storage and sits at the head of a table covered with novelty finger foods - sandwiches without crusts, various types of fudge, and tasty cookies. There is a nativity scene in its center that looks like gold trimmed] Lenox.china.

 The tea table full of goodies

This year, when I walked around the big room, the man who lives around the corner was playing holiday tunes on the piano.

 Alan at the piano

Betty, whose very rich and exciting life I had written up in my column , "It's Your Turn, in April, didn't recognize me.  I've known her for years. She finally recalled me through telling me about her two Himalayan cats- which she doesn't have, but I do.

 Betty, bless her heart.

There was a new woman serving the tea and coffee. Mrs. Suggs always wore a fancy cocktail dress for the occasion. She is not able to get around any longer.

Two women in their late seventies, pillars of the Women's Club for years, looked ten years younger than last year. Several women my age were tending to the food and beverage supply, all donned in red aprons.

 Patricia in her apron at the kitchen door

When Minnie Todd was no longer able to make the divinity fudge and meringues, I vowed to pick up the tradition. I did it for one year - made hundreds of meringues - someone came and bought most of them for a party she was having.

Wilhelmina, who for years made framed trees from old jewelry and novelties made of beads, had reported last year was the last. But, she was back with a whole new collection of framed trees, but was having a close out sale on the beaded crafts. I bought them all.

 Wilhelmina and her artwork - framed trees made of old pieces of jewelry

Every year, I buy raffle tickets for a crocheted afghan or colorful handmade quilt. Finally, this year I won a raffle.

 The afghan I won in the raffle

This holiday tea used to be the highlight of the season for Crescent City. Now, on the same day,  the South Putnam Women's Club holiday bazaar happens on in the park. There's even a parade.

 Santa is a big part of the annual parade

As I sat munching on dainty finger foods, and sipping decaf coffee from a real china cup, I observed everyone interacting. I used to know everyone who was in the room. I could go sit anywhere and get caught up on what was happening. This year, I sat next to a young woman and two seven year old girls. The young woman and I smiled at each other, while watching the girls were thoroughly enjoying  their goodies and tea served from real china cups.

Then, I got up, took a lot of pictures, and went on my way.

This is a slice of life. It is slice of the mundane on the one hand. On the other hand, t is a glimpse of the inevitability of change. I just wrote about what was going on, never mentioning the churning going on inside of me about the absurdity I experience in the passing away-ness of everything.  Every time I go to places where I have been going for years, I discover that everything - yes everything - is very obviously changing.

Yet there is a certain constancy in every present. For me, it is that there is a beginning, there is an ending, and in between, there is a clown on a bicycle, determined to dare me to anticipate newness.  How do you describe that constancy?

A Black Madonna

 Black Madonna at St. Baume

While reading The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd, I became curious about the Black Madonna image she used in the novel.  I googled "black madonna "and read what seemed like endless sites on this icon which dates back to the 11th century and was really popular during the Middle Ages. Also,in some circles (!), she is considered the alter ego of the Virgin Mary.

Some accounts even trace her back to Mary Magdalene who  was said to have been Jesus wife and bore him a  son, the heirs of which became Kings. Eventually, she migrated with her son  to Saintes Maries-de-la-Mer and  then lived in a cave in St. Baume  in the French Alps for the rest of her life. There is a Black Madonna icon in a chapel there today.

There are over 300  sites for  making a pilgrimage to a Black Madonna throughout Europe, When I learned this,  I decided I had to go - at least to France.

Then, I began to read Traveling with Pomegranates, also by Sue Monk Kidd. In this novel, written somewhat as a diary, mother and daughter travel to Greece, Turkey, and France. One chapter is from daughter's perspective, the next from mother's perspective, alternatively throughout the book. (As an aside, I might add that they are both in the process of unfolding the future of their lives as writers.)

The account describes how Sue came to use the Black Madonna as the symbol on the honey jars in The Secret Life of Bees - from their encounter with Black Madonna sacred sites on their journeys.

Their descriptions of the sites was so real to me, I have, in essence, now been there along with them, taking my own inner journey on the way.

A dear colleague has been a Black Madonna in my life.  Mary was her name, as the truth would have it. She was the one and only friend  and colleague, up to the time I got to know her,who awakened that center in me where loving myself became real. Her continued affirmation of the Self that I am, made it possible for me to have the confidence to  reach into the bottom of my own heart and pray - yes PRAY - for what I really want - for the first time in my life. I was 46 at the time I had that experience.

Mary passed into the next realm the same day as my brothers and I were burying my mother's ashes. I was going to visit her on my way back to New York City, but couldn't get hold of anyone.  I found out soon, why.

Later in the year, I received a black necklace that had been Mary's. Her husband, Rob, and sons were sending them to people according to Mary's wishes.

As I thought, today,  about making a pilgrimage to France, to St. Baume, especially, I remembered that black necklace. I remembered Mary's ability to affirm life as it is and experience the gift that the moment has given.

I don't have to go to France. My life has been blessed with a Black Madonna. She has performed her miracle in my life. I took the black necklace out of its place in the jewelry box. I will keep it closer to me now. It will remind me that I have been  able to reach into the bottom of my heart and ask  for what is now coming to be, slowly, but surely.

Most of the time, no one would ever catch me saying "pray". I would say "standing in the victory", or "claiming a promise", or "creating a new reality". These are all very meaningful phrases to express the same reality. But,  "praying' is appropriate as well.

 Cave is located in this mountainous area

 

As you reach into the bottom of your heart, what is it you want - really want? Ask a Black Madonna for it to come to be now. When it does what will you give her in return?

The Door is Open Now

 Caroline and Paige picked me up for our trek to Little Compton

In April 2010, a door of truth opened. It had  been shut tightly and sealed securely for 46 years. When asked about it, I solemnly denied its existence. It was never discussed.That's the way truths of this nature were handled way back then.  However, the times have changed. 

The seal was broken when I reconnected with my daughter, Caroline. I gave her up for adoption and was expected to go on living as if it had never happened. And so I proceeded into the future. I never  told  a single soul.Well, one time only did I tell someone, then turned around an denied it. Only a few knew and it was never ever discussed.
When Caroline and I met in April, in Rhode Island, the door opened just a bit more with the awareness in meeting her son, Justin and daughter, Paige.- no longer 3 sons, now three sons AND a daughter - no longer 3 grandsons, now a fourth AND a granddaughter. My heart was overflowing with gratitude for the revelation of truth and for these precious blessings.

 Justin and Paige just before he's off on his motorcycle trip to Florida

At the end of June, the door opened even a bit more when Caroline  connected with her daughter, Kathleen.  in Boston. They phoned  me, and I met even another granddaughter - my first born grandchild. I want  to meet her in real-time. I will take her the afghan I crocheted a few years ago to give to my first granddaughter, never even remotely dreaming that she is already grown. 

Paige with Kathleen on the phone with me for our first connection

On Monday of this week, where I was up north (in Massachusetts), Caroline and Paige  picked me up. We drove to Little Compton, Rhode Island where I met the couple who adopted her  - her parents, Pauline and James. It was a long awaited connection for us all. Now, the door is wide open.  

  Pauline and James, the lovely people who adopted Caroline

Justin, on a pilgrimage of his own, arrived on his motorcycle for Thanksgiving. Having met Russ already, he now got to meet Randy and Rob - his three new uncles. 

 Russ, Justin, Randy, and Rob on Thanksgiving Day

I would love to have a family reunion, get everyone together in one place , but that's probably not going to happen.any too soon,. At the same time,  there's still some real-time connections to be made now,  including Caroline's  meeting her father. 

 Opening this door is turning out to be an amazingly healing adventure after all. Whenever did history create such a stigma around hiding the existence of a child born out of a sense of being in love? Regrets I do have for letting go of my beloved child. Yet, I have come to understand that it was the best decision then, given the reality of it all at that time. Who made the rules that a child could be whisked away and forgotten? I never felt ashamed, yet I complied. Why did I comply? Why was I supposed to feel shame?  Who ordained that these doors be closed tight and sealed forever?

But, who would live by those rules today?  We have walked through the door of a life's time into today.  The truth is out in the open. The door is open. All of life is open. From here we proceed, hand in hand with the truth of it all. This is good.

My story is very personal, close to my heart. I am willing to be open and vulnerable because I have found a place in the center of my heart which radiates unconditional love and forgiveness into all of my memories.

I challenge us all to connect with this center within each of us, and radiate it into the radically changing world in which we live, and to the healing of this planet's systems. How will you go about this?

Silence in the Air

 

See how nature - trees, flowers, grass - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence...we need silence to be able to touch souls.” Mother Teresa 

For my 65th birthday, I received THE present of a life's time  - a hot air balloon ride which I could take anywhere in the United States. I chose Truckee, CA, near Lake Tahoe and invited, Celeste Macaluso, a dear young woman who had done much for me,  to join me. We arrived in a field full of sage, and assisted the owner of a magnificently colored balloon in getting it ready for us to go "up up and away".

   

 We climbed in, and began the rise across the lake. As we climbed, we left the details of the landscape behind, only being able to distinguish water from field from wooded areas.  We got up to 3000 feet, so the owner reported. 

I have to tell you, the silence surrounded and engulfed me like nothing I have ever experienced in my life's time. I stood in silent awe, mindful of how its presence was overwhelming me with peace.  Oh, if it could only have lasted forever. My Soul was lamenting the inevitable end, even as I opened my heart and let the silence enter.

The experience of the silence rests in my heart even now, a year later, as if I am still suspended 3000 feet up in the air in a beautiful balloon, mindful of having been privileged by the experience itself.

We all hold  images of extraordinary experiences in our hearts. How do these images influence how we relate to others, to ourselves, to life? 

You Can See Forever

 Moon, in the wilderness of never ending space, lights up home. 

Ancestors of our land, I bring you back to present time.

Oombulgurri, a human development project in Northern territory, Australia, begun  in the 70's, means "you can see forever".

Oombulgurri is a village which had been a mission station. It had been closed for many years before the ICA facilitated a  demonstration of sustainable community, by people who had grown up there  - and their children.

Perhaps I am wrong, but I am of the belief that the Aboriginal people viewed the vast seemingly endless expanses of the land they traveled, as  European  people considered their castles.

They would travel to different places according to the food available and the weather or gathering, at different times throughout the year.  There were sacred places, and meeting places, and fishing and hunting places - a place for everything.

When the people moved back to Oombulgurri, to the remnants of the mission, every single person over 16 was plagued with alcholism and syphillis , and lost traditions.  Not only had they lost the working memory of their traditions, but they also had to live on the fringes of the towns of the western world, almost as animals.

The village was forty kilometers down the Forrest River, and the salt flats flooded during the rainy season, so transportation in and out was always a challenge.

One time, when there was no getting to a hospital,  a nurse colleague on our team of consultants,  had to deliver a breach birth while I read the manual to her on how to do it. I suspect if tradition had not been lost, we wouldn't have  needed to intervene in this natural process.

The people who lived there had been taught various trades during the mission station days when they were growing up.  For example, Hilton, one of the men who had grown up on the mission, was able to put up fences with totally accurate measurements for miles on end- without a surveying instrument.

The people could hear sounds that were miles away and could point to that which was not visible to my eyes. They knew when a snake was near and when someone was approaching. They knew instinctively when someone had died  and when a woman had recently conceived.

The ability of the Aboriginal people in Oombulgurri to "see forever" had more to do, I am convinced, with being able to empathize with the environment, to relate to the environment as an extension of their physical bodies.

It's as if their bodies and imaginations were inclusive of all of time and all of space.

As an observer, I had many encounters with this reality.  The encounters were new experiences, yet seemed very natural to my senses.

Perhaps, humankind is in the process of once again getting acquainted with its Aboriginal roots. Perhaps we will one day - as a species again - be able to "see forever".

How does seeing forever, enrich  the journey of a life's time?

Feedback

Whether guidance counselor or teacher, every new year meant another formative and summative evaluation by an administrator.

As  accustomed as I had become to preparing  a session or lesson to be observed for feedback, I always was worried about my performance. The system was set up to keep us on the defensive.

Feedback would have been welcome and valuable, if we all were on the same page - concerned about being effective with the students.

But, it very rarely was about that. It was all about test scores, personalities, and classic classroom management.

Another element in being evaluated was the mirroring of the evaluator's own self image that was occurring.

These days,  when I have expressed my opinion about someone else or something, I always have to stop and consider where I am coming from with my assertions.

If I'm having a problem with that which is other than I, instead of expecting things to be different, I do sometimes remember to look inside myself for what is happening with me and respond to that instead. 

It is then I am able to respond to the conflict which has arisen.

Good when I have praised another or really am grateful for the otherness I have encountered. I do make an effort to do this as a regular spiritual practice.

However, there are those times when I have taken issue and experienced myself as a victim or find myself just  resenting the injustice of it all.

At these times, it becomes more difficult to look at my own similar imperfection.

But, the most rewarding experience for me is when  totally opposite perspectives have it out, not playing King Kong, but rather wrestling with an outcome that is acceptable to all. 

These outcomes tend to be, inevitably, a new synthesis of perspectives.

Whether this happens in a group, between two or three people, or inside one's own psyche, when it happens, there inevitably growth and positive change and a new sense of community results.

There is a lot of work to do to create safe environments of positive change. Where do we begin? Where do you begin?

Meditation

At the Milltop Tavern in St. Augustine

 

 Like water scooping into the water wheel and then spilling out, with the present constancy of the wheel's turning, so IS the meditation process.

I, too,  meditate.Everyone who meditates as a daily ritual has a way that works best for them.

Most times,  I can quiet my  mind, being mindful of the well spring of never ending images and feelings, and  letting them go as they appear on my consciousness screen

I meditate more effectively with an initial centering and then spending the quiet time with a voice mantra or activity  - like mindfully walking, expressively dancing, stringing on a psaltrey, -- or eating.

Over the twenty years or so of mindful meditation, I have become aware of our fast paced social patterns and all the mindless activity and interaction in which I have participated. Even into the second year of retirement, I find myself getting anxious about meeting a deadline or being somewhere ON TIME.

Monday of this week, I had to report for jury duty at 8:30 am. It takes 30 minutes to get to the courthouse, parked and into the waiting line to be screened.

At 7:25 am, I was sitting down at the table, mindfully consuming a fuit smoothie and piece of almond bread. I thought I was in a peaceful meditative state, mindfully opening my heart to joy as I ate.

Dick entered the room and casually mentioned that it must be close to the time of leaving,

I panicked and spilled the smoothie on the pill organizer, newly filled with a month's supply of "meds to live by" (!). Then tears welled up in my eyes.

There was no reason to panic and no reason to cry. I quickly cleaned up the mess, got ready to leave and got on the road.

I wasn't among the first 25 whose names were picked, and had to wait in the courtroom with 75 others in case the screening of the 25 meant more names to be drawn.

I spent that half hour or so reflecting on the morning's panic attack and cry. I decided that I had clicked into the old have-to-get -to-work modus operandi and was subsequently angry at myself  for it.

After promising myself an occasional imperfection in my new retirement mode, I let it go, grateful for the gift of mindful reflection and ability to disidentify from my attachment to the event's judgment.

Then, with uncanny synchronicity, a judge entered the room to let us go, announcing that there were enough jurors for this week's trials.

What is your relationship to time these days?

.

Cancer as The Way LIfe Is

I'd be willing to bet that there isn't one person alive who hasn't encountered cancer in some way or other.

In seven bouts with cancer, I didn't have much support at all from others. In fact, for the most part, I was ignored. I'm sure my being emotionally drained was what others felt when they were around me. I was angry. I'm sure that did not go unnoticed either. Ignored by others and abject FEAR of pain and imminent death almost got the best of me.

However, I learned a lot from those visits with cancer. One lesson cancer taught me is that, even with  support, it is a walk alone through the valley of the shadow of death.

Eventually, I experienced that having cancer was teaching me to care about myself and how I relate to the world around me. I looked into my own interior resources for survival, for relief, for comfort, for assurance. I found all that I needed to give me energy for healing right in my own heart.

A wise woman on the subject of healing, suggested to me, that cancer is creativity turning in on itself, when there is no outlet for expression. Perhaps this is so.

The most difficult occasion was a viral liver cancer. It was also a most creative venture, one that I would  never even have been able to dream of experiencing.

I employed healing music and sound, the healing power of balanced color schemes, healing diet, healing exercise, guided healing imagery, healing relaxation, painting emotions, diary writing, healing affirmations, chakra clearning, plain old exercise, etc., etc., etc.

I spent a lot of heart felt time on bringing the cancer into my own circle of dance, dancing with it, dialoging with it, overcoming my fear of it, becoming one with its being. Plainly put, I let go of any expectations for the outcome and let it just be.

While others around me ignored its presence - and ignored me, I became its best friend, in a way. I got so that it didn't matter if it went away or stayed. I began to experience my self as grateful for being who I am, where I am, and what I am, in the moment.

One day, reflecting on the absurdity of it all, I began to laugh. I was alone and I laughed until my sides ached.What a relief it was to laugh at my self and my circumstance.

My niece has a four year old, Abigail, who has bone marrow cancer. Abigail was born on my birthday, so there is a special place in my heart for her, even though I have yet to meet her.
Her grandmother writes of a really happy little girl that she gets to spend a lot of time with. I suspect that Abigail will be all right. I have a feeling that someday I'll get to meet her. 

But, then, one never knows when a person's time has come.

In the meantime, the journey continues.

And then it is done.

And all is well.

How has cancer affected your life?  What lessons has it taught you?

Why was I born?

Compliments of Kurt Rolfes, Photographer

This photo of an elephant bathing at sunrise holds it all for me - the sun shining on the bathing elephant AND on the cleansing and refreshing spray. The photo as a whole portrays that which is beyond explanation. This elephant is a presence, offering a multitude of meanings from which to choose.

I have been pondering a perspective on the reason for being alive.

This perspective suggests that birth is entering a new incarnation to continue the work of a previous incarnation - that there is a specific reason for being born into this particular body and having particular encounters throughout life and, as well, the reflections and lessons which are learned while here.

This perspective, given what I have experienced in this life's time, got me reflecting on some questions about my own purpose for being here.

• Did I fail to truly love all and forgive all?
• Was I too attached to people, things, or matters of life?
• Am I here to reframe some big unexpected outcome?
• Did I come to learn how to be a mother, a partner, family, neighbor, co-worker? Social change agent?
• Did I come to be a guide to the Higher Self?
• Am I here to face a dread fear of snakes and intimacy?
• Is it this time round that I  learn to dance with the way life is?
• Am I here to learn how to pay attention to my heart's wisdom?

Most certainly YES.

I have many other questions I could ask, but one major purpose for being here that I am sure of is that of learning to trust myself, experiences, others, the way life is - "warts and all!" as being  wondrous gifts I have been given. 

Living this connection with Self - with Soul - is THE ongoing challenge for me.

Have you taken the  opportunity to reflect on your reason for living in this life's time?  What have you discovered? And your greatest challenge is?

Pilgrimage

It was  Spring Break and I was going to Key West. A high school friend, one with whom I'd recently reconnected, and I were gong together.

I wanted to go to the very end end of the Keys - set out to do at the early 70's - and only got as far as Marathon, FL - 50  miles short of arriving at the most southern point in the USA at the time.

My friend and I were going to become Episcopal nuns when we were in grade school - we were drawn to the hierarchy of the Angels of that tradition. Our horizons expanded soon after we discovered boys.

I had a pilgrimage planned so to arrive at a Spiritual destination at the end of the week. I had simply assumed that El Nino would let the sun shine for the whole week. If it didn't, I had a Plan B that kept the significance of the pilgrimage as a journey with Spirit.

I do have to say that my friend might not have been as into the pilgrimage context as I was.  She was the one who chose the perfect eating places and tours that added some most pleasurable content to this journey of ours.

This was  not my first pilgrimage. I do this at each turning point of my life - that almost completed journey to the end of the Keys being the first self-conscious trek.

Each pilgrimage has been the most important thing I'd ever done up to that point of my life.

.Each has been the turning point I needed in my life. Here again, I anticipate the transformation, the letting go of the past, receiving the gift of joy for its entire experience, and a readiness to embrace a new phase of life.

We arrived.Thanks to my friend's immersing us in the stops along the way and my own sense of sacred pilgrimage, it was one of those meaningful occasion's on the journey of a life's time.

When is a time for you that you wouldn't have missed it for anything, especially since you partner on the journey brought along a different  perspective?

Donner Pass

I had just been told a story of the wagon trains going over Donner Pass (northern California), of their having to disassemble the wagons and hoist the pieces - plus the cargo - plus the animals up one side of the mountain and down the other.

I was told this story just before zooming down I-80 through the pass.   It's only been 170 yeas or so since those wagon trains were there.  Much has changed since then, as was brightly obvious that day.

  We live, still, in radically changing times.

Expect to be dancing in the wonder of it AWE!   (LOL)

What's awing you these days?

 

Seeing Red

The 18 voices of the "Sweet Adelines" were harmonizing on the stage of a district gathering of Beta Sigma Phi Sorority. They all wore dresses of shimmering red.

500 women of all adult ages were mesmerized by their  animated sound and coordinated movements, as was I.

Because of the commanding presence of this group of singers, or the first time, in I can't remember when, I felt that I belonged where I was at that moment in time.  

Red, a color popularly used to interpret as anger, wrong answers, and, in some traditions, death,  now had an entirely different meaning in this moment.

Of course, there are red valentines, red holly berries, red-nosed reindeer, red white and blue, 5th City's red and black, lady in red is dancing with me, etc. Red isn't always used to represent those more ominous entities.

Here, in this moment, was red harmonizing powerfully, touching the deeps of a room full of women.

I find myself reflecting on the song, "Some people wait a life time for a moment like this", and I realize there have been hundreds of moments like this in my life's time.

Reflect on these moments in your life's time when you felt like you really belonged where you were.  Which stands out as particularly significant?

What is a Soul Mate

 

Dear One, you are an exquisite soul.

I have known thee of old from once and future time.

How precious and light is your heart.

How generous and soft are your words.

How true and clear is your vision.

Blessings to you.

This post was sent by a woman to a man she obviously felt powerfully connected with. We all have a soul mate of some sort or another.  For some this is a real person, for others this is a celebrity of recent or of yore.

I had a soul mate from a very young age. This soul mate was a real person who I adored. He was a musician, a photographer, great story teller, tall and handsome, and a unique independent spirit presence. When he was near, I felt whole and perfect.

 For years, I never saw him and, on rare occasion, I'd hear about his latest adventure, but he never went away. When I was most alone, my imagination brought him near to me. When I was lost he was there to guide me in the right direction. When I was creating - painting, writing, coordinating a project - he was right there creating with me. Let's face it, he was ALWAYS there for me - in my imagination. I held him in high esteem. He was my hero.

Now, the truth is, we never did much together - I would get to tag along with him on occasion, and as a real person, he was not always there for me.It isn't that he didn't like me, but, well, I guess I could say, I was like a "groupie", had he been Bob Dylan - which he wasn't!

As a man, he is successful, he radiates a confident presence, he has a gentle soul, and most of all, he still has a great sense of adventure. Today, he is famous in his own right and has managed to tell his life's story to reflect the wholeness of his life's time.

Of course, I have a secret wish that I could be like him and that he would adore me as I do him.Truth is, he's just another elderly gentleman. And, if I look in the mirror, I might just see myself there as clearly as I feel his presence in my Soul.

Soul mates are like that. If I didn't understand him as being my animus, a reflection of my own potential, I  would be obsessively yearning. But, I'm satisfied, with this inner personification. I recognize him in my real time relationships. This is good.

Who is your soul mate?Why is your soul mate so powerful to you?

Harvest Moon

Harvest Moon. Sunset.

Earth suspended between the two.

Summer's end. Solstice.

2010
Equally positioned on opposite horizons, the moon  emerges from the eastern horizon in full sunshine.  Its color, a brilliant yellow-orange, yellow, and red-orange blend together - similar to a peach. The sun is painting watercolors of changing gentle hues in the west as it ends its blazing day overhead. Clouds mingle like a crowd on the eastern horizon. Trees, hail the end of day on the west.


2000
Oceanside on the Atlantic. Foamy waves drift in and return to the ocean in a predictable rhythm. The darkening blue sky is clear.
A gigantic  red-orange orb emerges. Birds, suspended in their flights, behold in awe. The silence in this sunshine leaves room for the imagination to hear a great rumbling as the moon arrives and rises into the sky.  The great orange moon hangs gracefully in the darkened sky, as we, driving inland to home, keep a watchful eye on its beauty.

 2010.

Cypress and palm trees.

Bulk heads, sea gulls, and wooden docks.

Harvest moon. Sunshine.

A gray heron struts across a lawn. People are fishing off the grassy public dock while marveling at the moon's brilliance. As the moon rises into the sky, shrinking in size - or so it appears - it becomes a glowing spotlight that will last through the night.

People suffering.

World of opposing perspectives.

Tension increases.

Sun rises. Moon sets.

Equidistant and opposite.

Same two horizons.

Memory of the moon.

Silent. Vibrant. Magnificent.

Lingering in me.

What has happened to stop your world lately, giving you a moment to reflect on the Beauty of Soul' creating Dance?

Blank Page - New Page

Photo compliments of Gaute Mehl, Norway.

I began to write a book about reuniting with Caroline, my daughter. I had completed 140 pages, which I was saving on  an external hard drive. I simply do not know what happened - but the next time I opened it up to work on it, it was gone,

Blank Page

I had cried through the writing of every single scene. And in the reflective process involved in remembering back 46 years, a lot of stuff came up that I had long since forgotten.

Fortunately, I have enough training and experience to  process.  One main question I asked myself was, "How did I get so wild?"

Well, those who know me, know that is my basic nature, subdued as I have a tendency to be. The added element, which I have since learned not to include in my life, was weekend beer, booze, bourbon, and bacchanalia!

When my mother threw me out of the house, after I graduated from high school, I set out to make it on my own. I went through four or five jobs while going to school, and as many apartments, but only one Loose Relationship,  before I woke up pregnant. 

I was happy to find out I was "with child", unreasonable and illogical as that may seem. Dear sweet Loose Relationship and I, as sure as I was that he was the love of my life,  had parted ways by the time I was about to sober up (in other ways, too) and get it all together.

A whole lot of guilt, regret, humiliation,  if-onlys and self-condemnation came up while I was remembering way back then.  I began to wonder how I could look myself in the mirror let alone go on with this very successful life's time I have come to be living.

With  the book gone, I began to see that while writing it, I had acknowledged the reality of and let go of  the closet called book of secrets and whose door is called judgment.  I had opened the door, flooded those secrets with light, and let that period of my life come on out.

While I was dancing this new freedom, within that Presence available to everyone - that which is beyond reason and logic - I had an insight which carries me know into the future.

New page, yet to be written upon.  Write the book from a healed-now perspective.

And the most precious gift of all - my daughter in my life and I in hers.The book will be about the gift that we have been given.

When, for you, have such traumatic losses become opportunities to write a whole and perfect story?

On writing a book

 Forgot to remember from whence this photo came.

The class wrote a book. The students were all shadow children, those who fell through the cracks and weren't making it in the mainstream.

At the Manhattan School for Career Development, students 15-21 learned basics in the morning during their first year and experienced various hands-on careers, on a wheel, in the afternoon. By the second year, they had narrowed their preferences and spent their days on the job, learning the math and reading and other skills needed within the framework of their career choices.

One major trait of these students was their lack of interest in much of anything.  Learning opportunities were presented within an "interest" beckoning context.

Writing a book, beginning with a brainstorm of possible titles to focus visual art forms, students created "scenes" they wanted to be included in their book. The drawings revealed the stage of development, not to be confused with IQ, of each student. The eight students' conceptual development ranged from six years old, to highly symbolic spatial sense - slow processing to rapid repetition of design.

Each student told the story of their drawing as I wrote each word they said onto butcher paper and taped it onto the huge chalk board. Then we proceeded to fashion the pictures/stories into a cohesive story.

I typed it up, made copies, and we spent a few minutes each day for a week or so editing the story. Two boys wouldn't participate, so from the beginning, they were "assigned" to print and assemble the final product when it was ready for publishing.

Two students typed the story and printed the pages during their afternoon career experience. Each printed page matched one of the pictures.  I was able to find a color xerox machine in the neighborhood (a rarity in 1989), and with my own money (also a rarity in 1989), printed 12 copies of each picture.

The two boys printed the books, then collated and bound them in their afternoon class. They proudly delivered a copy to the Principal, and then distributed one to each of their fellow classmates. The students carried their books around for a week, pulling it out of their lockers each day.

Every once in awhile, I am tempted to publish the book. It would be a good children's book about how these shadow children feel. For me, it was an exercise in spiritual empathy. When I offered a suggestion for improvement, it was received with overwhelming approval. The human beings felt they were in a safe place. If they disagreed, we discussed it until we agreed. Their ability to imagine, I found to be  incredibly well developed.

Their pride in creating a book, was worth it all. These students were not even able to read a book yet - or couldn't before they wrote this one.  I don't know what came next. It was the end of the school year and I moved to Florida during the summer.

How have you found ways to accomplish the impossible and have fun while doing it?

Ode to a Basil Plant

My long-time friend, Penny, an award winning writer, advised me to keep these entries short. So, in respect of her wisdom, this one will be short and sweet.

Fresh basil, chopped fine, floating in extra virgin olive oil, wine vinegar, and minced garlic, covering bright red vine ripened tomatoes and small mozzarella balls. What could be finer ?

Fresh picked basil, pureed into a pesto along with with garlic, extra virgin olive oil, fresh parsley - maybe oregano or cilantro.  Best, when mixed into a fancy shaped cold pasta, tossed with  Italian black olives, fresh cut cukes or zucchini, peppers, tomatoes, and maybe some grated cheese or hard salami added into it.

Basil's aroma does an olfactory tango with the immediate air, when freshly picked or when a kitten plays with its branches as it waves in the wind from its pot on the porch.

I love you, sweet basil.

What is your herb of choice? Why is that?

Hurricanes

 

The Heel at Stonehenge

Compliments of Evelyn Philbrook

The year that my home was pounded by four hurricanes was a year of constant attention to details to say the least.

There was barely time to reflect and make temporary repairs  when another hurricane came by . These events  intruded on the day to day job deadlines and meeting of students' counseling needs in the school  Plans for the year I had made  for leisure time and avocation were cancelled.

Other catastrophic events in the world, and in the lives of people I  know well, that year had not eluded my compassion  either.

For sure the living dead had not eaten me up. But, chaos blew in as strongly and relentlessly as the hurricanes that Fall.  Let's face it! There I stood feeling paralyzed in a relative state of major pause.

What I found surprising is that I wasn't at all  going off the deep end - with my pain body raging like the winds themselves,

I wasn't making rash decisions - like a twister uprooting a tree.

I was amazingly constant, incredibly present, masterfully organized in planning and implementing a response to this new and chaotic reality.

My storage shelves had fallen over and all the mahjong tiles, dominoes, chess pieces, puzzle pieces, files filled with  partially written essays, boxes of paints and brushes, carefully organized books and CDs, years of photographs and slides, decks of tarot cards, and all sorts of things I'd forgotten about, all fell to the floor and got all mixed up with each other because the winds blew them all around the house.

I slowly and deliberately gestalted all the pieces into their original order - probably even more organized than they had been, picked up the storage shelves, and replaced everything that was still good.

After I took out to the street, three huge bags of trash and two boxes of useless or destroyed stuff, I took a deep breath, sat on one of the boxes,  and sobbed long and hard right there at the curb.

Life is like this. Winds of change stir everything up in our homes,  occasioning an opportunity to, well,  clean house, renovate, and redecorate.

I threw away that which has been rendered useless by the wind and rain, reorganized what I wanted to keep and found place for it in the house.

I got a new roof, front door, insulation, ceiling plastering, fresh paint on the walls, carpet cleaning and  a couple of other renovations, I might never have gotten around to doing.

But, most of all , I was very grateful for a fresh perspective.

Where did I learn to respond to crisis with calm?

From a deep source of wisdom, indeed.  

Have you ever been in a hurricane - if not literally, then metaphorically?  What's different now?

Good Men in East Harlem

 Photo compliments of Diane McCabe

Driving into the city from Connecticut,the old orange van was loaded with gifts from my mentor, Martha Crampton - chic accessories from Italy,  hand-made Quaker bed, lamp, cushions, framed pictures, books to read, etc. She was down-sizing to move into an apartment in the city and I was setting up living in an an apartment after living out of two-suitcases for many years.

At the time there was a gas shortage. I stopped at a gas station on the Hutchinson River Parkway, got the ten gallon max, and gave the  attendant my last ten dollars.

This amount should have been enough to get to home on the lower east side of Manhattan.

However, as the sun was setting in East Harlem, I ran out of gas. Anger at the gas station for cheating me wasn't going to solve this problem, so I tabled the rage I felt for the time being.

I  pulled off the highway, which fortunately was on a slight decline, so I was able to steer to the curb near a store with a phone booth.

This  was before the day of the ever ready cell phone. I searched for a dime to call home for help, but the search didn't even result in two cents.

As I was contemplating my next step, five young men surrounded the van. Terrified by what might happen, I was ready to bargain for my life. However, when I explained that I didn't need my windows washed and why I was sitting in East Harlem at sunset, one of the men offered to go go get gas for me.  I told him, emphatically, that I had absolutely no money and suggested we bargain for a goods exchange.

This bargaining phase was not accompanied by self-confidence and a steady delivery. I shook and tears were running down my face. The one who offered, said, "No problem, " and took off to get the gas while the others stood by the van while he was gone - while I sat there expecting the worst.

The man came back with a red five gallon can filled with gas and poured it in, then told me how much it cost him. I explained once again that I literally had no money and offered him to choose from the contents of the van. Neither he, nor the four others,were interested.

So, while expecting it, but hoping they would not just take the van, contents and all, I offered to repay him by sending money in the mail.

He agreed to that. I gave him paper and pencil. He wrote something down and returned the paper and pencil. I put both in my pocket, thanked them all, and started the engine.

As I drove off still shaking, I  pondered the miracle I had just experienced. Not only was I in one of the most dangerous hoods around, and not only was I still alive, I had been treated like a queen.

When I got home, I took out the piece of paper to write the name and address on an envelope with the money.  I looked at the name and laughed in astonishment.

But, of course, what else could it be.

The man's name  was Angel -Angel Ramos. 

I'll never forget his name. I will never forget  that day after sundown in East Harlem where, to my disbelief, I was as safe as a baby in a crib!!

They responded to a real need, and I acknowledged that place where trust abides - in this case - beyond my biased image of men from East Harlem.

When is a time your own biases have been challenged, and you

have been gratefully humbled by the goodness of people?



 

Loneliness

Recently, loneliness came for an extended visit, a nagging annoyance for even the most gracious of  hostesses.

I wrote for hours at a time, but there was nothing to show for the time spent writing.

I watched TV, but did not follow or retain the content of whatever show was playing. I couldn't even follow the commercials.

I turned to the potters wheel, but never got around to molding the clay into the little mala bowls I was planning.

I sorted the acrylics, chose the brushes,  and designed the canvas in my head, but no paint ever left a tube.

I unwrapped the training DVD for my new caamera, but never even placed it in the CD player on the computer.

I pulled out all the canning jars I could find, but wasn't strong enough as yet to pick up the canning pot and put it on the stove.

Finally, I made a couple of phone calls to rendezvous with friends, but not one  returned my call.

Mind you, I was not depressed. - just consumed with loneliness and wishing  it would leave. I had a great deal of energy - went to the gym every day, made the bed, and ate carefully (as opposed to trying to fill the loneliness as if it were a hole).

I was reflecting on this state of being which was determined to stay. All alone with the feeling, I was struck with the notion that loneliness and I are ONE.

At about the same time, I woke up to my surroundings. I was sitting on my favorite wicker chair on my porch. Even in the stifling hot humidity, there was a cool breeze dancing through the sunny air.  Birds - bald eagles or osprey - were floating on the breeze. Air conditioners were humming and a buzz saw around the corner was cutting down a tree. 

As I was noticing all this, one of the cats, hopped up in my lap and began to kneed my bare leg as he nestled into cuddling position, nudging me to begin the ritual scratching of his neck.

There was a lot going on around me and lots to do. Yet, I was alone with loneliness and we were ONE. I slowly relaxed into the presence of loneliness.  As I breathed acceptance into loneliness' existence, loneliness relaxed and took its place, like my cat on my lap - first digging into me, causing discomfort, then nestling into its own safe place in my life.

Loneliness, when acknowledged and accepted, is valuable, precious, healing. and brings meaning to the moment. Trying to get rid of  loneliness only increases stress.

We all are, finally, alone. All ONE.

Loneliness is not a feeling exclusive to the few. We all experience loneliness. How do you deal with loneliness when distractions don't finally work?

Earthquaking Retreat

 All shook up!

It was California, a Catholic retreat center, on a hill overlooking   Torrance .

At night, the city below looked like a golden pool. Although it was an illusion created by the many streetlights and the fog in the valley, the power of its presence stimulated the sense of being in a wonderland, as in Alice in....

I awoke about 4 am. It was 7am on the east coast, where I would already be driving to work. Ready for a relaxing week of training, I stretched my arms up like the branches of the giant tree beside me.

Out of nowhere, the ground began to shake mercilessly. My first thought, having never been in an earthquake, was that this was going to be a totally unusual retreat!!

Then the golden pool below went dark, and I, so as not to fall, grabbed hold of the tree. We both shook for what seemed like forever.

Then it stopped.

The event of it all grasped hold of us for the entire week. TV news blared out the havoc and devastation caused. It all set a tone of urgency to what we were learning. It kept us awake and on edge.

During  discontinuous parts of the day, a group would walk to the ocean which appeared to be untouched by the earthquake.

We all bonded, not only by the event, but by our ability to maintain focus on our reason for being there.

Today, so many years later, I love to tell the story of awakening,  centered and so at peace. Being so present, in the moment, I could feel the earth moving  at the root level of  being awake and on already on my feet.

I remember the presence of sheer terror in that moment, as well.   - especially when the golden pond vanished into darkness.

It was one of the magical life experiences, the memories of which return as sheer wonder and awe.

Take a quiet moment to recall a time in your life which still holds both sheer terror and hypnotizing fascination.