Greetings

As I go about my day, every day, I run into people whom I greet very briefly. “How are you?” “How are you doing?” Most of the time, these questions are answered with only a few quick words. Our exchanges are so often hurried, their content is less important than the very fact of them, of the connecting glance, of the acknowledgement we offer one another.

What would my day be like if, instead of the usual questions, I heard, “Who are you being?”

Who am I choosing to be? Am I showing up fully? Am I hiding parts of myself? Am I shielded? Am I being true to my essence?

Inner Seasons

I was taken by the concept of finding in my spiritual and emotional state a reflection of the seasons, ever since I first read about it in The Seasons of Change: Using Nature’s Wisdom to Grow Through Life’s Inevitable Ups and Downs, by Carol L. McClelland.

I don’t know just yet what season I find myself in, precisely now, but I do know that I have been living with, sitting with, and walking with many people I care about who are deep in the coldest winter.  By that, I mean that they are in darkness, they are hurting, ill, afraid, or feeling weak and their energy is turned inward, gathering, waiting for —or perhaps creating— the spark of the winter solstice, when light returns to their landscape, and with it hope and fresh determination to move forward.

I have been feeling bruised, sensitive, tender.  And, even though the winter here has been unseasonably warm and snowless, the outer landscape has still mirrored the bare winter in my loved ones’ inner landscapes.

So it’s no surprise that I forgot! I forgot that, even as the (north of the) northern hemisphere is scrubbed down by winter, even as the trees stretch bare limbs to the cold sky and the ground is hard, in the south the season is summer. I forgot that even if my inner landscape is blanketed by snow, my neighbor may well be bursting forth with ideas and the new energy of spring, or thriving, relishing their confidence in summer.

Remembering that, I am filled with joy, I feel renewed. That, perhaps, is the spark I have been yearning for!

Truth or Grasping?

Clarissa Pinkola Estes defines faith as remembering what we know is true, even when the evidence of it is missing outwardly, or when others don’t see it or remember it. This is a question I often live with, asking myself what I know is true.

Recently, Golondrina was present as I was listening to Dr. Estes tell about a time when, as a child, she was lured by the beauty of freezing Lake Michigan, fully clothed, into the water.  Clearly, she was in danger, when a beautiful lady appeared to her in the waves, playing a game that led her to back towards the beach, where she could be rescued. Later, the child’s relatives denied seeing anyone in the water with her, and scolded her for lying.

Listening, Golondrina asked if this was true. And I was conflicted, because I know that it’s true, and I know, at the same time, that it’s a story. Perhaps her question was only whether this story had occurred, but I wanted to answer something more, whether one can see things that others don’t, and whether they are true. I answered that it was true.

I am tangled up in my mind.  I know there are truths that are not visible to my eyes, that my ears cannot hear, and that a person standing next to me might not recognize in this  moment. And yet, to my heart and my soul, they are truer than the breath that passes through my lungs. I know that. It’s indisputable, inarguable, simple, true.

At the same time, I have experienced myself holding onto something that was my mind’s own creation, a product of my desires for it to be true. But that was the only truth of it: my desire. And so I know that there is danger in holding on to truths —no, I should call them ideas.

So, how do I know what is faith and what confusion, distraction, untruth disguised? How do I know when it is my soul and my heart, and when it is my desire that determines my thoughts?

In fearful, small mind, I am confused, unclear, afraid.

And yet I do know. Even when I think back to those times when I was grasping at something that I wanted to be true. Underneath it all, I knew. I did. I intuited there was no truth in it, only danger.

So my answer for myself is: do not grasp.

And in these days of change, of feeling the landscape change around me, and powerful winds blowing at me from different directions, perhaps the best thing I can do is to embrace what is directly before me, without hanging on to any truth; remembering, using those moments as opportunities to reach down into myself, to be aware of what I recognize, what I remember is true.

Perhaps knowing what is true is not always immediate or easy. But ultimately, it is possible in each moment, if I take the time, if I stop and move inward, if I ask and open myself.

And if not truth, maybe, at least, in this process I can acquire some wisdom, wisdom that will allow me to stand embracing and welcoming of the next opportunity, the next gift, which I might initially call a challenge, that this rich and beautiful life that I live presents to me. If nothing else, at least, wisdom.

Intentions

It is the start of a new year, a time for fulfilling resolutions, which so often are lofty goals that feel almost unattainable.

I prefer to set intentions. With them, I harness my energy to do what I set out to, to build my path as I go.

I did set intentions for this new year, large and, sometimes, daunting, in all that they require of me.

I remind myself now, a few days into the fresh year, that each day is a new opportunity to fortify those intentions, to set new ones. I borrow from Reiki’s principles, and tell myself, “Just for today,” so that if, no, when, I fail to fulfill my intentions for myself, I remember that I can always start again, that it’s not too late, I don’t have to put anything off for many months until another new year’s eve arises.

On this day, my intention is to remain in awareness of my essence, to be faithful to my Truest Self, and allow its energy to flow freely, unhindered by fear and hesitation, to fulfill the potential this day holds, for me, for those I love, for all.

In the Family of Things

I have been reading My Song, and Harry Belafonte’s story about finally being able to buy his mother a car, and a house with elegant furnishings, on the water. Finally, he was making inroads into segregation. He thought he could make her happy, at last, after the hard life she had lived, after all the disappointments she encountered and endured throughout her life. But no, she was unable to be happy, incapable of joy.

I know we are all capable of happiness. I know it means opening ourselves to prosperity in its broadest sense. It means allowing what life sets before us to enter our hearts and resonate with gratitude and beauty, and radiate outwards again in joy.

How much are we capable of receiving?

I am reminded of Mary Oliver and her Wild Geese.

“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

I know this: gratitude is a key to joy. And, as I remember that I know this, I realize my gratitude, of late, has been cursory and stale, a chant of words, of symbols, without emotion.

And yet, today, my friend is able to call me, able to tell me that the doctors say there’s a 40% chance of his survival. I am grateful for his life, for the spirit that inhabits it, and for the laughter we could share, in spite of, in the face of such news.

I am grateful for a wise poet; for wild geese flying in lopsided Vs; for a book with a story about happiness and fear; for my son’s embrace, all elbows and knees, but soft and warm, and nourishing. I am thankful for all the reminders of my place in the family of things.

The Gifts I Wish to Give

As the shortest day of this year approaches, and the beginning of the various celebrations of light that our family celebrates, as well as the new year, I am inevitably thinking of gifts.

In the midst of the showering of things we can engage in at this time of year, and the danger of valuing the gift more than the sentiment behind it, I set the intention to stay very closely connected to the joy that giving joy brings to me. This is my gift to myself.

As for my children, may my greatest gifts to them remain my deep and abiding love, and  my awareness of their essence. May they remember not only the gifts wrapped in paper, not only the gifts from my hands, but also the gentle shaping of their world, my trust in their good sense and their vibrant souls. May they retrieve joy from the hours spent cutting and pasting together, and coloring inside and outside the lines. May they feel it in the whispers of shared questions, stories, secrets. May they receive my gifts in clean sheets and Pasta-Your-Way, in countless hours reading out loud and driving to school and to classes, and the warmth of our early morning snuggles under the covers.

May my gift to my friends and my loved ones be my complete presence, bringing the whole of myself to our relationship. And with that, my open heart.

May my gift to my readers be to gently brush something deep within you: an  awareness, a remembering, a yearning, a stretching, a spark.

Repetitious

It is the repetitious in my life that dulls the edges and allows me to be only partially present. The routines of each day mean that I can walk through it without thought, without awareness. I will find myself brushing my teeth, even if I don’t plan to do it. I will pack lunches. I will drive to school and back. I could sleepwalk through my day.

And yet, the repetitious also brings me back to myself. The start of my practice, in its physical rhythm of pouring a little water on the bamboo, lighting the incense and the candle, is my call to awaken to my Self. My days are peppered with moments like this: Before I cook, I connect to the food, to the ones it will feed. When I strap myself into the car, I am washed by the flood of awe that I get to drive it. When I sit at my computer, before I write, my hands on the keyboard remind me to straighten my back, to call on my essence to enter fully into my awareness and guide my thoughts.

I think of those who are dealing with their lives breaking open, or are trying to shape it back together. It is the repetitious that will save them from the utter blank of despair. The pang of hunger that needs feeding, the child that needs tending, the light of day breaking through the blinds… some day there will be beauty in the rays for them again.

Breakdown and Wholeness

I am  seeing breakdown in many places around me. Many bodies in pain and dis-ease. Deaths. Hearts breaking. The Earth convulsing.

A time for tears.

I can offer no comfort. My words are lost in the gulf of emotions. I hold energy for wholeness and healing, I radiate Reiki. I extend my hand.

And I am filled with gratitude for the connections of the human heart. I can feel in my body, in the energy field around it, how love holds us up. I see how connection to one another strengthens us enough to remember… we are not alone, we are not only bodies with minds, we can prevail through pain and continue to grow towards wholeness.

 

 

 

 

Beyond Small Self

I can get so enamored with the illusion of control. And I want to be good, to DO something good, especially for my clients.  My small self is so eager to jump in and show off, to offer a laundry list of suggestions, to rattle off technique after technique, to smother the person in front of me with tools that will T.R.A.N.S.F.O.R.M. their life!

I am grateful for the power of my intentions and of the energy that holds the sacred space of my sessions, for it pulls me back into my center. Gently, but undeniably, I find myself directed to silencing my mind, to quieting my thoughts and opening my heart. I am directed to wait.

And I do. Sometimes for what must be an uncomfortably long time for the person sitting across from me, or, even worse, on the other end of the phone line, waiting for me to do something, to say something. But I wait, open, in silence.

Today, I wait, and feel the space my heart inhabits in my chest filling with warmth. And then I have words.

My small mind, sitting dutifully to one side, sneers at them: they are not to the point, those words are unimportant.

But I have them, and, because of the warmth in my core, because I intend to remain a vehicle in the space of my session, even when I do not fully understand, I say them.

Then my client’s eyes fill.

A heartbeat later, I realize, a synchronicity has occurred. A synchronicity I could not have guessed at, if I had tried.

And a breakthrough, a real one. The kind my small self would aspire to facilitate… but would never be able to achieve on its own.

There is a Fire

There is a fire.

That burns away the layers of dishonesty and dissimulation.

A fire that burns somewhere in my belly, under my ribs, and somewhere deeper, in a place unknown, unseen, that only can exist in the mists of Knowing, beyond the physical plane, yet still within me.

It burns with a great roaring.

It is not the flame that once scorched me, it is not the fire that brings death,

but the fire of Life, naked Truth, Passion.

And it seeks to pour itself into expression,

through me.

I will not douse it,

I will not seek to contain it,

I will not even dampen it.

In the end, I welcome it.

I choose to allow it.

 

I stoke this fire.