Change Comes Like the Perfume of Wildflowers in the Grass -
John Steinbeck
Currently, I’m residing in a town that has an enduring sweetness despite its full share of neglected buildings, vacant lots, and youth who leave in hopes of a better future.
Today, the air is damp and the chill wind brings the stench from the three paper mills outside of town up over the top of the deck where it waits at the door. It smells like raw sewage.
But as I walk the streets, there are signs that spring is on its way. It’s visible in the glimpse of buds, the pointed leaves of the Iris and hyacinth. In the faint greenish fuzz seen when one squints at the branches of trees from a distance.
Like a subversive it rebels against winter’s authority in the hope of producing better conditions. Its invitation is seductive.
It’s said many people become more conservative as they grow older. This woman is feeling more provocative. I itch to cut loose. My mind, body and soul are teased by thoughts and ideas. Like spring, they tell me I need to find a way to incite beauty and hope.
Studies have shown that one’s environment affects one’s mood. If you’re living in a place that is falling apart, cluttered; if your rooms have dim lighting, it becomes increasingly hard not to feel tired and even hopeless. But sometimes even the smallest thing can bring a smile; a moment of beauty can lift a mood, even if only for a while. And it’s in that tiny first step in your home, in your neighborhood that change begins to happen with one person, then two and three.
What to do and how became the questions. It seemed like a good idea to work with two of the most valuable tools available - nature and playfulness. The first because it has it’s own magical healing power. It reminds us of nature’s life force. The second because if you’re going to be a rebel why not have fun?
And if a rebel for beauty and hope, then why not be a flower bandit?
No one can claim I have a green thumb; quite the opposite in almost every situation, but one. My thumb turns green under difficult conditions. In part, it may be due to the happiness I feel when thumbing my nose at the idea that something can’t be done. Or it might be because I’ve always been inspired by the sheer power and intent of nature as it pushes grass through cracks in sidewalks and tired asphalt roads.
Many years ago in London, a group of environmental guerrillas set out to change the faces of ugly neighborhoods and buildings. Concocting a solution of nutrients, natural adhesive and seeds, they loaded their green weapons – a larger version of a water gun. After dark they moved through the city spraying concrete walls. Within a few months, these unsightly edifices came alive with green vines.
This flower bandit will be planting wildflowers all over town under the cover of night and just before it rains, so the birds don’t fly off with all the seeds. This also allows me to operate without bureaucratic permission. I am a subversive after all! I’ll be planting in front of abandoned buildings, in vacant lots, alongside empty roads and alleys. With a map marking the plantings, the plan is to return when the flowers have begun to bloom. In those patches of beauty and hope will stand small signs with inspirational messages and quotes, all penned with the alias ‘The Flower Bandit.’ It’s a temporary moment in the scheme of things, planting flowers; a small one. But that’s how change often starts.
Here five tips subversives, or rebels for beauty and positive change (flower bandits), need to know:
1) When the world tells you to give up, listen to the voice that tells
you to try one more time.
2) Decorate your own community by creating pockets of beauty and hope.
Don’t wait for someone else to plant flowers.
3) Obstacles are what you see when you’re not looking toward your goal.
4) It’s easy to miss opportunity when it looks like work; flower bandits keep it
playful.
5) Put the future of beauty and hope in good hands – yours.
It’s spring, there’s no telling what will happen next once you plant the seeds of change.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Friday, March 5, 2010
Two Symptoms of the Global Mind Shift: the Happiness Plague & Anger
The sun was out yesterday morning and I wanted to celebrate, but my plan for expressing happiness in a blog post crashed after I dropped into a conversation on Facebook.
The catalyst was a remark about the recent ‘plague’ of happiness devotees; those people who are seem to be ignoring the problems we face. People who are doing nothing while jobs, homes and a viable future are lost.
I heard the bar drop. Who the hell are these people anyway? Why aren’t they angry enough to get off their duffs and do something? And who was I to be touting my own happiness in some silly superficial blog post?
Personally, I think misconceptions abound on both sides. And in a strange way, the crooked search for ecstasy whether it emerges as Pollyanna or as Dr. Doom not only takes us away from now, it’s a symptom of something greater that’s occurring – a global mind shift. And that shift is a catalyst for anger and discontent. It can be positive by energizing us to get off the sofa and take positive action. But when we act in anger we’re reacting. We’re using our lizard brain, something that’s highly visible among many members of Congress.
At the same time, the whacky happy do nothing crew isn’t too surprising, nor is it that unattractive. But true happiness doesn’t necessarily manifest as big sloppy grins. And admonishing others to ‘just be happy’ does have a fascistic element to it, especially when you’re in pain. There are times when I’m feeling joyous enough to dance around the room, or belt out a favorite song. That’s different. When I’m happy, I am content. I’m able to express compassion and forgiveness to others and to myself because I’m comfortable in body, mind and soul. As a writer, when I’m happy my thoughts are fluid and clear. My intuition as sharp as a hound dog’s nose.
I’m a veteran of anger, the emotion, the holding on; the lashing out. Anger scarred my family. It was rife in the brilliant, charming men I loved, the people I sometimes chose to work with. In my 20s, it exploded in my body as an auto-immune disease. You’ll never walk again, at least not without crutches or a cane, the doctors told me. That made me angry. I wanted to walk! I had to walk! When I’d calmed down, I was able to get creative, to explore ideas and solutions. Acupuncture and Chinese medicine gave me an answer that resonated – the source of rheumatoid arthritis is caused by resentment rooted in anger. I realized that to turn toward another or toward oneself with anger is to fan the fire. I’m pleased to say that after years of work, the knots of anger were loosened and my arthritis is in remission.
On a broader plane, it sometimes seems as if the planet is giving birth and we’re all traveling down the birth canal. A painful journey! And, like a newborn, we’re not sure what to expect when we come out. Will there be enough air to breathe? Will we find the touchstones of what once was – a home where we can feel safe, meaningful work that allows us to feed ourselves? Will there be music and dancing? Will there be art and beautiful things to see? Will our loved ones to embrace us and be embraced?
During Obama’s campaign we saw a renaissance of activism. The results haven’t always been satisfactory, to say the least. And yes, it’s exhausting to watch and read about so much that’s going south. The changes we’re hoping for and seeking haven’t yet appeared in D.C. or on Wall Street, but it’s important to remember that the Impossible can take a little while. Personally I can’t recall a time, except for the 60s, when I’ve been able to see so many people gathering together in groups small and large for positive change. These stories don’t often show up in mainstream media nor are they shared by the powers glorifying violence. They are the stories we share with one another, wherever we are, e-mail by e-mail, conversation by conversation, heart to heart.
Here are some of the stories I’ve heard. As you read them remember that according to physics, once an action is taken it doesn’t die. It may morph, flow over barriers, dive deep or move sideways, but NOTHING is ever the same.
The first story is about a young African American woman who was dying. She launched a campaign in her hometown. She jumped in a car and headed to DC followed by a caravan of cars that kept growing every time she stopped to speak in another town or city about health care. She’s since passed on but reform is only dead if we let it be. A surgeon wrote a story of healthcare reform about two towns in the Midwest. One chose to see healthcare as an investment in their future. They’re thriving while the town is suffering economically from keeping the old system of healthcare=$.
There’s the mother who’d never been an activist. After listening to a show on NPR, she acquired a microphone and stood in front of City Hall where she talked about the injustice of the Supreme Court ruling on campaign funds and the affect it would have on her little girl. Thousands rallied around her in the course of a mere two days. They’ve opened an office, solicited funds, and used the Internet to launch a movement to change that ruling.
There are wonderful stories about community gardens. Some in poor neighborhoods, others in schoolyards children plant and tend them. The harvest goes right to the cafeterias and any extra money goes into scholarship funds. There are the gardens tilled by ex-cons who are learning a skill and gaining an income. There are the veterans in Texas with PTSD who gathered together on a farm where they’re growing organic food and selling the excess for profit and to pay for therapy.
State alliances have been formed in the South, the Northeast and the West. Collectively they’re installing alternative energy and enacting legislation that supports a green future.
There’s the attractive, energetic young woman who noticed the homeless men on her morning run. Believing in their potential, she gathered food and running gear and now runs daily at the head of the pack of homeless men. These men now believe they can change their lives.
There are young billionaires who are giving away their fortunes, the business owners turning over their companies to their employees. Employees taking less pay and hours so their co-workers can stay on.
You may have heard about the children who use the Internet to raise thousands of dollars to build wells for clean water and plant trees across the planet. I see them as little Buddha’s, reincarnations of John Muir who founded our national parks system.
In a way, I’m amused that many in Congress seems blind to this take-charge grass roots movement. Maybe that’s to our advantage!
I’m not naïve enough to think that the discontent out there won’t erupt into violence and fiery confrontations. But if I focus on that I’ll stumble. I’ll be so full of pain and fear and anger that I’ll end up frozen or using my reptilian brain. So, I choose to work on loosening the knots of anger, to seek out those who believe like I do - that if we walk the walk in unity, others will notice. Some will even join us.
How we cross this transition is a choice. Choosing to be non violent, a peacemaker takes enormous courage, nurturing and patience. You have to stay focused and do the work.
Hunter’s have a phrase I’ve become very fond of – ‘see which hound will hunt.’ I’ve co-opted it to signify my intuition as it hunts for a sweet spot to root around in. A place where I can cut loose, explore the possibilities of what is and what might be. The Internet, Facebook and the people I’ve met through social media, have proven to be sweet spots. There I drop into conversations that show me which hound is hunting for others. Those conversations loosen the knots and heal what’s inside. They inspire me to be creative. Sometimes they leave me feeling happy. So loosen your knots, roll up your sleeves and master these tools. Maybe you’ll even give me a heads up about what you hear and learn!
p.s. thanks to Deb, Kath, Winifred and Waleska on Facebook who had no idea at all how much they inspired me.
The catalyst was a remark about the recent ‘plague’ of happiness devotees; those people who are seem to be ignoring the problems we face. People who are doing nothing while jobs, homes and a viable future are lost.
I heard the bar drop. Who the hell are these people anyway? Why aren’t they angry enough to get off their duffs and do something? And who was I to be touting my own happiness in some silly superficial blog post?
Personally, I think misconceptions abound on both sides. And in a strange way, the crooked search for ecstasy whether it emerges as Pollyanna or as Dr. Doom not only takes us away from now, it’s a symptom of something greater that’s occurring – a global mind shift. And that shift is a catalyst for anger and discontent. It can be positive by energizing us to get off the sofa and take positive action. But when we act in anger we’re reacting. We’re using our lizard brain, something that’s highly visible among many members of Congress.
At the same time, the whacky happy do nothing crew isn’t too surprising, nor is it that unattractive. But true happiness doesn’t necessarily manifest as big sloppy grins. And admonishing others to ‘just be happy’ does have a fascistic element to it, especially when you’re in pain. There are times when I’m feeling joyous enough to dance around the room, or belt out a favorite song. That’s different. When I’m happy, I am content. I’m able to express compassion and forgiveness to others and to myself because I’m comfortable in body, mind and soul. As a writer, when I’m happy my thoughts are fluid and clear. My intuition as sharp as a hound dog’s nose.
I’m a veteran of anger, the emotion, the holding on; the lashing out. Anger scarred my family. It was rife in the brilliant, charming men I loved, the people I sometimes chose to work with. In my 20s, it exploded in my body as an auto-immune disease. You’ll never walk again, at least not without crutches or a cane, the doctors told me. That made me angry. I wanted to walk! I had to walk! When I’d calmed down, I was able to get creative, to explore ideas and solutions. Acupuncture and Chinese medicine gave me an answer that resonated – the source of rheumatoid arthritis is caused by resentment rooted in anger. I realized that to turn toward another or toward oneself with anger is to fan the fire. I’m pleased to say that after years of work, the knots of anger were loosened and my arthritis is in remission.
On a broader plane, it sometimes seems as if the planet is giving birth and we’re all traveling down the birth canal. A painful journey! And, like a newborn, we’re not sure what to expect when we come out. Will there be enough air to breathe? Will we find the touchstones of what once was – a home where we can feel safe, meaningful work that allows us to feed ourselves? Will there be music and dancing? Will there be art and beautiful things to see? Will our loved ones to embrace us and be embraced?
During Obama’s campaign we saw a renaissance of activism. The results haven’t always been satisfactory, to say the least. And yes, it’s exhausting to watch and read about so much that’s going south. The changes we’re hoping for and seeking haven’t yet appeared in D.C. or on Wall Street, but it’s important to remember that the Impossible can take a little while. Personally I can’t recall a time, except for the 60s, when I’ve been able to see so many people gathering together in groups small and large for positive change. These stories don’t often show up in mainstream media nor are they shared by the powers glorifying violence. They are the stories we share with one another, wherever we are, e-mail by e-mail, conversation by conversation, heart to heart.
Here are some of the stories I’ve heard. As you read them remember that according to physics, once an action is taken it doesn’t die. It may morph, flow over barriers, dive deep or move sideways, but NOTHING is ever the same.
The first story is about a young African American woman who was dying. She launched a campaign in her hometown. She jumped in a car and headed to DC followed by a caravan of cars that kept growing every time she stopped to speak in another town or city about health care. She’s since passed on but reform is only dead if we let it be. A surgeon wrote a story of healthcare reform about two towns in the Midwest. One chose to see healthcare as an investment in their future. They’re thriving while the town is suffering economically from keeping the old system of healthcare=$.
There’s the mother who’d never been an activist. After listening to a show on NPR, she acquired a microphone and stood in front of City Hall where she talked about the injustice of the Supreme Court ruling on campaign funds and the affect it would have on her little girl. Thousands rallied around her in the course of a mere two days. They’ve opened an office, solicited funds, and used the Internet to launch a movement to change that ruling.
There are wonderful stories about community gardens. Some in poor neighborhoods, others in schoolyards children plant and tend them. The harvest goes right to the cafeterias and any extra money goes into scholarship funds. There are the gardens tilled by ex-cons who are learning a skill and gaining an income. There are the veterans in Texas with PTSD who gathered together on a farm where they’re growing organic food and selling the excess for profit and to pay for therapy.
State alliances have been formed in the South, the Northeast and the West. Collectively they’re installing alternative energy and enacting legislation that supports a green future.
There’s the attractive, energetic young woman who noticed the homeless men on her morning run. Believing in their potential, she gathered food and running gear and now runs daily at the head of the pack of homeless men. These men now believe they can change their lives.
There are young billionaires who are giving away their fortunes, the business owners turning over their companies to their employees. Employees taking less pay and hours so their co-workers can stay on.
You may have heard about the children who use the Internet to raise thousands of dollars to build wells for clean water and plant trees across the planet. I see them as little Buddha’s, reincarnations of John Muir who founded our national parks system.
In a way, I’m amused that many in Congress seems blind to this take-charge grass roots movement. Maybe that’s to our advantage!
I’m not naïve enough to think that the discontent out there won’t erupt into violence and fiery confrontations. But if I focus on that I’ll stumble. I’ll be so full of pain and fear and anger that I’ll end up frozen or using my reptilian brain. So, I choose to work on loosening the knots of anger, to seek out those who believe like I do - that if we walk the walk in unity, others will notice. Some will even join us.
How we cross this transition is a choice. Choosing to be non violent, a peacemaker takes enormous courage, nurturing and patience. You have to stay focused and do the work.
Hunter’s have a phrase I’ve become very fond of – ‘see which hound will hunt.’ I’ve co-opted it to signify my intuition as it hunts for a sweet spot to root around in. A place where I can cut loose, explore the possibilities of what is and what might be. The Internet, Facebook and the people I’ve met through social media, have proven to be sweet spots. There I drop into conversations that show me which hound is hunting for others. Those conversations loosen the knots and heal what’s inside. They inspire me to be creative. Sometimes they leave me feeling happy. So loosen your knots, roll up your sleeves and master these tools. Maybe you’ll even give me a heads up about what you hear and learn!
p.s. thanks to Deb, Kath, Winifred and Waleska on Facebook who had no idea at all how much they inspired me.
Monday, February 22, 2010
The World is Made of Stories
If you don’t know the trees you may be lost in the forest, but if you don’t know the stories you may be lost in life. —Siberian Elder
For the most part, we have lost the kind of entertainment that's still found in those rare places where old and young gather and stories are told. And in these broken times in a country that feels broken, sitting down together and connecting by telling new stories and remembering old ones could help heal us.
Storytelling is now being used by corporations to redefine or shape their vision. It's found its way globally into groups seeking to create new systems of governance; into reconciliation and peacekeeping. Stories have had a renaissance with the Internet. But like the elderly man who explained to psychiatrist & activist Robert Coles (author of The Old Ones of New Mexico) why he refused to talk on the phone with his son - ‘we can’t touch.’ The palpable excitement in a children's story circle confirms that face to face, skin to skin does make a difference. But the story telling movement into more intimate situations, from families, neighborhoods and towns still has room to grow. Using story in these places will help us find new ways of thinking about ourselves. It will teach us how to listen and share what's in our hearts and minds. This ancient tradition holds the potential for a transformative process that will ultimately empower society and individuals living through the increasing uncertainty of today's world.
Whenever I hear a story begin, I'm compelled to take a deep breath inward as if preparing my heart to receive what is about to be offered. It's the anticipation of being inspired; of feeling alive. A story is a call to dream. Really hearing a story means absorbing it through the pores of your skin. Perhaps, that's why goose bumps appear. The best of stories go right down to the marrow of our bones.
My friend, photographer Pamela Barkentin recalls cozying up with her sister under a quilt in their grandmother’s bed. An award-winning playwright, she left them a legacy of being cherished through her imaginative tales of adventure in the sky and underwater.
It’s not just children who respond wholeheartedly to a good story. Years ago I took my daughter to see the story of the hero’s quest in Star Wars. It was a matinee and the house was full of screaming, wiggling children. The kind of audience I love joining. A single seat remained – the one on my left.
As the lights went down, a tattooed, bearded & pony tailed biker in leathers and massive chains bumped my shoulder as he sat down. At first glance, he wasn’t the kind of man I wanted to meet in the shadows. I said a quick prayer of gratefulness that I was seated between him and Chloe. Little did I know that my thanks would blossom two fold. The music started and George Lucas had me from Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away. As the story progressed, Moto man upped the excitement by slapping my leg every time he experienced a peak moment of satisfaction or insight. Did you see that? Did you hear that, he queried. I asked him to cease and desist. He apologized and promised not to do it again. His good intention was soon lost to wonder and joy. His enthusiasm was so irresistible, I decided to let it go. Coming out of the theater, my leg was a bit tender, but I realized that this stranger had conceptualized the proverbial Zen ‘whack on the side of the head’ the master gives to the apprentice to remind him to pay attention.
One of the strongest story telling cultures is the Aboriginal in Australia, who have no written history and conceive of the world and live their lives as story. In the words of Aborigine story teller, Bill Neidjie This story e can listen careful, an how you want to feel on your feeling. This story e coming through your body, e go right down foot and head, fingernail and blood…through the heart, and e can feel it because e’ll come right through.
Stories that renew feelings of love and hope pop up in unexpected ways and places, renewing the commitment and promises we make to our loved ones. While walking in a mud street of a small village in Bahia, Brazil, I happened upon a story of a mother's love. Visible through the open door to a concrete block house a nut brown woman sat in her rocking chair crocheting. Not a small doily, or blanket the white web that came from those care worn hands. It crossed the floor and crept up the walls, draping around windows and the door frame. Astonished, I complimented her on the intricate pattern that stretched like a lacy snow white canvas with animals, people, hills and valleys. She smiled, and told me her daughter had left a few years ago on the arm of a traveling circus man. She hadn't heard from her since, but she'd been told to start crocheting because eventually one of those threads would bring her daughter home safe and sound.
Stories ground us and invigorate the events of our days if we framing them in story terms and structure. Today, there were dragons where I walked could be a good beginning for a story. Stories make us laugh at our fears. They remind us of the deliciousness of synchronous events that appear miraculously in our lives. As a merchant marine in WWII, my father felt like a sitting duck on a ship in the middle of the Pacific with only a small deck gun for protection. Word came of a Japanese fighter squadron headed their way when out of the blue a massive fog bank magically rolled in.
Stories sometimes arrive with a precious memento, like the ring with a heart Dad fashioned out of steel for my mother during the months he was gone. When I wear that ring I recall my father- whose name became 'love' when I tell the story of how, despite excruciating pain, he continued caring for his wife who had Alzheimer’s. Stories of atonement are particularly powerful. One hears them in small rooms, in homes or in churches where members of Alcoholics Anonymous gather to practice the twelve step program which includes asking for self forgiveness and forgiveness from others. Absorbing the words and tale, then taking it to others becomes a building block to a new life.
The artist and poet, Ed Valfre describes his close friend, Joe Frank. Years before we met, I heard him tell his strange tales on public radio. They were stories you would listen to in the dark or on a long drive through the middle of nowhere. At first they made you feel isolated and alone in some godless universe, but as they went on, the humanity and humor would transport you to a place that seemed uplifting and strangely familiar. They were like no stories I had heard before and opened me up to a beautiful and mysterious world. Today, Joe and I often have lunch together and exchange ideas and stories. I always leave exhilarated, ready to live out more stories that make up my life.
And perhaps, that’s one of the best reasons of all to embrace and share stories - if your heart is open and listening you never know where your story may lead you and what you might be inspired to do.
For the most part, we have lost the kind of entertainment that's still found in those rare places where old and young gather and stories are told. And in these broken times in a country that feels broken, sitting down together and connecting by telling new stories and remembering old ones could help heal us.
Storytelling is now being used by corporations to redefine or shape their vision. It's found its way globally into groups seeking to create new systems of governance; into reconciliation and peacekeeping. Stories have had a renaissance with the Internet. But like the elderly man who explained to psychiatrist & activist Robert Coles (author of The Old Ones of New Mexico) why he refused to talk on the phone with his son - ‘we can’t touch.’ The palpable excitement in a children's story circle confirms that face to face, skin to skin does make a difference. But the story telling movement into more intimate situations, from families, neighborhoods and towns still has room to grow. Using story in these places will help us find new ways of thinking about ourselves. It will teach us how to listen and share what's in our hearts and minds. This ancient tradition holds the potential for a transformative process that will ultimately empower society and individuals living through the increasing uncertainty of today's world.
Whenever I hear a story begin, I'm compelled to take a deep breath inward as if preparing my heart to receive what is about to be offered. It's the anticipation of being inspired; of feeling alive. A story is a call to dream. Really hearing a story means absorbing it through the pores of your skin. Perhaps, that's why goose bumps appear. The best of stories go right down to the marrow of our bones.
My friend, photographer Pamela Barkentin recalls cozying up with her sister under a quilt in their grandmother’s bed. An award-winning playwright, she left them a legacy of being cherished through her imaginative tales of adventure in the sky and underwater.
It’s not just children who respond wholeheartedly to a good story. Years ago I took my daughter to see the story of the hero’s quest in Star Wars. It was a matinee and the house was full of screaming, wiggling children. The kind of audience I love joining. A single seat remained – the one on my left.
As the lights went down, a tattooed, bearded & pony tailed biker in leathers and massive chains bumped my shoulder as he sat down. At first glance, he wasn’t the kind of man I wanted to meet in the shadows. I said a quick prayer of gratefulness that I was seated between him and Chloe. Little did I know that my thanks would blossom two fold. The music started and George Lucas had me from Once upon a time, in a galaxy far far away. As the story progressed, Moto man upped the excitement by slapping my leg every time he experienced a peak moment of satisfaction or insight. Did you see that? Did you hear that, he queried. I asked him to cease and desist. He apologized and promised not to do it again. His good intention was soon lost to wonder and joy. His enthusiasm was so irresistible, I decided to let it go. Coming out of the theater, my leg was a bit tender, but I realized that this stranger had conceptualized the proverbial Zen ‘whack on the side of the head’ the master gives to the apprentice to remind him to pay attention.
One of the strongest story telling cultures is the Aboriginal in Australia, who have no written history and conceive of the world and live their lives as story. In the words of Aborigine story teller, Bill Neidjie This story e can listen careful, an how you want to feel on your feeling. This story e coming through your body, e go right down foot and head, fingernail and blood…through the heart, and e can feel it because e’ll come right through.
Stories that renew feelings of love and hope pop up in unexpected ways and places, renewing the commitment and promises we make to our loved ones. While walking in a mud street of a small village in Bahia, Brazil, I happened upon a story of a mother's love. Visible through the open door to a concrete block house a nut brown woman sat in her rocking chair crocheting. Not a small doily, or blanket the white web that came from those care worn hands. It crossed the floor and crept up the walls, draping around windows and the door frame. Astonished, I complimented her on the intricate pattern that stretched like a lacy snow white canvas with animals, people, hills and valleys. She smiled, and told me her daughter had left a few years ago on the arm of a traveling circus man. She hadn't heard from her since, but she'd been told to start crocheting because eventually one of those threads would bring her daughter home safe and sound.
Stories ground us and invigorate the events of our days if we framing them in story terms and structure. Today, there were dragons where I walked could be a good beginning for a story. Stories make us laugh at our fears. They remind us of the deliciousness of synchronous events that appear miraculously in our lives. As a merchant marine in WWII, my father felt like a sitting duck on a ship in the middle of the Pacific with only a small deck gun for protection. Word came of a Japanese fighter squadron headed their way when out of the blue a massive fog bank magically rolled in.
Stories sometimes arrive with a precious memento, like the ring with a heart Dad fashioned out of steel for my mother during the months he was gone. When I wear that ring I recall my father- whose name became 'love' when I tell the story of how, despite excruciating pain, he continued caring for his wife who had Alzheimer’s. Stories of atonement are particularly powerful. One hears them in small rooms, in homes or in churches where members of Alcoholics Anonymous gather to practice the twelve step program which includes asking for self forgiveness and forgiveness from others. Absorbing the words and tale, then taking it to others becomes a building block to a new life.
The artist and poet, Ed Valfre describes his close friend, Joe Frank. Years before we met, I heard him tell his strange tales on public radio. They were stories you would listen to in the dark or on a long drive through the middle of nowhere. At first they made you feel isolated and alone in some godless universe, but as they went on, the humanity and humor would transport you to a place that seemed uplifting and strangely familiar. They were like no stories I had heard before and opened me up to a beautiful and mysterious world. Today, Joe and I often have lunch together and exchange ideas and stories. I always leave exhilarated, ready to live out more stories that make up my life.
And perhaps, that’s one of the best reasons of all to embrace and share stories - if your heart is open and listening you never know where your story may lead you and what you might be inspired to do.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Have You Expanded Your Mind Out Today?
Who doesn’t know of the beauty and wonder of the ordinary may as well be blind and deaf.
The Tin Man & The Selma & Dallas County Library Book Group
It’s February and one of the coldest winters on record as a group of women in their 30s to 70s gather in a circle. All but one is dressed in black and she’s an art historian who’s come from Montgomery to attend. As the women wait for everyone to gather, they argue amiably, ask after a friend who's ill, and relate tales about the hours and days of their lives. They take orders for the book they’ll read next. Last month it was The Elegance of the Hedgehog; next month the Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Most have deep roots in this town that’s experienced violence and whose name made the front pages during the Civil Rights Era. Now, like so many small towns in the rural Deep South, it’s struggling with extreme poverty. But surfaces can be deceiving.
Today, The Tin Man, Charlie Lucas and the coffee table book about his ilfe and art are front and center. In his own words – he’s a toymaker. He’s also a wonderful storyteller. His narrative emerges in wild shapes, moving parts, canvases and rusty metal strips. A handsome dark skinned man born on a sharecropper’s farm, he’s had his share of hardship, but the mischievous glint in his eyes reveal a man who knows how to mine pain for joy.
Raised with 14 siblings he left school in 4th grade and ran away at 14. Following a serious back injury in 1984, he returned home. It would take a long time to heal. There would be no turning back to the work he’d been doing, cotton picking, unloading freight and construction. With ten dollars in his pocket and no visible answers for the future, Charlie prayed for a vision. I asked God to talk to me like he’d never talked before, to slow me down.
Not only did he receive a look at what the future held for him and his family, he saw his work would take him around the world. Already known as a bit crazy, Charlie had his kids write down what he’d seen. I needed something of substance to prove my vision was real. He had neighbors; family and friends witness it by signing those papers. When he showed them to his father, his father spit in his face.
Descended from several generations of metal men who knew how to fix things, as a boy, Charlie made toys for himself and the other kids who worked in the fields. During his recovery, bits and pieces of trash and scrap from sidewalks and junkyards found their way to his studio. They came because ‘they spoke to me.’ And before too long, the living images in his mind and his dreams spilled out of his house and into the garden. Each animal, each bird, each creature, the elderly aunts, friends, old quilts wrapped around carved table legs - each comes with a story. He hears music in them. They tell him their names. And each is signed The Tin Man, because ten dollars is all he had in his pocket when he started out.
‘Art expands you out.’ Each time Charlie sees something different he’s ‘expanded out.’ Seeing with fresh eyes happens through play. When I’m working I’m playing and when you’re playing the mind is free.
The conversation in the circle takes a turn to ‘what is art’ and ‘who is an artist.’ More than one of these ladies has accompanied Charlie dumpster diving to retrieve bits and pieces they shaped by their own vision. Charlie believes lies beyond the traditional interpretations. Being an artist and creating art has to do with how you live your life. We’re all artists.
You have to pay attention or you lose it! What you see in that fleeting moment, that idea, that image is precious. As artists creating our lives, a change in how you see sometimes means taking the side road or a footpath to take, as Robert Frost wrote ‘the road less traveled.’ Dali once suggested to a friend that to really see differently, she should spend the day walking around with her left shoe on her right foot and vice versa - a simple, and likely torturous path for the feet.
According to Ovid if a hook is always cast, in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish. Whether it’s a broken hose, a weathered pine board, the sound of rain on the roof, a colorful snatch of fabric, there’s magic in the ordinary. It seeks to speak to us. We have only to look and listen.
Sometimes it’s found in a book group.
The Tin Man & The Selma & Dallas County Library Book Group
It’s February and one of the coldest winters on record as a group of women in their 30s to 70s gather in a circle. All but one is dressed in black and she’s an art historian who’s come from Montgomery to attend. As the women wait for everyone to gather, they argue amiably, ask after a friend who's ill, and relate tales about the hours and days of their lives. They take orders for the book they’ll read next. Last month it was The Elegance of the Hedgehog; next month the Adventures of Tom Sawyer. Most have deep roots in this town that’s experienced violence and whose name made the front pages during the Civil Rights Era. Now, like so many small towns in the rural Deep South, it’s struggling with extreme poverty. But surfaces can be deceiving.
Today, The Tin Man, Charlie Lucas and the coffee table book about his ilfe and art are front and center. In his own words – he’s a toymaker. He’s also a wonderful storyteller. His narrative emerges in wild shapes, moving parts, canvases and rusty metal strips. A handsome dark skinned man born on a sharecropper’s farm, he’s had his share of hardship, but the mischievous glint in his eyes reveal a man who knows how to mine pain for joy.
Raised with 14 siblings he left school in 4th grade and ran away at 14. Following a serious back injury in 1984, he returned home. It would take a long time to heal. There would be no turning back to the work he’d been doing, cotton picking, unloading freight and construction. With ten dollars in his pocket and no visible answers for the future, Charlie prayed for a vision. I asked God to talk to me like he’d never talked before, to slow me down.
Not only did he receive a look at what the future held for him and his family, he saw his work would take him around the world. Already known as a bit crazy, Charlie had his kids write down what he’d seen. I needed something of substance to prove my vision was real. He had neighbors; family and friends witness it by signing those papers. When he showed them to his father, his father spit in his face.
Descended from several generations of metal men who knew how to fix things, as a boy, Charlie made toys for himself and the other kids who worked in the fields. During his recovery, bits and pieces of trash and scrap from sidewalks and junkyards found their way to his studio. They came because ‘they spoke to me.’ And before too long, the living images in his mind and his dreams spilled out of his house and into the garden. Each animal, each bird, each creature, the elderly aunts, friends, old quilts wrapped around carved table legs - each comes with a story. He hears music in them. They tell him their names. And each is signed The Tin Man, because ten dollars is all he had in his pocket when he started out.
‘Art expands you out.’ Each time Charlie sees something different he’s ‘expanded out.’ Seeing with fresh eyes happens through play. When I’m working I’m playing and when you’re playing the mind is free.
The conversation in the circle takes a turn to ‘what is art’ and ‘who is an artist.’ More than one of these ladies has accompanied Charlie dumpster diving to retrieve bits and pieces they shaped by their own vision. Charlie believes lies beyond the traditional interpretations. Being an artist and creating art has to do with how you live your life. We’re all artists.
You have to pay attention or you lose it! What you see in that fleeting moment, that idea, that image is precious. As artists creating our lives, a change in how you see sometimes means taking the side road or a footpath to take, as Robert Frost wrote ‘the road less traveled.’ Dali once suggested to a friend that to really see differently, she should spend the day walking around with her left shoe on her right foot and vice versa - a simple, and likely torturous path for the feet.
According to Ovid if a hook is always cast, in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish. Whether it’s a broken hose, a weathered pine board, the sound of rain on the roof, a colorful snatch of fabric, there’s magic in the ordinary. It seeks to speak to us. We have only to look and listen.
Sometimes it’s found in a book group.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The Perfect Date for Valentine's Day
For the last few years, Valentine’s Day has been just another day for me simply because I wasn’t in a deep relationship with a man.
In Plato’s Symposium, the voice of Aristophanes relates that humans were once a combination of male and female, until Zeus split them apart. From that point on, the two halves searched for each other, seeking wholeness.
Looking back at two marriages and another long term relationship without marriage, I realized that the ‘wholeness’ I’d first encountered - the joining of me and my perfect partner - was based on unconscious needs rooted in old patterns and habits I had yet to be free of. Things that were holding me back.
My friend and spiritual counselor Abdi Assadi ( ) believes that loving relationships offer us the greatest opportunity for personal and spiritual growth. What struck me as I read his take on how relationships function that the same holds true for the individual. The way my conscious and my unconscious connect has everything to do with how I love myself, and whether my behavior is authentic; true to my inner Self.
“When we enter into relationship with someone, there is a conscious interaction and an unconscious agreement. The conscious part is what we are aware of—such as a physical attraction or a sense of social compatibility.
The unconscious level, as the name implies, is what is going on underneath. It is here that things become tricky because the unconscious, contrary to what we sometimes like to believe, is not our inner truth-teller. In fact, it is where most of our distortions and addictions first formed.
It is common for us to unconsciously keep in play or repeat certain deeply ingrained patterns that we are attempting to break free from. This is a way of pushing away the underlying anxiety when we are in a new terrain, no matter how healthy.”
About a year and six months ago, I consciously chose to begin the work of letting go. The force behind that first step was surprisingly powerful.
It began on an August morning at about three a.m.
In the darkness, a voice yelled through the window at the head of my bed – Attention. Wake up!
Trembling, I got up to look outside, but before I could circumvent my bedside table to reach the window, the same voice called out from the patio on the other side of the house. Attention! Wake up!
Not only were my neighbors gone for the summer, it was physically impossible for someone to run that distance unless they knew how to fly over fences and hedges and along a paved driveway. Other than the voice, there was no sound of running footsteps, no mangled bushes or vines and no one was visible.
The next day, I called a Shaman friend about what had happened. He laughed. “Don’t think the message could be any clearer!” Okay, I thought, paying attention, being awake is a good idea to apply to one’s daily life, but I couldn’t help thinking that the voice was telling me to be ready for something more.
Two months later, I attended a sweat lodge at Dave’s rural home overlooking the Potomac River. Three of us were there, Dave and a man who was moving away and had requested a ceremony for protection and new beginnings. I had volunteered to be the fire keeper, the person who tends the fire that heats the stones for the lodge and carries them in when called for.
About midway through the Inipi ceremony, sitting on a tree stump perch, I closed my eyes. An owl called from the treetops. Owls have been my spirit guides for many years. Extraordinary hunters with keen night vision, owls and I have had numerous eerie encounters. For me they are symbols of the wisdom that rises up from within. As the owl disappeared, I asked for a sign or a name for this next phase of my life – the crone years. An icon, a symbol of some sort.
Suddenly a voice spoke clearly from over my shoulder. Sarawati…. Sarabata. I hadn’t the vaguest idea what those words meant, much less what language they were. The next morning, I was reading a book I’d grabbed from a store on my way up. Written by Jean Shinoda Bolen, a Jungian analyst I’d heard of but never read, it was called ‘Goddesses in Older Women: Becoming a Juicy Crone.’ In one of the chapters she mentioned the goddess Saraswati, who was also called Sarabata.
According to some stories, Saraswati was first seen by Shiva as the perfect wave – the Becoming. He transformed her into a goddess; the goddess of learning and knowledge. The mother to the vedas, she's recognized in Tibetan and Japanese Buddhism as well. And in the Spring in India pujas are held to ask Saraswti's blessing for the education of children. As a mother, I particularly loved that idea! As a crone, I appreciated the rapt attention of a child with new ideas.
That perfect wave, 'the becoming' was a fitting image for what I'd asked for, and she suited me down to the ground. Multi-armed, Saraswati holds the vedas in one hand, a sitar in another: Wisdom and music. Having been a musician for many years, I was aware of the healing power of music for myself and others. It's a powerful tool for meditation and opening the chakras.
A week later, as I was describing the event on the telephone to a ‘sister’, I was shocked to see a hand reach into a hole in my belly where my intestines were glowing a bright orange yellow. How curious I thought as I watched the hand grab hold of my inner workings and turn clockwise. I was at once, an observer and in the middle of the kind of zone athletes speak of. Distance was irrelevant. I was both here and there.
As I began to speak about my desire to find a way to help children and mothers, a piercing ray of light flashed before my eyes as it entered my heart. At that point, my knees gave way. At that point, I said goodbye and slumped into a chair. For several days after, I felt occasional bouts of queasiness, which I'm told is common to the release of energy in the chakras.
I'm sure there are many who could describe their own experiences of becoming; tales of powerful awakenings. My initiation onto this path of cronehood was dramatic for me, but for the most part, I'm walking, not running through my days! The labyrinth of the mind is twisted! There are moments of illumination, but work with ego and old patterns I believed protected me is never easy. Time and again I find myself responding in old ways. The difference now - I sometimes manage to catch myself in the act, or at least recognize what's going on before things have gone too far. And each time an old pattern comes up I welcome this slight repositioning.
I still wrestle with the same fears. Can I do this? Who am I to think I can write? And of what importance are these stories to others... How can I create a safe place that calls for others to share theirs with me.
Oddly, I seem to be channeling Jean Shinoda Bolen when it comes not only to my initiation but to my underlying purpose. Returning to research what she'd written while preparing this post I came across her book "The Millionth Circle. I highly recommend it. Having defined the third wave of feminism as spiritual, it's synchronous with the growing desire to heal the planet (and ourselves). It's also meshes with the upward surge of women moving into positions of power. An energy shift that's coming up against fundamentalism both in the US and globally.
In The Millionth Circle, Bolen sets out to teach other women how to create circles of spiritual healing. She also refers to two people I've admired for years. Margaret Mead who once wrote Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citzens can change the world - it's the only thing that can. In the safe sanctuary of the circle is where change begins.
The second person Bolen is someone whose work I've also studied. Rupert Sheldrake, the theoretical biologist explains in his Morphic Field Theory - Change in the behavior of a species occurs when a critical mass - the exact number needed - is reached. When that happens, the behavior or habits of the entire species changes.
The crones who dare (and exceptional men who respect and enjoy them) are joining together to reach those critical numbers.
In the meantime, Valentine’s Day is almost here, and I have the perfect date. I’m going to write, meditate; take a walk if it’s sunny. And while I do, I plan to set my ego aside, to ask for Saraswati’s blessings on the pleasures of being the juiciest of crones – the perfect date.
p.s. I'm going to be posting more often and the next few will cover more about the different kinds of love, and about the awakenings that are occurring in the US and around the globe.
Namaste
In Plato’s Symposium, the voice of Aristophanes relates that humans were once a combination of male and female, until Zeus split them apart. From that point on, the two halves searched for each other, seeking wholeness.
Looking back at two marriages and another long term relationship without marriage, I realized that the ‘wholeness’ I’d first encountered - the joining of me and my perfect partner - was based on unconscious needs rooted in old patterns and habits I had yet to be free of. Things that were holding me back.
My friend and spiritual counselor Abdi Assadi ( ) believes that loving relationships offer us the greatest opportunity for personal and spiritual growth. What struck me as I read his take on how relationships function that the same holds true for the individual. The way my conscious and my unconscious connect has everything to do with how I love myself, and whether my behavior is authentic; true to my inner Self.
“When we enter into relationship with someone, there is a conscious interaction and an unconscious agreement. The conscious part is what we are aware of—such as a physical attraction or a sense of social compatibility.
The unconscious level, as the name implies, is what is going on underneath. It is here that things become tricky because the unconscious, contrary to what we sometimes like to believe, is not our inner truth-teller. In fact, it is where most of our distortions and addictions first formed.
It is common for us to unconsciously keep in play or repeat certain deeply ingrained patterns that we are attempting to break free from. This is a way of pushing away the underlying anxiety when we are in a new terrain, no matter how healthy.”
About a year and six months ago, I consciously chose to begin the work of letting go. The force behind that first step was surprisingly powerful.
It began on an August morning at about three a.m.
In the darkness, a voice yelled through the window at the head of my bed – Attention. Wake up!
Trembling, I got up to look outside, but before I could circumvent my bedside table to reach the window, the same voice called out from the patio on the other side of the house. Attention! Wake up!
Not only were my neighbors gone for the summer, it was physically impossible for someone to run that distance unless they knew how to fly over fences and hedges and along a paved driveway. Other than the voice, there was no sound of running footsteps, no mangled bushes or vines and no one was visible.
The next day, I called a Shaman friend about what had happened. He laughed. “Don’t think the message could be any clearer!” Okay, I thought, paying attention, being awake is a good idea to apply to one’s daily life, but I couldn’t help thinking that the voice was telling me to be ready for something more.
Two months later, I attended a sweat lodge at Dave’s rural home overlooking the Potomac River. Three of us were there, Dave and a man who was moving away and had requested a ceremony for protection and new beginnings. I had volunteered to be the fire keeper, the person who tends the fire that heats the stones for the lodge and carries them in when called for.
About midway through the Inipi ceremony, sitting on a tree stump perch, I closed my eyes. An owl called from the treetops. Owls have been my spirit guides for many years. Extraordinary hunters with keen night vision, owls and I have had numerous eerie encounters. For me they are symbols of the wisdom that rises up from within. As the owl disappeared, I asked for a sign or a name for this next phase of my life – the crone years. An icon, a symbol of some sort.
Suddenly a voice spoke clearly from over my shoulder. Sarawati…. Sarabata. I hadn’t the vaguest idea what those words meant, much less what language they were. The next morning, I was reading a book I’d grabbed from a store on my way up. Written by Jean Shinoda Bolen, a Jungian analyst I’d heard of but never read, it was called ‘Goddesses in Older Women: Becoming a Juicy Crone.’ In one of the chapters she mentioned the goddess Saraswati, who was also called Sarabata.
According to some stories, Saraswati was first seen by Shiva as the perfect wave – the Becoming. He transformed her into a goddess; the goddess of learning and knowledge. The mother to the vedas, she's recognized in Tibetan and Japanese Buddhism as well. And in the Spring in India pujas are held to ask Saraswti's blessing for the education of children. As a mother, I particularly loved that idea! As a crone, I appreciated the rapt attention of a child with new ideas.
That perfect wave, 'the becoming' was a fitting image for what I'd asked for, and she suited me down to the ground. Multi-armed, Saraswati holds the vedas in one hand, a sitar in another: Wisdom and music. Having been a musician for many years, I was aware of the healing power of music for myself and others. It's a powerful tool for meditation and opening the chakras.
A week later, as I was describing the event on the telephone to a ‘sister’, I was shocked to see a hand reach into a hole in my belly where my intestines were glowing a bright orange yellow. How curious I thought as I watched the hand grab hold of my inner workings and turn clockwise. I was at once, an observer and in the middle of the kind of zone athletes speak of. Distance was irrelevant. I was both here and there.
As I began to speak about my desire to find a way to help children and mothers, a piercing ray of light flashed before my eyes as it entered my heart. At that point, my knees gave way. At that point, I said goodbye and slumped into a chair. For several days after, I felt occasional bouts of queasiness, which I'm told is common to the release of energy in the chakras.
I'm sure there are many who could describe their own experiences of becoming; tales of powerful awakenings. My initiation onto this path of cronehood was dramatic for me, but for the most part, I'm walking, not running through my days! The labyrinth of the mind is twisted! There are moments of illumination, but work with ego and old patterns I believed protected me is never easy. Time and again I find myself responding in old ways. The difference now - I sometimes manage to catch myself in the act, or at least recognize what's going on before things have gone too far. And each time an old pattern comes up I welcome this slight repositioning.
I still wrestle with the same fears. Can I do this? Who am I to think I can write? And of what importance are these stories to others... How can I create a safe place that calls for others to share theirs with me.
Oddly, I seem to be channeling Jean Shinoda Bolen when it comes not only to my initiation but to my underlying purpose. Returning to research what she'd written while preparing this post I came across her book "The Millionth Circle. I highly recommend it. Having defined the third wave of feminism as spiritual, it's synchronous with the growing desire to heal the planet (and ourselves). It's also meshes with the upward surge of women moving into positions of power. An energy shift that's coming up against fundamentalism both in the US and globally.
In The Millionth Circle, Bolen sets out to teach other women how to create circles of spiritual healing. She also refers to two people I've admired for years. Margaret Mead who once wrote Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citzens can change the world - it's the only thing that can. In the safe sanctuary of the circle is where change begins.
The second person Bolen is someone whose work I've also studied. Rupert Sheldrake, the theoretical biologist explains in his Morphic Field Theory - Change in the behavior of a species occurs when a critical mass - the exact number needed - is reached. When that happens, the behavior or habits of the entire species changes.
The crones who dare (and exceptional men who respect and enjoy them) are joining together to reach those critical numbers.
In the meantime, Valentine’s Day is almost here, and I have the perfect date. I’m going to write, meditate; take a walk if it’s sunny. And while I do, I plan to set my ego aside, to ask for Saraswati’s blessings on the pleasures of being the juiciest of crones – the perfect date.
p.s. I'm going to be posting more often and the next few will cover more about the different kinds of love, and about the awakenings that are occurring in the US and around the globe.
Namaste
Sunday, January 31, 2010
The Power in Silence
There is much about physics that intrigues me, and much about it I may never understand. But I have seen silent energy manifest in many ways. Spoon bending, telekinesis caused by a woman's anger which sent a glass covered photo in a heavy picture frame across a room where it shattered against a wall. It was a good thing her husband, the target of her anger, wasn't there at the time.
I've felt the incredible warmth of healing hands and watched a young woman bend a laser beam. A man I knew stopped the atomic clock three times, sending scientists racing from the room in tears. The clock was buried underground in a lead walled container. Ingo stopped it by his intent.
My daughter's great-grandmother on her father's side never tired of telling the story of a man in Rio De Janeiro who people were wary of inviting to their homes. If there were any plants inside when he visited, they were dead by the time he left. He professed to love greenery, but his touch said something different.
All those things can seem pretty spectacular, but what interests me more is the silent energy that comes from one person focused on love and forgiveness.
The Dalai Lama spoke of a wonderful breathing meditation - on the breath inward, cherish yourself. On the breath outward, cherish others. It's something he practices daily toward the Chinese. Okay, you might say that there's been no positive change in relations between China and Tibet, despite the forgiveness and loving energy the Dalai Lama is sending out. Perhaps, friendship between these two countries is not to be in this lifetime.
However, what if that energy he's sending out is affecting both sides in ways we have only begun to glimpse. The Chinese with their very slow evolution in regards to global warming which they fear and could be interpreted in part as respect for nature. Notice,I didn't say loving kindness for nature, but they may come to that.
Perhaps, the Tibetans were meant to travel to places like the United States and elsewhere so that their wisdom could support all the amazing awakenings that are occurring here. Of course, I'm no expert on these things, especially politically, and already I can hear a chorus of voices objecting to my naivete. I'm not looking for their approval. I'm just another pilgrim on an adventure that includes exploring what happens when I open myself to livingness, to making connections, silently. Connections that are changing who I am and the way I interact with myself nd others.
I believe it was Deepak Chopra who wrote something I stumbled upon during one of my morning inspirational reading sessions. It seemed like such an intriguing idea that I decided to experiment and see what the outcome would be. The instructions were to make eye contact and remain silent while repeating Namaste - the Divine in me salutes the Divine in You - to every person I passed in the street. Of course, this only works if you believe that each individual holds what I call the Divine within. Granted, it may be under deep cover. (I can personally attest to that.)
Entering the stream of pedestrians, I encountered a broad spectrum of expressions, from the remote, to sadness, to anger and even a few smiles. From a distance of twenty feet, I made eye contact while silently repeating Namaste. The Divine in Me Salutes the Divine in You By the time I was in close proximity, there was a visible change. Every single person either smiled or nodded. I felt that somehow I was being greeted in return. I felt an energy shift in my solar plexus, a feeling of lightness. I felt confident and relaxed at the same time.
I'm not entirely sure what who passed by felt. Nor do I know what happened as they moved through the rest of their day. I'd like to think that they carried the residual of our contact with them and 'paid it forward.' After all, any physicist will tell you - energy doesn't cease to exist... sometimes we move energy consciously, sometimes not.
What I do know, is - silence has its own presence which holds the potential for connection.
Namaste.
I've felt the incredible warmth of healing hands and watched a young woman bend a laser beam. A man I knew stopped the atomic clock three times, sending scientists racing from the room in tears. The clock was buried underground in a lead walled container. Ingo stopped it by his intent.
My daughter's great-grandmother on her father's side never tired of telling the story of a man in Rio De Janeiro who people were wary of inviting to their homes. If there were any plants inside when he visited, they were dead by the time he left. He professed to love greenery, but his touch said something different.
All those things can seem pretty spectacular, but what interests me more is the silent energy that comes from one person focused on love and forgiveness.
The Dalai Lama spoke of a wonderful breathing meditation - on the breath inward, cherish yourself. On the breath outward, cherish others. It's something he practices daily toward the Chinese. Okay, you might say that there's been no positive change in relations between China and Tibet, despite the forgiveness and loving energy the Dalai Lama is sending out. Perhaps, friendship between these two countries is not to be in this lifetime.
However, what if that energy he's sending out is affecting both sides in ways we have only begun to glimpse. The Chinese with their very slow evolution in regards to global warming which they fear and could be interpreted in part as respect for nature. Notice,I didn't say loving kindness for nature, but they may come to that.
Perhaps, the Tibetans were meant to travel to places like the United States and elsewhere so that their wisdom could support all the amazing awakenings that are occurring here. Of course, I'm no expert on these things, especially politically, and already I can hear a chorus of voices objecting to my naivete. I'm not looking for their approval. I'm just another pilgrim on an adventure that includes exploring what happens when I open myself to livingness, to making connections, silently. Connections that are changing who I am and the way I interact with myself nd others.
I believe it was Deepak Chopra who wrote something I stumbled upon during one of my morning inspirational reading sessions. It seemed like such an intriguing idea that I decided to experiment and see what the outcome would be. The instructions were to make eye contact and remain silent while repeating Namaste - the Divine in me salutes the Divine in You - to every person I passed in the street. Of course, this only works if you believe that each individual holds what I call the Divine within. Granted, it may be under deep cover. (I can personally attest to that.)
Entering the stream of pedestrians, I encountered a broad spectrum of expressions, from the remote, to sadness, to anger and even a few smiles. From a distance of twenty feet, I made eye contact while silently repeating Namaste. The Divine in Me Salutes the Divine in You By the time I was in close proximity, there was a visible change. Every single person either smiled or nodded. I felt that somehow I was being greeted in return. I felt an energy shift in my solar plexus, a feeling of lightness. I felt confident and relaxed at the same time.
I'm not entirely sure what who passed by felt. Nor do I know what happened as they moved through the rest of their day. I'd like to think that they carried the residual of our contact with them and 'paid it forward.' After all, any physicist will tell you - energy doesn't cease to exist... sometimes we move energy consciously, sometimes not.
What I do know, is - silence has its own presence which holds the potential for connection.
Namaste.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
An Older Woman Who Dares
An older woman who dares
Is eager to explore the unknown.
Owns everything she’s been and done.
Wields her sword with force and compassion.
Keeps her promises.
Tithes with her unique gifts.
Has lost the cares of youth.
Loves with the experience of her years.
Has honed her priorities.
Knows when to keep going and when to stop.
Is deeply connected to her intuition.
Makes heads turn with the radiance of her true beauty.
Knows when not to accept the status quo.
Doesn’t fear death – and has creative ideas about how to die.
Knows when to forgive and does it with soul full elegance.
Howls at the moon, at fear and fools.
Knows it’s sometimes important to lick her wounds.
Takes out the trash that accumulates in the mind and the body.
Enjoys the delicious decadence of sleeping in the afternoon.
Refuses to be rigid.
Is eager to explore the unknown.
Owns everything she’s been and done.
Wields her sword with force and compassion.
Keeps her promises.
Tithes with her unique gifts.
Has lost the cares of youth.
Loves with the experience of her years.
Has honed her priorities.
Knows when to keep going and when to stop.
Is deeply connected to her intuition.
Makes heads turn with the radiance of her true beauty.
Knows when not to accept the status quo.
Doesn’t fear death – and has creative ideas about how to die.
Knows when to forgive and does it with soul full elegance.
Howls at the moon, at fear and fools.
Knows it’s sometimes important to lick her wounds.
Takes out the trash that accumulates in the mind and the body.
Enjoys the delicious decadence of sleeping in the afternoon.
Refuses to be rigid.
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