The Elegance of Simplicity, The Beauty in Space

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a nomad. It started when I was five and ran away from home to spend the night under an avocado tree several blocks away. Thrilled to be there, I was also deathly afraid of what might be waiting in the darkness just beyond my leafy sanctuary.
In the years that followed, I was compelled to travel further and further, until there were thousands of miles between me and the town I’d grown up in. I crossed oceans and continents, spending intervals in Europe, South and Central America. I slept in a hammock, on boats, in a Roman wine cellar and in an 11the century castle
When I first started off I carried a few suitcases. They became trunks that disappeared in the holds of cargo ships and the backs of trucks alongside small mountains of boxes. There were the utensils I couldn’t live without; pots and pans, clothes, linens and paintings. Photos and small bits and pieces were the footprints of my past. Always always there was a collection of books that kept growing.
Eventually, I’ve divested myself of two husbands, a long-term live in lover, and my daughter followed nature’s course and moved to Manhattan. Another few years passed, and suddenly I began to relinquish my possessions, despite the occasional tug or ache that appeared when I handed over something that had served me well. The orange Le Creuset pot that cooked a perfect stewed chicken, and weighed 6 pounds! Having more than one blanket, the heavy royal blue wool was given to a woman I met. It’s hard to fall asleep when you’re freezing, and as a single mother of three she needs to nourish her dreams. Although I haven’t given them all up and never will, a great many of my beloved books have slowly been repurposed, finding their way to libraries and into the hands of people who I felt would enjoy them.
And as things continued to disappear, I began to recognize the elegance of simplicity. The beauty of space. In the forest, it’s the clearing. In the desert, the sky. On the beach, it’s the horizon. In Chinese calligraphy, empty space is named ‘designing the white’ and it enhances the blackness of the letters. In Japanese gardens, the empty space provides balance. It defines the elements that surround it, just as the elements that surround it define the space.
Like the yoga master who teaches that the empty space following the breaths inward and outward is where great movement occurs, modern physics tells us that there is no empty space. What appears to be emptiness is filled with particles, atoms and invisible energy.
Bringing emptiness into various aspects of my life, gave me the freedom and serenity that I’d unknowingly longed for. No more need to carve out chunks of time to polish the furniture and the silver!
My friend R, a devout Buddhist and a healer of children from war zones, once said, I don’t think I’ll reach enlightenment this lifetime, nor am I completely sure I even want to. We both laughed. Be that as it may, I’ve come to believe that the last stage of a woman’s life journey is when she focuses on cultivating her soul, something that’s done moment by moment. Enjoying the peaks and lighting fires in the darkness, life becomes an act of devotion, a joyous commitment to all living beings. Embracing divine madness, moments of insight and the intoxification of Divine Love, the older woman finds grace by surrendering to simplicity.
The journey becomes easier.

Hunting Stories For Our Tribe

Storytellers and story catchers are hunter-gatherers, who go out in search of food for their tribe. Like the Amazonian shaman who explained the hunting ritual of his tribe, they say a prayer that expresses their intent to the Gods and Goddesses of the story telling family to send them the nourishment the tribe needs. Heart open and proceeding mindfully, they set off. Suddenly, the story jumps from where it was hiding in the bushes, as if to say, ‘take me.’
Story telling and story catching is a talent we’re all born with. Those who use storytelling actively in their lives have realized stories are how we connect soul to soul. Stories are how we face our monsters, and how we heal. They speak of love and courage, loss and heartache. They challenge and inspire us to fulfill our potential.
The garden behind our house and my father’s workbench were rich with stories. The dusty hills dotted with mesquite and Eucalyptus I roamed as a young girl gave me tales of arrowheads, snakes, coyotes and caves. The female mountain lion that understood my innocence and laid down nearby to rest for a while.
There were the concentration camp survivors who played jazz and drank vodka-laced tea in a cactus garden. Planted by an immigrant in honor of the city that had allowed him to prosper, Dante's Garden became the vessel where his hopes and dreams mingled with theirs.
There were the grandmothers and grandfathers I met in Golden Gate Park, carrying sharply pointed sticks and plastic bags they used to collect the trash and the litter. The group’s story is a legacy of compassion and caring for the community.
Stories of synchronicity are full of special grace and revisited with wonder. I was in Mexico City when I was struck down by fever, swelling and excruciating pain. After several days in the hospital, where I was poked and drained of strange fluids, the diagnosis was I would never walk again without a cane. That the aches and stabs traveling up and down my legs would be my forever companions. Released after dark, I walked out into the street, sobbing. It was rush hour, cars and buses jammed end to end. The fumes were overwhelming. Alone, with no one to call, I started walking. Still new to the city I had no real idea of how far I needed to go. Reckless and in my 20s, I’d never given much thought to how I treated my body and now the ease and agility I’d enjoyed had disappeared. Caught between grieving and self-pity, I saw an old campesino step from a darkened doorway. Barefoot, dressed in white with a frayed straw hat, he began to walk along side me. I didn’t yet speak Spanish, but I knew those soft words he murmured, the little song he sang were meant to comfort. Leaning into the support he offered as he placed a firm hand under my elbow, I felt a gentle calm begin to settle over me. We walked for what must have been an hour. When we reached my door, he nodded and disappeared back into the shadows. Later, in my bed, I vowed not accept the life sentence the doctors had handed me. That was the beginning of a longer story about personal growth and healing. And when I tell it, I always start in Mexico City when I walked in the company of an angel.