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Hawk’s Call

The hawk’s call is distinct, not very melodic. It’s a rather shrill, hoarse keening that’s hard to miss. Hence, it usually gets my attention, often when I’m at work, most recently on the day after our first real snow of the season, the kind of snow that creates a silent winter wonderland, a silence that allows a hawk’s cry to really stand out. 

I heard it and got up from my desk going from window to window looking for the producer of the command for attention without success. This happened several times before I finally spotted her, all puffed up to protect herself against the frigid cold, feasting on her prey beneath a snow-covered pine. 

It was a day when I hadn’t wanted to go to work. There was the snow, the cold, the violence over the past weekend: the shootings at Brown University and Bondi Beach, the tragic murder of the Reiners, all requiring a large dose of compassion as sorrow and outrage take their own course while we try to process what isn’t really possible to process. The pile-on to what we are already trying to hold is heavy, wearying for the heart. 

There are friends and family who are on challenging health journeys or are worried about someone they love on such a journey, those who have lost someone dear, others who have lost their livelihoods. How does one shine the positive light and healing energy in so many directions? How do we disburse it proportionately?

The hawk in the snow was a reminder for me that nature’s rhythms not only carry on but show the way. Any given day or moment, some of us will be stronger than others, able to carry a little more weight, called upon to stoke our own embers so we can spark or keep the flame going in others. The same has been done for each of us by friends, family, doctors, nurses, or brief encounters with someone we don’t know who was put in our path to offer just the right words or deed in a timeless dance of sharing the load and carrying the light. 

May you find and receive what you need to have the love and capacity, the strength and compassion, and most of all the spirit and heart to keep the dance in motion. 

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Keep Your Eye on the Ball

Image by bess.hamiti@gmail.com from Pixabay

I recently took a tennis lesson and the coach, knowing I wasn’t feeling too confident, told me a story about an 89-year-old player who, when asked her secret to playing so long, said, “I keep my eye on the ball.” Sounds simple enough, right? 

On the court it’s very straightforward, the objective clear, but that doesn’t mean it’s always easy. It can be as hard to maintain focus on a tennis court as off it where there are many competing forces. Focus takes practice. And we don’t always get served a ball that’s an easy return. 

We juggle a lot of balls—thoughts—at any given time. Sometimes I’m playing dodge ball with mine. No, not those again! They say energy flows where our attention goes, so if we become obsessive about things we cannot control, we’re burning fuel and not getting anywhere and likely making matters worse. It can be challenging to come out of that kind of doom loop and as daunting and frustrating as repeatedly hitting balls into the net.

We’re confronted with more distractions than ever before, being asked to consume and digest a lot, to weed out heaps of misinformation from the truth. It’s exhausting. Which balls should we have our eyes on any given day or moment? Some are obvious like our loved ones, family, kindness, gratitude, acting on good intentions, nature, justice, art, Willow the cat. But just like on the tennis court, it takes practice to keep our focus on the goodness. (No practice required for Willow.)

Energy flows where our attention goes. Impatience, anxiety, obsessing over assumptions, are all byproducts of fear. And fear loves attention and power. Franklin D Roosevelt famously said in his 1933 inaugural address “… the only thing we have to fear is fear itself…” Don’t give it attention. 

Focus strips away the clutter and clears the clouds in our minds. It is enhanced by meditation and prayer. Practice allows us to more readily find the sweet spot, to be in flow. The more we practice, the more effortless and natural it becomes. And there’s nothing more satisfying than hitting the sweet spot. 

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Time Warp

Last month, when I was in DC visiting friends for the weekend, we decided to drive out to Kenilworth Aquatic Gardens.  Located on the East side of the city adjacent to the Anacostia River, the gardens are the only national park devoted to aquatic plants. Walter Shaw, a Civil War veteran who lost his lower right arm in the war, purchased the land that is now the gardens in 1879 from his in-laws and began “playing in water,” planting lilies from his native Maine and later lotuses. Walter’s dabbling would grow to become a successful enterprise. Eventually, he passed the business to his daughter Helen. Both father and daughter brought in plants from all over the world.

Our visit to the gardens coincided with near peak bloom. Walking among the towering, vivid pink and white lotuses, we felt as though we had stumbled into a prehistoric time warp. Their equally tall seed pods, on the other hand, looked futuristic, almost extraterrestrial. Dozens of dazzling, shimmery blue dragonflies hovered and flitted everywhere we turned, adding to the out-of-space and time effect. The no less stunning water lilies, floating on the surface of the water, were more than contenders for our attention. It was hard to know where to cast my eyes in this arresting vista. I found myself laser-focused on one flower, one petal or seed pod and then expanding my gaze to a wide-angle view taking in as much as my eyes could see. 

Lotus flowers and waterlilies are symbols of purity because they arise pristine from muddy waters. For the same reason, they represent transcendence, blooming from the dark underworld into the light. Both have been used in religious ceremonies for thousands of years. Dragonflies are said to signify change and transformation, adaptability, joy and light.

As we walked to the car that afternoon, a visceral disconnect began to take hold, the gardens fading and reality returning. In fact, that lovely escape took place on the eve of the police takeover in Washington, DC. My friends and I were not sure what to expect, what the next day on Capitol Hill might look like, or what the days ahead could bring for our cities, our country, our world. The suspension in time at the aquatic gardens was an ethereal gift in the murky waters of uncertainty. 

Maybe it is too soon to dare to hope breathtaking lotuses and waterlilies can eventually spring from those waters accompanied by joy-anointing dragonflies, but it is not too soon to escape to or appreciate places nearby where those dreams still live and still have the power to soothe us.

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Smudge Me

Several years ago, Sr. Kristin came into my office, and I greeted her with, “I feel like I could use a good smudging.” Without missing a beat, she said, “I think so, too.” And off she went returning a minute later with a sage stick, which she lit and with a feather proceeded to direct the smoke from it around my body, from head to toe, and throughout my office, moving slowly and with holy intent. Long after she finished, wafts of the sage’s earthy, bittersweet scent lingered.

Smudging is the practice of cleansing energy, a ritual said to pre-date recorded history. Used in ceremonies and for healing, purifying energy is still practiced today. Palo santo, incense, crystals, and sound vibrations are some of the other natural materials used to cleanse energy.

Energy is palpable. We are made of and surrounded by it. If you do the simple exercise of pressing your palms together, then pulling them apart and pressing them back together a few times, almost like you were playing an accordion, you’ll begin to feel the energy between your hands. 

We’ve all been confronted by unpleasant energy that makes us want to back away. The energy of conflict, even small arguments or tension is like that, or energy that doesn’t mesh with ours. We can magnify this effect exponentially when we think of the energy created by fear and paranoia, the energy that incites violence and war. 

Our energy reflects not only our physical health but our mental and spiritual health. It’s been said that our energy enters the room before we do, and everything flows from that. It affects the energy of the people and places around us, so it’s important to protect it and be mindful of it. What are we exuding?

And our combined energy can have tremendous power for good. “When we come together as a group, with a common purpose and commitment to mindful action, we produce an energy of collective concentration far superior to our own individual concentration. This energy further helps us to cultivate compassion and understanding.” (Thích Nhất Hạnh)

Sr. Kristin has since gone on to another realm, but I have been thinking of her a lot lately and wondering what she would make of what is happening in the world today. I like to believe she’s a spirit in the sky with other holy wisdom spirits, lighting divine sage sticks and smudging the Universe. We need to do our part and meet those divine energies at least halfway. So, yes, smudge me, please.

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Easter Challenge

“I wish that I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.” This famous Hafiz quote pushed its way through the clutter in my mind today to take front and center. 

Yesterday, I wrote you a note and rolled it up in magnolia petals and tied it to a bunch of dried roses. We found a new spot on the Hudson to have a memorial chat, and I thought I could hear you laughing when I tossed the bouquet and failed to release it in time causing it to boomerang back at me but still somehow landing it in the water. I laughed, too. And I think I may have heard my father groan from wherever it is you guys are these days.

Eastertime is often fraught for me. This year was no exception. But nudges have come like the one from Hafiz and from Julian of Norwich’s words, “All shall be well… for there is a force of Love in the universe that holds us fast and will never let us go.” And then one other presented.

Part of my job includes oversight of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Peace archives. I look forward to weekly meetings with the congregation archivist who often surprises me with an interesting find. Several months ago, she handed me a paperback book called A Free Spirit, which purports to be a transcript of the channeled conversations between the order’s founder, Margaret Anna Cusack, and a writer named Patrick Francis.  Just as we had both agreed it wasn’t archival, and we could toss it, I thought, wait a second, this is right up my alley.

I finally finished it this morning with mixed feelings about the content. In a wide-ranging discussion, Margaret Anna addresses many subjects, the evolution of the soul and how that occurs being but one. She grabbed me a few times, including with this passage toward the end: 

“The first and most important point is acceptance of your own divinity. To an orthodox religious practitioner that may sound sacrilegious. However it sounds, the fact is that all souls are part of God; in other words, the loving energy that is God animates all souls.” 

Am I—are we—up to the challenge of accepting ourselves and others as divine, of seeing, or at least imagining, the astonishing light of our beings? To fully embrace that requires a disciplined practice of shifting our focus and holding fast to that knowing, even when we’ve disappointed ourselves, or been disappointed or hurt by someone, some circumstance or group, by life or love. It requires constant awe and wonder. I think you, my river friend, have offered me this Easter gift and challenge, and I accept.

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Safe Harbor

This past Valentine’s Day I was remembering a favorite card my Grandmother Linley sent me when I was eight years old. It came in the mail from Kansas and was larger than an average card, all shades of Valentine pink, red, gold and white, a card that accordioned open to reveal a pink tissue paper heart, a card that made me very happy.

Charlotte Fox, 1996, Binod Joshi, Associated Press

With so much happening in our country and our world, maybe it’s tone-deaf to share that memory. And yet, it keeps coming back to me, a persistent note on a scale telling me she is near still sending love. And she’s not alone. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them squatters, but my mind is a frequent Airbnb for several deceased ancestors.

Like many of us, I come from hardy stock. I am the great, great, too many greats to name, granddaughter of one of the Salem witches, Margaret Scott. A great aunt, who with her husband owned and operated a mortuary, flits in periodically piquing my curiosity. Charlotte Fox, a second cousin became a renowned mountaineer who survived the fatal blizzard on Mt. Everest described in Jon Krakauer’s book Into Thin Air. 

My Grandfather Linley was mustard gassed in WWI and ever after had to eat soft foods. He lost his business during the Great Depression. My Grandfather Algie, a doctor, re-enlisted in WWII as a medic leaving my grandmother, a former nurse, my mom and uncle at home.  Many of the men in our family served in the armed services.

In my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined what is unfolding in our country and our world, and I think it’s safe to say nor could my ancestors. My life has been relatively privileged. Lately, I find myself with a tenfold sense of gratitude for the roof over my head, the car I drive, my job, sustenance, freedom, while trying not to let my mind run amok about what may be coming.

My father described growing up during the Depression as a time when everyone helped each other out. And so can we in our time.

Sometimes remembering my ancestors helps me shift my perspective and stay grounded. They gave me life. Their heartbeats pulse through my veins, their strength and resilience are the sinews of my soul. I am standing on their shoulders and finding safe harbor in their lives and ever-present spirits. This Airbnb will always have room for them.

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A Year-end Chat with Some Frenemies

Pride! Hey girl hey. Where you been? You should drop in more often. I get not wanting to overdo it, but not showing up at all isn’t cool either. Just sayin’. Give us some love. Don’t make me beg.

It’s not money that’s the root of all evil, it’s the love of it. And you really dig that root, don’t you, Greed? I’m not gonna jam you too much, cuz you have way too many friends to care. Hit me up when you need a reality check, ‘k?

I can’t with you, Wrath. Calm down! It’s something to behold watching you flare up over this or that. And it’s downright thrilling when you’re going for a righteous win for Justice. I’m all in then. But wow, it’s exhausting. Take a chill pill, because I’m going to need you rested and ready for at least the next four years.

Envy, seriously, come on. What do they have that we want? They’re not all that. I know, the golden pen dripping words faster than we can think them makes my solar plexus swirl, too, and not in a good way. Blinkers on, babe, let’s not go comparison shopping. Stay focused.

Wow, Lust, what do you mean you’re finished with me? So quickly bored, always on to the next best thing, skimming the surface instead of diving deeper where the real real lies. All right, then, your loss. But Lust? I’ll tell you when we’re finished. (Mic drop.) 

Why is it always all or everything with you, Gluttony? Look, we’ve had a good—some might even say stellar—run, but I think it’s best we don’t meet so often. It’s not you. It’s me. We can be friends. We’ll still see each other on special occasions, promise. Kisses.

Sloth, OMG, losing a BFF is worse than losing a lover. I’m talking to you, Lust. No, wait, I’m talking to you, Sloth. It’s time for us to branch out again, my dear. A new year is coming and cozy and tempting as it is to hang with you all the time, it’s not healthy for either of us. Don’t worry, we’ll still be bingeing hot shows and devouring yummy books. Sure, we can invite Gluttony to join us once in a while. Maybe Temperance, too? Love you!

Best Wishes for the Best Possible New Year!

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Alterations #3

Image by Brigitte Werner, Pixabay

I was watching and I saw when all those perfect gifts you brought, beautifully wrapped too, were torn open in an instant and tossed aside in a heap with all the brightly colored paper, bows, and ribbons left to be trampled on then carried away with the trash. How devastating. You must have felt shocked, hurt, angry, and very sad. All those hours getting ready for this party, the months of hope and anticipation of the big reveal almost, almost as though waiting for a new baby you had already been calling Joy, and all of it burnt out quicker than a shooting star, as if you didn’t matter.

Your precious gifts were salvaged, gathered and placed carefully on the altar atop fair linen embroidered with silver threads of love and compassion. Your glorious righteous anger, a glowing white-hot orb shooting out rays of piercing gold, placed in the center. The pall-covered chalice, not quite empty, sits to the right waiting to be filled to overflowing again with fizzy hope. A paten of hosts made of wheat and water, your strength and indomitable spirit baked in, rests on a hemp corporal. Tapers with fresh wicks wait to be sparked by the inextinguishable flame within you. These offerings of yours are worshipped and adored here, safe and ready for you to take back when you are rested from this trial.

You will shine again. The gash in your heart will be washed with strips of the purest cotton dipped in healing waters. The wound will heal, leaving a jagged scar. The candles will be lit, and you will sip with reverence from the chalice moistening parched lips. You will dissolve a dry host in your mouth renewing a steadfast spirit. You will take that glowing orb back out into the world and beam its protective light wherever it is needed. 

You are a survivor. You always were, you always will be. Your priceless gifts are worth more than all the pretend riches in the world. We need you. We always did, we always will. 

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Drishti

Image by Pexels from Pixabay

Beauty and sorrow are heartbreaking and heart-expanding every which way. It’s gift and challenge that we are asked to hold and balance the two at once. How to appreciate the beauty in the world when we want to cry, Stop for a moment. Please, let me lie down. Spare me your blinding light. But like hurting children who are angry with their parents, we also crave soothing by that which we think we wish to escape!

I asked the brother who surfed when he was younger what it felt like. He said it was kind of like balancing on a ball, side to side, front to back. I don’t know what it’s like to balance on a ball in the ocean, or anywhere else, but I have a vivid imagination—sometimes too vivid—and I continue to be fascinated by that description, in awe of him and my eldest niece as surfers, and of all surfers balancing on and riding the waves.

In yoga practice, for balance or to hold a pose, we are instructed to find a drishti, usually a point in front of us, a self-designated foci to softly gaze at and allow us to center, be still, hold steady. In Sanskrit, drishti can encompass much more. “Drishti is a means of developing concentrated intention, the ability to cut through illusion and see the world as it is.” (Isabelle Pikörn)

The musician and writer Nick Cave, who lost two of his sons, writes: “… the meaning of life – its joy, boundless beauty and love – emerges out of our most devastating losses. I learned that without the savagery of life, love had no true domain, and the relational quality of joy and beauty has no way to express itself. I came to understand that although the world’s energizing principle is love, joy ultimately declares itself most intensely through our heartbreaks.” (The Red Hand Files, #285)

For you, I am trying to balance on a ball in a whitecapped sea of emotion. So, go on then, drench me in beauty. Wash over me with holy silence. Hold me steady with mighty grace. Baptize me again and again. Expand this vessel to hold as much as it possibly can. Let me be shelter. Make me a drishti.

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Sishencong

Image Credit: Pixeljoy / Shutterstock

Wearing loose clothing, I lie back on the heated table and start to get ready, pulling my pant legs above my knees, turning my waistband down, lifting my T, arms at my sides, palms down, feet turned out. Uni appears and while she inserts hair-thin needles, I close my eyes and we chat like we would if we were meeting for coffee—about our jobs, what we’ve watched on streaming, if we believe in angel numbers. Of course, we do.

Uni used to finish inserting the needles with Sishencong—the spiritual quartet—on the crown of my head. Now she starts with it and tells me lately she does that with many of her clients. These four points are supposed to calm and clear the mind. Then she continues inserting needles from top to bottom. I stopped trying to count the number after our first session.

My focus always returns to the crown of my head where the quartet is supposed to be clearing a spiritual gateway. I’m grateful for the half hour and beyond that it takes away invasive thoughts about irrevocable and unfortunate choices made, vital things I was told and failed to comprehend, who I might have let down.

Uni directs heat lamps on my feet and stomach; she hands me a buzzer to use if I need to call her. I never do. She turns out the lights, and I drift away until she returns.

Sometimes when I leave, I stop and look at the colorful framed charts on the wall depicting the meridians and acupuncture points all over the body. I marvel that over 3,000 years ago thousands of points were identified creating a switchboard that connects emotional and physical pain to different organs and body parts. How and why did they think to do that? To relieve suffering is the answer. 

Life can get heavy and dark; hope becomes inaccessible for all of us at times. For some that becomes the norm, and for them a deep ache sleeps restlessly inside of me, catching me off guard when it roars awake. I know I am fortunate to lie on Uni’s table, that access to this and other care is inequitable. I tell myself a story that this self-care will make me better able to also help relieve suffering in some small way, and then I vow it’s not a fiction.