Category: Reflection

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New Year’s Blessings, Wishes and Dares

ahappynewyear3 copyRecognize the hallelujah holy you are, the glorious gift of life you embody. Praise all your perceived flaws. Your secret superpower is the blessing of saints and the protection of angels. Proceed accordingly.

The counsel you seek is poised and ready 24/7, desperate for you to ask. Lay down your sword. Offer the olive branch knowing it may be dropped. Speak the truth even if it means rejection. Take the leap of faith. Leave the boulder on the cliff.

Guilt and shame don’t play fair. Be wary of engaging. Wait for inspiration and hope. They will come uninvited to assuage fears and erase doubts bearing light for the next steps.

The present lives on the threshold of then and there in the same place excitement and promise live. Stay in it. Be a cool no-nonsense cat. They know what they are doing. Pretend same.

Earth and sea are home and hearth to all. Care for them. Respect! Reverence! Awe! Be a torch in the heart of darkness, let your presence be a balm to a stranger, of which there are none. Disabuse the illusion of normal used as a whip to judge. Listen. See. Feel. Understand.

A good roux makes the gumbo. Use fresh ingredients, salt sparingly. Serve with French bread, love, and bon mots. Laugh often, even in your dreams. Hug and caress, turn the bitter to the sweet, harbor no grudges, be called good friend. May you find your anam cara.

Risk love in all her compassionate, expansive, endearing, everlasting, exhausting, unpredictable, demanding, fierce, fulfilling, provocative, painful, intense, devout, cheeky ways. Bet the house on her.

I wish you every good wish, every fine dare, blessings in spades. I wish you a Happy New Year.

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Follow Your Heart’s GPS

UnknownBrian Doyle wrote a wonderful book called The Wet Engine: Exploring the Mad Wild Miracle of the Heart. It was in this book that I learned a hummingbird, with its rapid heartbeat and two-year lifespan, has the same number of heartbeats a human has in a lifetime, and that at 5’ long, 4’ wide, 5’ high, weighing 400 pounds, the heart of the blue whale is the largest on the planet. The human heart weighs in at 10-12 ounces and is about the size of a fist.

“Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, what the heart can hold.” So said Zelda Fitzgerald whose heart, one imagines, experienced the gamut of emotions in her extraordinary and ultimately tragic lifetime.

Gratitude and wonder hold hands in the heart, wide-eyed and a little gap-mouthed, ready to be delighted and surprised at any moment. Stress and tension, handcuffed together, frequently lurk uninvited. Forgiveness fights fires. Grief, normally in chambers, engulfs when awoken. Favorite people wander the corridors, places and things take up space in different rooms. And yet, as Zelda suggested, the heart’s ability to expand and hold more is unknown but likely vaster than a blue whale’s heart.

When alert and not operating by rote, the heart possesses the extraordinary vision of a raptor seeing things in focus far and wide, making connections like the way the forces of darkness often push the better angels to prevail, and how the persecuted sometimes carve the path to compassion and change. It has the ability to hear like a moth, to float and flutter with the same grace. The heart feels best with arms widespread, guileless, loyal and loving as a child or a pet.

It truly has a mind of its own, which is in constant communication with the brain in our heads. When heart and head are in sync, we have greater mental clarity and intuitive ability. When the heart experiences emotions like compassion and appreciation, its rhythm becomes more coherent and harmonious. So next time you feel adrift, take a quick minute or two to listen to and follow your heart’s wise lead. She’ll get you where you need to be.

 

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Summertime

fpZU5EQDistracted by the dreamy placid river, broody clouds deciding whether to unleash a storm, fighting an obsession, looking for a hawk, seeing only turkey vultures swooping and gliding, widening their circles, tasked with doing what none of us will, startled by a young buck at the edge of the road in the fog. Come here.

Surprised by the unexpected, annoyed by it, too. Alarmed I thought I knew what was going on only to realize I didn’t know a thing. I didn’t know you. Or you. Or you. How many times did you, and you, and you feel the same about me? Please tell me.

Missed the full moon lost under a banner of opaque gray in New Jersey. Again. Crazy New Jersey. Thwarting anticipated beauty, spotlighting it where I least expect it, gifting me in spellbinding ways. Pacts we made before I arrived. Are you the coyote trickster, Jersey? I hate you. I love you. I’ll go away. No, wait… I’ll stay.

Finally, fireflies at night, butterflies in daytime, glimpses of the woozy, intoxicating, ethereal world between here and there. Their buzz, their light, colors and patterns unmatched, diverting my gaze, leaving me tipsy with wonder. Take me with you.

The visceral lines between opposites—love/hate, war/peace, joy/sorrow, confusion/clarity, sick/well, sacred/profane—are blurred. Yes. No. Maybe. Of course. Is it okay? Ah, what will be will be.

I want to settle into a hammock, lie back on a sailboat, get lost in the sky, the stars, leave expectations I don’t comprehend and fail to fulfill behind. I want to catch whoever needs catching there, hold and rock them. Still anxiety and fear.

You and me. We are no different whoever you are. Except for the shape of your lips and the curve of the lines, the hesitancy or lack thereof, we are the same. I recognize the disarming language of your smile. Hello.

 

 

 

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Knight’s Dare

thumbnail-1 2Several two-story high trees were felled in the woods on the Palisades after Superstorm Sandy; their broad, shallow roots useless against hurricane force winds. A mile into a walk, the massive root ball of one of them faced me, a fallen warrior as majestic in death as in life, lying in state holding a shield decorated in a mesmerizing pattern of intertwined roots and dirt. As I paid my respects, like something out of a fable, the brave knight dared me to steal a heart-shaped stone the size of my fist from the center of his shield. I accepted the dare and slipped the stone into a pocket.

At home, I rinsed off the dirt with warm water and put it on the windowsill to dry where it sat forgotten for a few days. But it lured me back. It fit perfectly in my palm. My thumb and fingers ran over the tawny marbled surface, turning it over and back, instantly soothing.

A jagged buttonhole gash marks the top of one side. On the other, there is a hole next to the left ventricle where scar tissue has formed in the shape of a shark’s tooth. Small pockmarked wounds create an uneven pattern of dots on both sides. Cracks and veins that didn’t create full breaks tell stories from before the storm. It is flawless in its imperfection.

Virginia Woolf committed suicide by filling her pockets with stones and walking into the river. The Hope diamond, one of the most precious and now belonging to the Smithsonian, was said to carry a curse that ended when Harry Winston donated it rather than sell it for profit. Canyons shaped by rivers, pebbles washed up on beaches, desert rock formations, greats like Gibraltar, Uluru, Stonehenge and Plymouth, pyramidal stones—storytellers all.

Hard, smooth and uneven, the umbo I hold pulses with life, the connector between me and the tree and the earth that warmed it. It tells me a story about how that knight held my heart in its fist, keeping it hidden and safe, returning it to me when I was ready, reminding me the consequence of accepting the dare is to risk again.

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Wild Heart

bd4c67dfc9786cd16c8719f0f80b8065--motorcycle-bike-biker-babesWild heart, strap on your biker boots and take me places I would never dare. Reckless, guileless, bold and brave, tell the voices and distractions to get out of our way.

Rev the engine and take Main through town to the dusty back road that leads to the top of the hill. Let gawkers gawk, because they will. Steal a kiss and give one, too. It doesn’t have to last, but make sure it’s true.

Soar eagle high, dive cormorant deep, catch me a star fish while you’re there. Set a seal and leave your mark, drop bouquets after dark. Go merrily, merrily, merrily. I’ll meet you at the shore.

Cast your net wherever you wish, but hold me tight when the waves hit. Carry it light, and we’ll not go down. Share all our bounties from the beautiful sea. She is us and we are she.

Weapons down, gates thrown wide, dance by the light of the moon, the moon.  Come close and let me whisper in your ear, you are divine, it’s true.

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Altarations for the New Year

UnknownTake all the secrets and shame from the vault and lay them open on the altar of compassion where they will be burned with sage and sweet grass, then rinsed away with a tincture of holy water, lavender and mercy.

Lie down on the granite altar of pain and offer your sorrow as sacrifice. Let the flying buttresses and the bowl of the apse catch your soul’s keening. Be soothed by the cool stone beneath you. Hold steadfast that a light heart will beat again.

Kneel before the altar of humbleness and receive the host of gratitude and forgiveness on your tongue. Sip bittersweet from the chalice of chance and experience. Rise up.

Walk down the aisle toward the altar of the flowing river draped in the morning sunlight. Slip on the ring of promise, and vow to start each day with a sacrament of beauty.

Dance on the refracted colored light on the floor of the nave before the altar of joy to a jubilant chorus raising the cathedral roof singing of your goodness.

Gaze up to the hawk’s shrill cry, follow flashes of cardinal and streaks of blue jay, glides of tawny sparrow to where they adorn the shrines of mighty oak and pine, and woodpeckers tap their praise.

Gild the altar of life with fragrant flowers, the finest threads and most vivid colors. In exaltation, summon forth courage and creativity; bless the arts and music. Welcome with open arms all who are bold enough to risk.

Dip inspiration into the baptismal font of hope where doubt knows no name. Process the ashes of fear out the holy door and down the avenue in a caisson drawn by white horses.

Worship in awe-filled silence in the sanctuary of your understanding. Glorify that which you feel to be holy. Come often to be centered and fed. Shout Hallelujah! Chant om, shanti, shanti, shanti. Namaste. Amen.

 

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Expectant Joy

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Grandmother Linley (Gin)

This year my family awaits the arrival of my youngest niece’s baby boy, due December 28. He will be the firstborn of his generation in this branch of the family. Our Advent season of waiting, wondering, hoping and praying began in the summer when she shared this news and has now taken on the true mystery and magic of this time of year.

Somewhere during this long Advent, I started an overdue project of going through boxes of family photos, which brought joy as well as poignant moments peering at the faces of those lost too soon. Along with photos, I have become the recipient of a small cache of family history in letters, articles and pamphlets allowing me to catch swirling, snow globe glimpses of my origins.

I smile at letters between my grandmother Virginia, known as Gin, and her sisters and brothers, each with their own nifty nickname like Ede, Bunch, Pike and June (a junior). In the summer, while visiting my younger brother, we strike a deal–I will get the painting by our great aunt of our father at 20 (we think) who our nephew strongly resembles, with a promise to send my brother portraits of my grandparents in exchange.

The strong cheekbones and curly hair of my oldest niece look out at me in a young photo of my other grandmother who got short shrift in my self-absorbed youth. I make a silent wish that I could talk to her now and an apology that I didn’t do so more when I had the chance. Not too many days later a packet arrives from my uncle that includes an old photo of me with her and one of a great grandfather I had never seen.

I realize they have all been clustering forward this year, reminding me they are still here, even very near, and always have been. Perhaps on the other side they are throwing a going away party for the soul about to join us, sharing wisdom for the journey, sad to see him go, yet filled with joy at the promise of his life. What past will he carry? What future? How will we nurture his awesome light and honor his courage to come? We wait with love in expectant joy.

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Incarnation

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Blades crack, sinews pull, a pinion forces a tear creating space for the next, and the next, and all that come after. Torso drops forward to support the transformation. The invisible unfolding is swift. Arching upright, wings expand to full. The familiar weight rests easy, feels good, is a comfortable carry.

These are not strap-on, costume feathers for fun or show. They go entirely unnoticed, moving easily through busy streets, fitting comfortably on crowded subways and planes, in tiny elevators and hospital rooms with humming machines, blinking lights, ambient exterior noise, blurring days. There is nowhere they don’t or won’t go.

They enter cavernous silences bringing offerings of what is needed–a gentle touch, an unexpected smile, a compassionate heart, unconditional love made easy. They bring the hands and hearts that treat the sick, that help those stuck in the snow, that pamper with haircuts and massages, tend and comfort the children, feed the hungry, adore the animals. Their ears patiently listen; their hearts make soft landing for vented anger and fill the cup with laughter on days that teeter on the edge of sorrow. It takes but a sliver of grace inserted in a gaping ache.

So effortless and unconscious the alteration, sometimes you forget who you are, that you joyfully made the promise when you signed the covenant to come. Yes, there are the troubled days in between, transformation stunted or thwarted, leaving in your wake misfired mercy and smoky, ruffled plumes. But for the most you bring the peace, hoist the courage, set things right for at least one in some significant way. You are the guardian and incarnation of the angel you shelter.

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Optics: Weed or Flower?

I came across a patch of Queen Anne’s lace in the woods about a month ago. Queen Anne’s lace, also known as wild carrot, is a plant I’ve loved since I was small, when I was told it was a weed and not the lovely flower I saw. I still find it odd that a weed is named for a queen’s delicate lace, it’s tiny dark red center poetically representing a drop of blood from her needle-pricked finger. Apparently, it also bears a close resemblance to the poisonous hemlock, and one is cautioned to be careful if planning to eat it. This is not a weed. It’s a short story on a stem. What makes a weed and what a flower? Who decides?

Presumably a weed grows where it shouldn’t. This doesn’t necessarily make it a bad thing. In fact, so-called weeds often serve a positive purpose. In the case of Queen Anne’s lace, when it’s native to the area, it attracts wasps and sometimes butterflies and can boost tomato production. But in the wrong area, it’s considered noxious and a pest.

There is much that seems dualistic or is revealed to be something other than it is. “Optics” has become a buzzword. Optics are used to influence how we will interpret or view the facts and seem to play as important a role as the facts. And while we’d like to think we are immune to that influence, the truth is we are all sensitive to appearances or our perception of things.  We do make judgments and decisions based on optics. Is a panel of women asking the questions or a panel of men? Is the panel multiracial or one race? Young or old or mixed? We create entire stories based on images. We also know that optics often don’t tell the whole story, that they can be a fiction.

The best we can do at any given moment is see past the fiction to the truth, knowing the truth can sometimes be a matter of perception. When we find out the flower is a weed, we always have the option to recalibrate. Can I still love a weed? Not always. Sometimes? Absolutely. Because in the end, we’re all like Queen Anne’s lace.

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Forgiving August

Burning white hot days, electric thunderous skies, oppressive smothering humidity, claustrophobic preternaturally cool interiors; it’s August again. It was August when you left. The cells of my body, the cells you created, they forever carry your parting, forever try to connect between the veils. Is August nicer there? Is it calmer? Is it cooler?

Tahlequah pushes her dead newborn calf for weeks and miles in the sea, her raw mourning on display, teaching us about grief and loss and complicity and neglect, breaking and expanding hearts all over the world. She brings me to my knees with her pain, with my human shame. So much to atone. In August, mother and calf let go, she begins the road to healing, her pain subsumed, not forgotten.

He went to the mountains. She went to the ocean. They went halfway around the world. Me, I’m running from you in place, August, dripping with salty sweat, evaporating suffocating thoughts with the business of breathing. I keep moving through you, trying to get past you. A heavy, blush pink hydrangea overflows onto the sidewalk, blocking the path, grazing my cheek with a dewy cuff, or is it a kiss? My fingers reach up to feel where you touched me.

August, oh August, we are locked in an eternal heated tango, stomping and twisting, twirling and teasing in a dizzying, exhilarating and enervating dance to nowhere. Aren’t you tired? I throw down my castanets to you my nemesis, my soulmate, my mentor, my match.

Come on, then. Let’s put on our bright colors and straw hats, escape now to our very own luncheon of the boating party, sip on a cool, crisp white, have a laugh with some friends, the still river floating by us on a warm, breezy afternoon. I like this side of you, dear August, and I forgive you all.