Gabriel's fur was yellow like April, and his heart as big as July. On the morning of the day he left, I heard the very first red-winged blackbird call of spring--like Spirit telling me that beyond this ending lay a new beginning.
He was with me for twelve years, a ray of sunshine through every season. He loved to be loved, thought the world revolved around him – and was at the same time endearingly generous of spirit. If I cried, he came and sat with me, offering the comfort of his presence and warm fur. When I sang, he would seek me out and listen, my own personal audience. When I was sick, he would find me and lay down beside me. He loved to be the center of attention; but he gave back every bit of what he received.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
the big picture
I wonder how many times we miss something beautiful – a sight, a message, a direction – only because we're focused on the wrong thing.
When I took this picture, I was enthralled with the grizzly's journey to shore, only 100 yards or so from another bear. I was caught up in the crowd's vision, the action, the thrill of seeing this magnificent creature in its habitat.
But when I showed a friend this photo, she wasn't interested in the grizzly. Instead, she was immediately enchanted with the glorious panoramic view. The stunning mountain range, a constant presence there. The sunlit clouds, the glacial lakewater, the vastness of the landscape. And it dawned on me that even without the grizzly speck, this photo captured a much bigger piece of magic than I had ever realized.
What are you focused on today? And is that still where you want your attention? Sometimes, looking the other way might be the best thing you've ever done.
When I took this picture, I was enthralled with the grizzly's journey to shore, only 100 yards or so from another bear. I was caught up in the crowd's vision, the action, the thrill of seeing this magnificent creature in its habitat.
But when I showed a friend this photo, she wasn't interested in the grizzly. Instead, she was immediately enchanted with the glorious panoramic view. The stunning mountain range, a constant presence there. The sunlit clouds, the glacial lakewater, the vastness of the landscape. And it dawned on me that even without the grizzly speck, this photo captured a much bigger piece of magic than I had ever realized.
What are you focused on today? And is that still where you want your attention? Sometimes, looking the other way might be the best thing you've ever done.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
Nature's balm
What do I love about living so close to nature? Everything. There is a healing to be found in the quiet forests, the tumbling oceans, the soft patter of rain, the chirp and chatter of woodland creatures. Fresh air clears the lungs, a communion of breath inhaled, shared, returned. There is a music to the natural world that tunes the soul, that saturates and reinforms the energy body – and the heart. Crackling twigs, swaying branches, rustling leaves, trickling water, whispering wind. When we walk in nature with awareness, we receive gifts at every level of our beings, and present ourselves as one perfectly small part of the One.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Old One
Today is Thanksgiving, and I've realized something about gratitude – it invites you to slow down. To practice it consciously requires taking a moment, creating a space, to become truly mindful of the things you're thankful for. The close link between gratitude, patience and love becomes apparent when I see it this way.
Creating this space also allows the "giving" part to travel both ways, out from you and into you. This small gem of insight revealed itself on the hike I took along this trail.
I'd chosen a ridgetop trail I'd only been to once before, thinking autumn was the perfect time for a far-reaching view of the valleys and lake, and that this was probably the last time I'd make it into the mountains this year. But as I climbed to elevation, I discovered low cloud banks enveloping the world in a thick grey fog, obscuring almost all but what was immediately in front of me.
I was struck by the beauty, though – the saturation of moisture-rich colors, crimson, gold, green, brilliant against the soft grey air. And the quiet sense of intimacy that fog always brings, so that even when you're on a mountaintop, you're in a cozy room of your own, a perfect setting for reflection and introspection.
So I continued for a while along the ridge, colors and shapes speaking their poetry along the trail, and off to the right, a sloping drop-off into nothing but clouds, where I could feel the valley beyond.
The day was chilly though, and when I reached a point where I was ready to turn around and head back, I paused, and stood for a few moments, watching a busy mountain chickadee in a young fir tree. I let myself drift off, enjoying his antics, the closeness of the world and this tiny spark of wildlife nearby. And suddenly, I discovered that all the clouds had lifted without my realizing it, uncovering a deep green valley speckled with gold larches and the deep presence of Lake Pend Oreille in the background – the entire vista, like a gift from the Universe that I had paused just long enough to receive.
May you find beauty in the smallest of things today, and thanks in the greatest – whether they be mountaintops or the mere miracle of being alive, right here, right now.
Creating this space also allows the "giving" part to travel both ways, out from you and into you. This small gem of insight revealed itself on the hike I took along this trail.
I'd chosen a ridgetop trail I'd only been to once before, thinking autumn was the perfect time for a far-reaching view of the valleys and lake, and that this was probably the last time I'd make it into the mountains this year. But as I climbed to elevation, I discovered low cloud banks enveloping the world in a thick grey fog, obscuring almost all but what was immediately in front of me.
I was struck by the beauty, though – the saturation of moisture-rich colors, crimson, gold, green, brilliant against the soft grey air. And the quiet sense of intimacy that fog always brings, so that even when you're on a mountaintop, you're in a cozy room of your own, a perfect setting for reflection and introspection.
So I continued for a while along the ridge, colors and shapes speaking their poetry along the trail, and off to the right, a sloping drop-off into nothing but clouds, where I could feel the valley beyond.
The day was chilly though, and when I reached a point where I was ready to turn around and head back, I paused, and stood for a few moments, watching a busy mountain chickadee in a young fir tree. I let myself drift off, enjoying his antics, the closeness of the world and this tiny spark of wildlife nearby. And suddenly, I discovered that all the clouds had lifted without my realizing it, uncovering a deep green valley speckled with gold larches and the deep presence of Lake Pend Oreille in the background – the entire vista, like a gift from the Universe that I had paused just long enough to receive.
May you find beauty in the smallest of things today, and thanks in the greatest – whether they be mountaintops or the mere miracle of being alive, right here, right now.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
aglow
Ahh ... the elusive inner flame.
Mine has been playing hide and seek with me these past months, flickering away into the darkness of a world in chaos. A chaos reflected through the fragile instrument of my mind, which (like the rest of me, and all of us) cannot be here without plunging through the current of this world's many changes and challenges. Of course, this is the ultimate adventure of consciousness, of Spirit: to learn to hold fast, and gently, to that inner flame, regardless of how bumpy the ride is.
This Earth is so many things to so many people. A playground, a testing ground, a school, an adventure, a heaven, a hell. And the most amazing thing is that they are all happening at the same time. One planet, 7 billion experiences of it. The magnificent beauty of this, of the breadth and depth of human experience, and the unifying thread of Light that contains and connects it all, is indeed mind-boggling.
But ultimately, I believe that home is in fact where the heart is. When we're done with the drama, when we've passed the tests; when we've healed our wounds and forgiven each other; when we've learned there is nothing here to fear, truly, except fear itself (amazing how much truth there is in these well-known bits of wisdom); what's left that really matters is the heart.
And from there, we can give back our hurts and doubts and bruises and insights, back into the rich soil of experience, where they will be received and transformed, through utter biological magic, to nourish that tiny, perfect flame.
Mine has been playing hide and seek with me these past months, flickering away into the darkness of a world in chaos. A chaos reflected through the fragile instrument of my mind, which (like the rest of me, and all of us) cannot be here without plunging through the current of this world's many changes and challenges. Of course, this is the ultimate adventure of consciousness, of Spirit: to learn to hold fast, and gently, to that inner flame, regardless of how bumpy the ride is.
This Earth is so many things to so many people. A playground, a testing ground, a school, an adventure, a heaven, a hell. And the most amazing thing is that they are all happening at the same time. One planet, 7 billion experiences of it. The magnificent beauty of this, of the breadth and depth of human experience, and the unifying thread of Light that contains and connects it all, is indeed mind-boggling.
But ultimately, I believe that home is in fact where the heart is. When we're done with the drama, when we've passed the tests; when we've healed our wounds and forgiven each other; when we've learned there is nothing here to fear, truly, except fear itself (amazing how much truth there is in these well-known bits of wisdom); what's left that really matters is the heart.
And from there, we can give back our hurts and doubts and bruises and insights, back into the rich soil of experience, where they will be received and transformed, through utter biological magic, to nourish that tiny, perfect flame.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
following the Light
Summer is here in the inland Northwest. It arrived with a vengeance, for me at least, after a long-lingering, chilly, rainy spring. On the solstice, a stomach flu had me in its grips. Two days later, I found out a dear friend died that same night, quite unexpectedly.
Grief has a way of bringing you straight home to yourself. Anything you've become complacent about; any ways you've started to be lazy, or procrastinate, or settle; any emotions you've tucked safely away to avoid dealing with them – all of these things rise at once to be faced, as the preciousness of our existence here comes sharply into focus.
I ran the gamut, as I scrambled to deal with a world suddenly out of my control. I took some comfort in my beliefs, my own inner sense of our journeys here, and feel certain that my friend graduated from this Earth with flying colors, at the height of the Light. But still, I feel his loss.
I went for a bike ride that evening, doing my best to outpedal the grief so close behind me. And as I rode, a message trickled in on a ray of Light, as they sometimes do: To fear Death is to fear Life – they are part of the same journey. One makes the other possible. And the story, the beauty, the amazing gift of Life that we are given here for a while, contains the entire spectrum of human experience. I marvel that we can hold joy, and grief, and hope and despair and love, all within us at the same time. And that we are uniquely capable of embracing, engaging, and growing through each one – like a sunflower always looking to the Light.
Grief has a way of bringing you straight home to yourself. Anything you've become complacent about; any ways you've started to be lazy, or procrastinate, or settle; any emotions you've tucked safely away to avoid dealing with them – all of these things rise at once to be faced, as the preciousness of our existence here comes sharply into focus.
I ran the gamut, as I scrambled to deal with a world suddenly out of my control. I took some comfort in my beliefs, my own inner sense of our journeys here, and feel certain that my friend graduated from this Earth with flying colors, at the height of the Light. But still, I feel his loss.
I went for a bike ride that evening, doing my best to outpedal the grief so close behind me. And as I rode, a message trickled in on a ray of Light, as they sometimes do: To fear Death is to fear Life – they are part of the same journey. One makes the other possible. And the story, the beauty, the amazing gift of Life that we are given here for a while, contains the entire spectrum of human experience. I marvel that we can hold joy, and grief, and hope and despair and love, all within us at the same time. And that we are uniquely capable of embracing, engaging, and growing through each one – like a sunflower always looking to the Light.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Stretching the hours
Today is the summer solstice, and the eternally long, wet spring has finally stepped aside to grant us the mercy of some sunshine.
Not that I've especially minded some of those cool days, with a gentle cloud cover and a soft rain, the air rich with moisture and fragrant still with fresh green life. This is the time of sweet blooming phlox and fuzzy fledglings, enough daylight hours to do most things you want to do, and bird music – one of my favorite things about spring and early summer. The soft, metered cooing of mourning doves reaches my ears even as i write this; the husky whistles of the nesting osprey; the busy chatter and trill of chickadees and cedar waxwings; even the noisy repertoire of the starlings who nested again above my balcony, decimated a few potted plants, and left some bird paint on my chair cushion the very day I put it outside. But on a day like this, it's easy to forgive.
For all the places I'd still like to visit, the restlessness that makes me want to fly away every other moment into some new adventure, there is still a blessing to be found in the beauty right at home. An ever more important art, I think, given the increasing noise of the world and its gadgets. The quiet call to peace in the chaos is easily missed – and utterly important for a soulful experience of life.
Not that I've especially minded some of those cool days, with a gentle cloud cover and a soft rain, the air rich with moisture and fragrant still with fresh green life. This is the time of sweet blooming phlox and fuzzy fledglings, enough daylight hours to do most things you want to do, and bird music – one of my favorite things about spring and early summer. The soft, metered cooing of mourning doves reaches my ears even as i write this; the husky whistles of the nesting osprey; the busy chatter and trill of chickadees and cedar waxwings; even the noisy repertoire of the starlings who nested again above my balcony, decimated a few potted plants, and left some bird paint on my chair cushion the very day I put it outside. But on a day like this, it's easy to forgive.
For all the places I'd still like to visit, the restlessness that makes me want to fly away every other moment into some new adventure, there is still a blessing to be found in the beauty right at home. An ever more important art, I think, given the increasing noise of the world and its gadgets. The quiet call to peace in the chaos is easily missed – and utterly important for a soulful experience of life.
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