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.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
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.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
tracks
Sometimes we think we're going the right direction – the tracks are laid and gleaming, polished and smooth, and our momentum builds on the straightaway of our sure-we're-sure thoughts. It's so easy, so tempting, to believe we're in control, and sometimes we're willing to pay the price of that false ticket when our lives aren't adding up the way we'd like.
The thing is, there are all kinds of roads we can take. Some lead to far outposts, interesting places to visit but far away from home. Some lead into tangled thickets of lessons we've already learned, a trip to the past that can be a very long detour. Some are joyrides, where we get to leave the map behind and just enjoy the adventure. And some are the routes we think we're expected to take, the ones laid out for us because they look good on paper.
While in some ways I believe there really are no "right" choices, I do believe there is a right track to follow. It's the one that rises up to meet us when we stop consuming and reacting to all the scattered stimuli around us and start listening to the deep hum of our own souls. It's the one that's really waiting for us to see it, the one that won't interrupt, that refuses to be flashy, that will patiently stand its ground until we've exhausted ourselves misreading signs and traveling in circles. When we've flailed long enough to become truly tired of the trip, that road will begin to shine just a little more brightly. And if we're brave enough to really stop trying to control the destination, and with a deep breath, let that hidden, perfect road show itself to us - that may be when we're finally ready for the ride of our lives.
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