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.
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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
in between
Perhaps the trickiest thing about this earth walk is finding our way through the shadow places. Here, Truth can become obscured by our inner realities, the stories and thoughts that roost in our unconscious programming without our realizing it. These stories can sometimes keep us on an overgrown path for years, when the carefully tended and brighter road has been running parallel to us all along.
But there is a spiritual warriorship to be taken up if we are willing--the call to become aware of these hidden places, to gently wake them up, or to pull them by grasping hands out of their unseeing nooks. With vigilance, with dedication, with kind attention, we can heal even the deepest places within us. And each corner of mind that we brighten, each layer of cobwebbed thought we sweep away, brings us closer to our destination: freedom, and Peace.
But there is a spiritual warriorship to be taken up if we are willing--the call to become aware of these hidden places, to gently wake them up, or to pull them by grasping hands out of their unseeing nooks. With vigilance, with dedication, with kind attention, we can heal even the deepest places within us. And each corner of mind that we brighten, each layer of cobwebbed thought we sweep away, brings us closer to our destination: freedom, and Peace.
Monday, November 23, 2009
the paths we walk
I believe it is true that we create our own reality. I also believe that what we create is not always what we really want, because it is coming from the unconscious burdens we carry. I have always thought of this process like a movie projector: the Light shines through us, and the layers, images, beliefs and stories we have stockpiled in our minds, bodies and energy fields become the images cast out as the Light shines through them onto the screen of our lives. I think we are here to learn to be the choosers of our own slide show.
That said, what creations would you like to replace? What would you imagine your path ahead to look like? I'm thinking of one like this, full of color and magic and grace and delightful surprises at every turn, full of nature and kind compassion. One that continually unfolds in beauty under the powering light of awe. One that invites me forward, trusting, into an ever-opening embrace. One that is Perfect for me. One that I love.
May yours be the same.
That said, what creations would you like to replace? What would you imagine your path ahead to look like? I'm thinking of one like this, full of color and magic and grace and delightful surprises at every turn, full of nature and kind compassion. One that continually unfolds in beauty under the powering light of awe. One that invites me forward, trusting, into an ever-opening embrace. One that is Perfect for me. One that I love.
May yours be the same.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
autumn spirits
A wind ghosts outside today, restless and chill, reveling in its freedom to taunt wherever it will. It's the last day of October, Halloween – November's eve, with an unpredictable greybright sky, remnant scatters of brown-gold leaves adorning the trees, and the lengthening embrace of a darkness ready to take its turn.
This time of year is always difficult psychologically, especially after the time change. It seems so abrupt, being plunged into an inky black world upon leaving work for the day. And I never quite get used to it, never quite get past the feeling that I should rush home and be hunkered down in bed already. It seems much too late to be running errands, and the feel of the darkness pressing vise-like from both ends of the day leaves me with something of a sense of being squished, or hurried, or small.
But it's all just a balancing act, light and dark, summer and winter, expansion and contraction. And ironically, while winter's dark days make our world seem smaller, its longer nights allow more opportunity than ever to see, in the vast starry skies, just how tremendous the World really is.
This time of year is always difficult psychologically, especially after the time change. It seems so abrupt, being plunged into an inky black world upon leaving work for the day. And I never quite get used to it, never quite get past the feeling that I should rush home and be hunkered down in bed already. It seems much too late to be running errands, and the feel of the darkness pressing vise-like from both ends of the day leaves me with something of a sense of being squished, or hurried, or small.
But it's all just a balancing act, light and dark, summer and winter, expansion and contraction. And ironically, while winter's dark days make our world seem smaller, its longer nights allow more opportunity than ever to see, in the vast starry skies, just how tremendous the World really is.
Friday, October 9, 2009
morning
A new morning, every day.
There are so many cliches about starting over, beginning a new day, a blank canvas, a fresh start. I've written some myself, sometimes I just can't help it. The way I see it, when we're able to reach that particular state of mind, we are feeling inspired, and those cliches mean something.
The thing is, habits have a way of getting the best of us, often without us even knowing it. Thoughts are the worst. Before I know it, mine have laid down a nice comfortable little squatter's roost for themselves, and convinced me that things just are how they are in their tiny world, and I might as well accept the rules and throw in my lot. These thoughts reinforce themselves, pacing their same little animal trails through the meadows of my mind again and again, until the route is so well known that no effort is required to travel it. Stuck.
Of course, this may not matter so much if our habitual trails are positive or joyful ones. Mine were trained early on to prefer mucky wallows and safe shadows, a mire of excuses not to just live a happy life. So when my attention has wandered and those animal thoughts have been pacing, I begin to feel their dingy wet blanket effect on me...and that's when a sudden cliche inspiration of renewal is truly a diamond in the mire.
There are so many cliches about starting over, beginning a new day, a blank canvas, a fresh start. I've written some myself, sometimes I just can't help it. The way I see it, when we're able to reach that particular state of mind, we are feeling inspired, and those cliches mean something.
The thing is, habits have a way of getting the best of us, often without us even knowing it. Thoughts are the worst. Before I know it, mine have laid down a nice comfortable little squatter's roost for themselves, and convinced me that things just are how they are in their tiny world, and I might as well accept the rules and throw in my lot. These thoughts reinforce themselves, pacing their same little animal trails through the meadows of my mind again and again, until the route is so well known that no effort is required to travel it. Stuck.
Of course, this may not matter so much if our habitual trails are positive or joyful ones. Mine were trained early on to prefer mucky wallows and safe shadows, a mire of excuses not to just live a happy life. So when my attention has wandered and those animal thoughts have been pacing, I begin to feel their dingy wet blanket effect on me...and that's when a sudden cliche inspiration of renewal is truly a diamond in the mire.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
grass lines
I am fascinated by the dimensions in this photo, the different levels of being, all contained in a square foot or two. I think the elegantly sharp lines of the grass caught my eye first, against the placid smooth of the water. I love that contrast, and often find myself photographing the combination.
But more is revealed as I look longer. The reflections, in their complementary black, playing shadow to the living grass, yet taking on a distorted life of their own--wavy counterpart to the straight blades, able to play more freely with reality. And again, the brown grass beneath the water, yet another aspect of the grass's life cycle, highlighting the green glow of the shoots above the surface, not yet done growing.
We, too, are multi-dimensional, though we are generally far too unaware of it. Our daily outward expression often consumes our existence, but it is not who we really are. Beneath the surface are levels of awareness, emotion, habitual thought, possibility, intuitive perception, all of which form a backdrop, a context, a foundation, for the whole of who we are. There is a point, perhaps, at which identifying with only one of these dimensions results in a stagnant life, one that asks to be lived more fully and truthfully.
It is time, I think, for us to realize that we are much more than the products of our society--or worse, its followers. That we are rich and soulful and wise beyond what the world we've created around us would have us believe. To stop settling for helping it along on its often mindless path of no clear and good direction, and to let that Soul, that wisdom, step forward and awaken us to something richer and more satisfying. And better. For all of us.
But more is revealed as I look longer. The reflections, in their complementary black, playing shadow to the living grass, yet taking on a distorted life of their own--wavy counterpart to the straight blades, able to play more freely with reality. And again, the brown grass beneath the water, yet another aspect of the grass's life cycle, highlighting the green glow of the shoots above the surface, not yet done growing.
We, too, are multi-dimensional, though we are generally far too unaware of it. Our daily outward expression often consumes our existence, but it is not who we really are. Beneath the surface are levels of awareness, emotion, habitual thought, possibility, intuitive perception, all of which form a backdrop, a context, a foundation, for the whole of who we are. There is a point, perhaps, at which identifying with only one of these dimensions results in a stagnant life, one that asks to be lived more fully and truthfully.
It is time, I think, for us to realize that we are much more than the products of our society--or worse, its followers. That we are rich and soulful and wise beyond what the world we've created around us would have us believe. To stop settling for helping it along on its often mindless path of no clear and good direction, and to let that Soul, that wisdom, step forward and awaken us to something richer and more satisfying. And better. For all of us.
Monday, September 28, 2009
from here to there
When I first started camping on mountains alone, it never occurred to me to be afraid. And when I dutifully considered that perhaps there was good reason for me to feel fear, I still didn't.
Of course, there were times now and then when I heard a noise in the night, and regretted a moment of carelessness in not hanging my food properly. Or when I found myself alone on a mountainside where a mountain lion had been spotted the day before. Or when a rutting bull moose (which I thought was a bear) spent an hour and a half grunting near my campsite in the dark. But it never occurred to me to turn back. Or if it did, it was just my mind running around in circles; the rest of me, the core, the anchor, had already decided.
But the rest of my life has not worked that way. Somewhere, somehow, someone told me I should be afraid. My mind, being diligent, believed them, and passed that experience on to the rest of me.
When I look at this fallen tree, I see how things change depending on how we look at them. This perspective makes the log seem interminable, reaching ahead into the future. Another angle could make its girth seem insurmountably thick. A closeup would make the spurs appear deadly, like the shadowed teeth on the rock. Or these same views can also reveal the detailed beauty of texture, weathering, grain, imperfection--the genuine story of the tree.
Going into the wilderness, for some reason, was the only way I could ever reach a part of me that was bigger than my frightened mind. But it's wilderness, also, which is teaching me that everything we encounter is part of a story--part of our own story. Within that story, we are its perfect witness, its only teller. We have only to allow the story to unravel, beginning to end, root to tip, and to let it be ours.
Of course, there were times now and then when I heard a noise in the night, and regretted a moment of carelessness in not hanging my food properly. Or when I found myself alone on a mountainside where a mountain lion had been spotted the day before. Or when a rutting bull moose (which I thought was a bear) spent an hour and a half grunting near my campsite in the dark. But it never occurred to me to turn back. Or if it did, it was just my mind running around in circles; the rest of me, the core, the anchor, had already decided.
But the rest of my life has not worked that way. Somewhere, somehow, someone told me I should be afraid. My mind, being diligent, believed them, and passed that experience on to the rest of me.
When I look at this fallen tree, I see how things change depending on how we look at them. This perspective makes the log seem interminable, reaching ahead into the future. Another angle could make its girth seem insurmountably thick. A closeup would make the spurs appear deadly, like the shadowed teeth on the rock. Or these same views can also reveal the detailed beauty of texture, weathering, grain, imperfection--the genuine story of the tree.
Going into the wilderness, for some reason, was the only way I could ever reach a part of me that was bigger than my frightened mind. But it's wilderness, also, which is teaching me that everything we encounter is part of a story--part of our own story. Within that story, we are its perfect witness, its only teller. We have only to allow the story to unravel, beginning to end, root to tip, and to let it be ours.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
disheveled
Have you ever felt that no matter how many details you attend to, parts of you are still sticking out in every direction, wild and frayed and just trying to find the Light?
That's how life has been for me, for a while now. My mind is like a wind I cannot see, coming from every direction. It lifts each carefully tucked corner as soon as I turn away, raises dust storms and questions and shadows, shifts direction to evade understanding. I stand up, and it knocks me down. I choose a path, and it is obliterated. I stay put, and it swirls around me, urging me to action. This is a dance I know well, but somehow have still not mastered.
Of course, the key is to bend, to find true strength in flexibility rather than in resistance. And in the bending, the wind's hold cannot catch us, and we begin to notice the strange harmony of the disheveled world around us.
I was sitting on my third floor balcony this evening when a collection of starlings flocked up and assembled noisily in the large cottonwood tree in front of me. They were a wind in themselves, so many wings and tails, so much commotion, their chatter like an army of squeaky wheels being rolled for oiling. Already they wore their winter plumage, a contentious pattern of black and white speckles, and their beaks were winter black (as opposed to breeding yellow in spring).
But their gregarious activity delighted me. Although each squeaked and whistled its own separate opinion, regardless of all the other voices around it, they were clearly all of the same mind. And when a small gust of breeze kicked up, they all rose from the tree of one accord, the sound of their collective wings a whoosh of feathered wind, a scattered beating of a single heart knowing where it wanted to go.
That's how life has been for me, for a while now. My mind is like a wind I cannot see, coming from every direction. It lifts each carefully tucked corner as soon as I turn away, raises dust storms and questions and shadows, shifts direction to evade understanding. I stand up, and it knocks me down. I choose a path, and it is obliterated. I stay put, and it swirls around me, urging me to action. This is a dance I know well, but somehow have still not mastered.
Of course, the key is to bend, to find true strength in flexibility rather than in resistance. And in the bending, the wind's hold cannot catch us, and we begin to notice the strange harmony of the disheveled world around us.
I was sitting on my third floor balcony this evening when a collection of starlings flocked up and assembled noisily in the large cottonwood tree in front of me. They were a wind in themselves, so many wings and tails, so much commotion, their chatter like an army of squeaky wheels being rolled for oiling. Already they wore their winter plumage, a contentious pattern of black and white speckles, and their beaks were winter black (as opposed to breeding yellow in spring).
But their gregarious activity delighted me. Although each squeaked and whistled its own separate opinion, regardless of all the other voices around it, they were clearly all of the same mind. And when a small gust of breeze kicked up, they all rose from the tree of one accord, the sound of their collective wings a whoosh of feathered wind, a scattered beating of a single heart knowing where it wanted to go.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Stalking frogs
They sound like small dying cows, and they know when you're drawing near, no matter how quiet you are.
But first there was the moose. A large, lumpy brown moose, browsing on the other side of the wetland that sprawls away from a road near where I live. I spotted her during an evening walk, and stepped off the road onto a dirt pullover to watch her for a while.
Then I heard the tired, strained moans, and my other senses became attentive. For a while I convinced myself that perhaps a duck was caught and dying in fishing line, the sound was so hoarse and woeful. I was afraid to look, but couldn't help myself...and I started down a dirt path beside the water to see what I could find.
Frogs. I finally realized they were frogs, and I never did manage to see one (the photo is from another time and place altogether). But they really do sound dreadful, and they led me into a whole world that I might have missed. Because the more I looked and listened in this wetland setting, the more I discovered, until I was swept away with the life that was there. The scent, a sweet fragrance of wild purple phlox in full bloom, and air washed fresh from a June rain; the color, a sky charcoal-yellow with an approaching summer thunderstorm; the sound, the musical chatter of a finch from a tall cottonwood; the movement, an absolute ballet of jumping fish, leaping and twisting and skimming the surface all over the water. With binoculars I spotted an old beaver lodge and a mother duck with her entourage of young. I let myself stalk some frogs, and the next thing I knew, I had an entire National Geographic's worth of nature right under my nose.
I also couldn't help but notice a large new home across the water. A fabulous setting, overlooking this wetland with its moose and peace and wildlife. It had a terraced lawn approaching the water's edge, a hammock strung between two fir trees. A sitting nook with chairs was nestled against a bank below the house; three stories' worth of tall windows reflected beautifully over the marsh; an open second-floor deck awaited company. But the only sign of life I could see there was the flashing picture of a huge flat-screen television inside.
Whose life will we choose to live? The lives we see on TV and the internet, or the life outside that's waiting for us to see it--our own?
But first there was the moose. A large, lumpy brown moose, browsing on the other side of the wetland that sprawls away from a road near where I live. I spotted her during an evening walk, and stepped off the road onto a dirt pullover to watch her for a while.
Then I heard the tired, strained moans, and my other senses became attentive. For a while I convinced myself that perhaps a duck was caught and dying in fishing line, the sound was so hoarse and woeful. I was afraid to look, but couldn't help myself...and I started down a dirt path beside the water to see what I could find.
Frogs. I finally realized they were frogs, and I never did manage to see one (the photo is from another time and place altogether). But they really do sound dreadful, and they led me into a whole world that I might have missed. Because the more I looked and listened in this wetland setting, the more I discovered, until I was swept away with the life that was there. The scent, a sweet fragrance of wild purple phlox in full bloom, and air washed fresh from a June rain; the color, a sky charcoal-yellow with an approaching summer thunderstorm; the sound, the musical chatter of a finch from a tall cottonwood; the movement, an absolute ballet of jumping fish, leaping and twisting and skimming the surface all over the water. With binoculars I spotted an old beaver lodge and a mother duck with her entourage of young. I let myself stalk some frogs, and the next thing I knew, I had an entire National Geographic's worth of nature right under my nose.
I also couldn't help but notice a large new home across the water. A fabulous setting, overlooking this wetland with its moose and peace and wildlife. It had a terraced lawn approaching the water's edge, a hammock strung between two fir trees. A sitting nook with chairs was nestled against a bank below the house; three stories' worth of tall windows reflected beautifully over the marsh; an open second-floor deck awaited company. But the only sign of life I could see there was the flashing picture of a huge flat-screen television inside.
Whose life will we choose to live? The lives we see on TV and the internet, or the life outside that's waiting for us to see it--our own?
Friday, June 5, 2009
illumination
This aspen leaf made me think about backwards branching. That is, following all the many roads back to their source, rather than to their ends.
The leaf's backlit veins travel delicately to their outermost boundaries, to the edges. Layer by layer, they split off into perhaps infinitely many smaller networks, performing their work with equal purpose. But they all originate from the stronger center vein down the leaf's middle.
Each leaf also has a stem that reaches back to a branch; the leaves are their own network layer. And each branch anchors to the trunk. In the case of an aspen grove, even the trunks are just extensions of a living root system that comprises one complete organism.
And how much further back can the journey of this leaf's life be traced?
There's a time for us to expand outward, to grow and seek and stretch and find new edges to our limits. And there's also a time to follow that same journey inward, to understand the wholeness that cradles all of our pieces, and that illuminates our multitude of antics here on Earth.
The leaf's backlit veins travel delicately to their outermost boundaries, to the edges. Layer by layer, they split off into perhaps infinitely many smaller networks, performing their work with equal purpose. But they all originate from the stronger center vein down the leaf's middle.
Each leaf also has a stem that reaches back to a branch; the leaves are their own network layer. And each branch anchors to the trunk. In the case of an aspen grove, even the trunks are just extensions of a living root system that comprises one complete organism.
And how much further back can the journey of this leaf's life be traced?
There's a time for us to expand outward, to grow and seek and stretch and find new edges to our limits. And there's also a time to follow that same journey inward, to understand the wholeness that cradles all of our pieces, and that illuminates our multitude of antics here on Earth.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
beginnings
I love beginnings.
I don't feel that I've seen very many of them; I always seem to be trying to wrap up something that went before. The past year has been a real wake-up call to letting go.
But on a single spring evening's bike ride, I found beginnings everywhere. I saw the first ospreys back from winter, calling in whistled chirps from their nesting platform. The orange-white-black flash of a rufous-sided towhee on a pine branch surprised me, and the shrill warning call of killdeer greeted me at the Dover wetland. Each first bird sighting is its own little celebration. The air will never feel as fresh through the year as it does now, damp and new. And on the way back, I caught the very first frog-croak of evening.
Spring is easy to love. It brings back reminders of all the little joys and possibilities we'd forgotten about in winter.
I don't feel that I've seen very many of them; I always seem to be trying to wrap up something that went before. The past year has been a real wake-up call to letting go.
But on a single spring evening's bike ride, I found beginnings everywhere. I saw the first ospreys back from winter, calling in whistled chirps from their nesting platform. The orange-white-black flash of a rufous-sided towhee on a pine branch surprised me, and the shrill warning call of killdeer greeted me at the Dover wetland. Each first bird sighting is its own little celebration. The air will never feel as fresh through the year as it does now, damp and new. And on the way back, I caught the very first frog-croak of evening.
Spring is easy to love. It brings back reminders of all the little joys and possibilities we'd forgotten about in winter.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
the forces that shape us
Walking in the park across the street a few weeks ago, I found this ray of light, seeking something to illuminate. I felt fortunate to capture a moment of its play.
As I look around this spring, I see evidence everywhere of how life is shaped by forces both within and outside of its control. Life and death can be opportunistic, random, necessary, or tragic - like the white bones of two deer I found lying by the railroad track, linked vertebrae and a rib cage neat as erector sets, miraculous even in death. Spring bulbs wake readily to bloom--but it was the freezing sleep that prepared them. Robins arriving in February, tired from their long migration, must wait to eat until winter has finished its work. But when the earthworms rise, a spring rain sends them out onto the park path in search of dry land. They cover the walk like strewn pine needles, and I hopscotch my way around them, smiling. But later, I will see that many of them drowned, never making it back to the grass.
There is so much about our lives that seems unpredictable, and oddly, in this time of new life, it occurs to me just how equal and essential a part of life death is. Not just death, but endurance, struggle, patience, and surrender. All of it, all the faces of the circle, are part of one glorious whole. I have railed against the aspects of my life that I don't like for far too long. I can safely say, with what could be called wisdom if it weren't so obvious, that there is no peace in fighting. Our greatest experience of life, I think, is to embrace it completely. It is from here that we can genuinely enjoy the adventure.
As I look around this spring, I see evidence everywhere of how life is shaped by forces both within and outside of its control. Life and death can be opportunistic, random, necessary, or tragic - like the white bones of two deer I found lying by the railroad track, linked vertebrae and a rib cage neat as erector sets, miraculous even in death. Spring bulbs wake readily to bloom--but it was the freezing sleep that prepared them. Robins arriving in February, tired from their long migration, must wait to eat until winter has finished its work. But when the earthworms rise, a spring rain sends them out onto the park path in search of dry land. They cover the walk like strewn pine needles, and I hopscotch my way around them, smiling. But later, I will see that many of them drowned, never making it back to the grass.
There is so much about our lives that seems unpredictable, and oddly, in this time of new life, it occurs to me just how equal and essential a part of life death is. Not just death, but endurance, struggle, patience, and surrender. All of it, all the faces of the circle, are part of one glorious whole. I have railed against the aspects of my life that I don't like for far too long. I can safely say, with what could be called wisdom if it weren't so obvious, that there is no peace in fighting. Our greatest experience of life, I think, is to embrace it completely. It is from here that we can genuinely enjoy the adventure.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Old and new
A new season doesn't arrive without baggage, all shiny and undented. It grows from what went before. Spring is rife with a chaotic array of fresh and stale, broken and supple, bare truth and sweet promise.
The season's first task is to sort out the old and new, a frenzy of creative reorganization. Last year's frayed bird nests lie naked among the branches, secret havens reduced to bones. Shriveled fruits and bent limbs emerge from melting snow, along with the furry tips of new pussywillow buds. Nearby mountains still bear snowy peaks, but robins' evening songs ring clear.
The one thing that cannot be denied is life's progression. Regardless of trials, losses, dead ends, life's nature is to reach ahead again, to push upward – to find a new place to grow.
The season's first task is to sort out the old and new, a frenzy of creative reorganization. Last year's frayed bird nests lie naked among the branches, secret havens reduced to bones. Shriveled fruits and bent limbs emerge from melting snow, along with the furry tips of new pussywillow buds. Nearby mountains still bear snowy peaks, but robins' evening songs ring clear.
The one thing that cannot be denied is life's progression. Regardless of trials, losses, dead ends, life's nature is to reach ahead again, to push upward – to find a new place to grow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
