Transitions

So many things are coming to fruition.

One daughter is already firmly established in her new college world with routines and patterns and circles of life that are hers and hers alone. Another daughter is managing the transition from a year of public service following college into the world of job applications, interviews, and apartment hunting.

There are no more baby turkeys on the trails where I ride my horse. Instead I see half grown adolescents strutting (if turkeys can ever be said to strut) along as they follow their mother – finding comfort in her presence for just a little while longer.

It is almost time to begin reflecting on how this year has gone. Almost but not quite. There is still garden produce to be prepared and stored for the winter, onions to chop and freeze, apples that are waiting to become sauce, soups to be made for the freezer.

But it is coming to an end. The apple trees, once so full of ripe fruit that picking one apple would send countless others tumbling to the ground, are now nearly bare. There are only a few remaining vegetables and flowers in the gardens. These will hang on until the very last moment when a hard frost confirms that the season is over.

Our political cycle is also coming nearer to a close. It will be a relief for many, a celebration for some, a disappointment for others. I imagine that the people who sell advertising are in a frenzy of activity rushing to fill the advertising spaces that will be empty when the relentless campaign slogans and slams finally disappear in early November.

I hope that after the elections those who are selected will have a chance to retreat into relative silence for a time of contemplation and preparation. Like the seeds that are falling to the ground or already lying under it I hope they will be able to use the rest of this year to gather strength for the seasons that lie ahead when the year begins anew.

Plants and animals make the transition from season to season, from cycle to cycle with a natural ease and grace. With us it is a little harder.

However, as I watch my daughters, who are no longer children but instead are companions in the adult world, I know they are making their transitions well. As I watch my political candidates I want to believe that they will manage their transitions just as well.

Savoring the Moment

The morning is beautiful. Cool with touches of warmth as the sun begins to stream through the trees. The air tingles my nose just slightly – a preview of the nose crackling cold that is to come. But not today. Today the air will grow gently warmer until it feels almost like summer – almost but not quite.

No matter what the temperature is the senses know when we have passed into another season. The colors have changed. Reds and pinks and sunny yellows no longer predominate. Shades of purple and wine and deep gold and rust have moved into to take their place. The leaves share their space on the trees with pine cones and seed clusters and those helicopter seeds we love to watch flutter to the ground. The grass is still rich and lush but it is a deeper shade of green. A more mature, more sedate shade. There are a few scattered leaves on the ground that crackle and crunch when we walk about. The unmistakable smell of early fall is in the air.

While all these things tell us that the seasons are changing, I think it is the light that tells us most of all. The sun still rises in the eastern sky at dawn but it rises much further to the south than it did just a few weeks ago. Every day it is a little later. When the rays of light finally come they caress the earth with a deeper shade of gold, lingering low and long on the horizon. The sun seems to rest a bit before climbing up into the sky - as though it's a little tired after all the summertime brilliance.

In the evening, much sooner than I expect it, the sun begins its descent. This time seeming to rush towards the horizon. No lingering now. Just a deep descent into the deep purple shades of the early night.

These short days – still much longer than we will have in only a few more weeks – fill me with a sense of urgency. A need to be outside as much as possible, to complete projects that lay dormant during the summer's heat, to prepare for the winter but also for the spring as I tend my flower beds and plant the bulbs that will greet us when the days begin again to lengthen.

However much we may surround ourselves with artificial environments – with light that goes on and off at will, with heat that can be precisely controlled, with breezes and winds that turn on at the flip of a switch or turn of a dial – I don’t believe we can ever silence the song that sings inside our bodies in harmony with the seasons. Nor do I think we ever should. We are creatures of the Earth. Wherever we may have come from, wherever our souls may be going, we are here now. We should take the time to savor every nuance of each moment that we share with this extraordinary world.

Through a Squirrel's Eyes

Already so late in the month. September is supposed to give us time to savor the last few sweet days of summer - those extra weeks after school begins but before we reach the equinox. But here we are already several days into autumn.

Everything seems to be moving faster this year. I anticipate endless summer days as though by believing in them I can make them happen, can stop the march of time. But it doesn’t work. Time just keeps passing – whether you believe in it or not.

Or does it? The philosophers and the scientists aren’t so sure. Neither am I sometimes. The past lives so strongly in memories. Dreams bring alternate life experiences that pass by in only a few seconds as I sleep. Who can say what is real and what is not?

Yesterday, as I lay reading in the hammock, a squirrel was perched in a nearby tree scolding me very loudly. It was easy to tell that my presence was interfering with what he needed to do. Watching him as he continued to harass me, I imagined how the world would look if I were able to hang upside down on a tree trunk like he was doing.

Looking out at the world through my imaginary "squirrel eyes" I was surprised to see how much broader my perspective was. When I look with my human eyes, I limit my sense of the world to the parts that I walk on. The world I live in is the ground, the place I put my feet, where my home is. Oh sure, I look up at the sky and admire the tops of trees. But I don’t think of them as places to go. They are just places I can see.

Looking through my squirrel eyes I see so many more possibilities. Trees I can run up as easily as I walk along a sidewalk, branches that are highways to another tree or a roof, the endless expanse of lawn, the garden, the road if I dare to cross it, the porch with its supply of peanuts.

There are so many places I can go and so many directions – up, down, sideways. I can hang upside down. I can jump. I can almost fly. Who knew a squirrel’s world would be so exciting?

When I finished musing about what it might be like to be a squirrel, I noticed that my admonisher was still on the tree trunk, still watching me carefully, but now he was no longer scolding me.

He was making a new sound, a long drawn out chirrup. Unlike the insistent, staccato rhythm of his scolding noise this sound was slower, more "conversational", almost consoling? Perhaps he had been imagining what it was like to be me and was offering condolences for my limitations.

I wonder if he ever notices that time is passing by more quickly?

Water

In my deepest meditations my mouth sometimes fills with water. The water is warm. My mouth feels soothed and nurtured by it.

Allowing the water to rest in my mouth it feels as though there is a gentle current, almost imperceptible, that connects this water with the liquids of my body, with the water in the air, in the earth, in streams and oceans, with every water molecule everywhere. As though somehow the water in my mouth is both within me and outside of me. As though the water is flowing into my mouth from all of these sources and then returning to them. And again I feel nurtured by it.

The water just appears, is suddenly just present, like a river source hidden deep below a forest pool or gently trickling out from beneath the rocks of a mountain slope. It feels like a gift. When I allow myself to swallow, it feels like a gift returned with gratitude and with connection.

Another Kind of Season

Sadness. Emptiness. Anticipation. A little depression. Melancholy. Freedom. Pride. Satisfaction. Excitement. A hole in my heart. A space where there should be something. An expectation of footsteps that never come….

Only a few of the many descriptors I could use to describe what it feels like to have my youngest leave home for her first year at college. Knowing well that even though there will be regular and frequent visits home it will never be quite the same again.

A season has passed. A new season is beginning. Each brings its own beauty, its own special magic but always we remember the one before and anticipate its return. With the cycle of children it seems like each season ends never to return except in our hearts, in our memories, in the photo albums gathering dust in the cabinet.

Somewhere deep inside I know that this is the view from a small perspective. In the eyes of the universe the season of children begins again with the next generation who will be born and grow and move on just as mine have done. And then my children will be the ones experiencing all the emotions of joy and sadness, pride and loss, freedom and emptiness that I feel at this moment.

The four-leggeds still look to the door for her arrival. The wise old cat sits in her room when I return home from moving her into her dorm. He is alert when I walk in. Welcoming, questioning? I am not sure if he is there to comfort his own sense of loss or if he is there for me when I need him once again. Saving me from entering a room that is empty. He is often like that. Knowing somehow when he is needed the most.

Worlds Within Worlds

Snorkeling in Key West:

The warm water is womb-like. It cradles me, gently rocking me back and forth, holding me near its surface where I can feel the warm sun on my back. I suspend all need to be concerned with carrying my physical body. The water allows me to float soundlessly and effortlessly over the silent world below me.

Plants are waving gently in the ocean currents. Strangely shaped sponges on the ocean floor remind me of urns, and bottles, and bowls left behind after some oceanic banquet frequented by beings we have never seen. The banquet table is decorated with centerpieces of gracefully branching tree shaped plants. Small fish are darting this way and that cleaning up the remnants of the feast. An ancient lobster hides beneath the rocks, recovering from his part in the imagined festivities.

Floating away from the banquet I hover over a field of waving grasses. Camouflaged fish exactly the color of the grass and the sand below it are swimming between the blades of grass. There is a gentle slope as the grass flows up an underwater hillside. Small oval shapes like fist sized ladybugs are dotting the landscape. Tiny schools of rainbow colored fish dart about closer to the surface.

There is an entire world formed here within the space of the nurturing water. The inhabitants pay no mind to the water which surrounds them. They simply existing within it. They are just as unaware of the unseen presence that is hovering above them watching through my mask as I breathe the air from my world. They are unaware that I am quietly watching as they go about their business. They don't know I am smiling from the joy and beauty of being able to share their experience.

It occurs to me that just as the underwater world is formed within the space of the nurturing water so is our land-based world formed within the space of nurturing spirit. We are formed within the space that spirit - that consciousness - creates.

Like the underwater creatures, we go about our lives paying no mind to that which surrounds us. We simply exist within in it. Like the underwater creates we are also often unaware of the unseen presence that is watching over us as we go about our business. The unseen presence that is smiling with the joy and beauty of being able to experience us.

Another Key West Morning

Another Key West morning. Warm and sultry. The world is beginning to wake up. The day gets started a little later here than at home. The roosters have been announcing its arrival for almost an hour.


I’ve just begun to hear the occasional voice from neighboring homes. I can hear the sound of an engine somewhere and smell the fumes from an idling car. Very intrusive – not the sounds but the smells, the fumes. Just one car and to think we have millions of them! An airplane is flying overhead. More noise, more exhaust. Is it any wonder that our planet is so stressed?


We insist on going places we would never reach if we weren't able to travel at speeds far beyond our natural capabilities. I am in Key West over a thousand miles from home. It took me only a matter of hours to get to an island already populated by many more people than it can sustain. Water has to be brought in from the mainland simply so that we can survive.

How fragile we are as a species and yet how insistent we are on trying to master everything - even speed and distance.


What is it in us that always makes us reach for more? For something different, bigger, faster, “better”? For something other than what we have?


Is this internal drive that causes us to cover our world with technology and even to begin to explore others our greatest gift? Our greatest weakness? Or is it just a distraction that keeps us from knowing our true selves?

Finding the Stillness

Another day in paradise. This morning I made it to the porch. I am surrounded by beautiful tropical plants. The air smells rich and ... green?

A gentle thunderstorm is bringing soft rain and distant rumblings. Occasionally a raindrop finds its way onto the porch and splashes my bare legs with its soft, warm, wetness. A summer rain is a gift on an island that depends on rain for much of its water.

Another day in paradise. But it's not paradise because I am in Key West enjoying a lovely summer rain. Every day, every where is a day in paradise if we let ourselves reach out and feel it. If we remember to find the time throughout the day to reach out - to reach in - and find the peaceful paradise of stillness that is there.

Each time I meditate I resolve that I will do that. Every day that passes I forget. Why does my mind resist what is so pleasant, what brings such joy to me? Minutes after I walk away from my peace I find myself embroiled in the every day world. Rushing to this, planning that, unable it seems to stop for even a moment to reconnect. I think I understand why the monks go to their mountains.

But I don’t want to retreat from life. On the contrary, I want to live life. I want to be surrounded by people and places and activity. I just wish I could do that from the center of stillness and peace inside of me, sensing at the same time the stillness and peace which is within everything. That is the challenge.

It would be easier to sit in a cave away from all distraction than it is to create a cave, a haven of peace, around myself in the "real" world.

There are times when I can. Times at the stable. Times with my book club. One on one times with special friends and family. Precious moments when everyone around seems in sync with the need to breath slowly and seize the day. Very precious moments.

However, I don’t think the idea is to do only the things and go only to places where it’s easy to find the stillness, the peace. A greater challenge is to find it everywhere. Sigh. I will try. I will continue to try. No, that’s not right. The stillness is here now. I am in it. I don't have to try, I just have see.

Early Morning in Key West

It is early morning in Key West. This is my time for meditation and quiet contemplation. For a variety of reasons, I am inside with the windows shut and the air conditioning running.

The area around me is well-decorated and physically very comfortable. But it feels sterile and artificial in contrast to my sunrise mornings on the porch at home. Tomorrow I must make sure to get outside so I can feel the sun rise and listen to the waking sounds of the morning. Including, of course, the raucous crowing of the local Key West roosters.

It is sad that there are people who rarely or never connect with the outside, not even the little microcosm of a natural world that can be found just outside their doorway. Whether their retreat from the outside is by choice or by conditions imposed on them, this sterile indoor environment where everything is controlled is what is natural to them.

I wonder if we have a need to control and manage everything around us. Is that what drives us to destroy so much of the natural world, the world that God created, so that we can build manmade habitats that we think are more suitable? Habitats like the sterile indoor one I am currently sitting in.

Even our "natural" areas are often carefully groomed , fogged, trailed and made as comfortable for us as possible. I am like everyone else. I like trails. I like grass that is easy to walk on. I appreciate a bench under a shady tree or the comfort of a level place in the park where I can spread my blanket and lie in the sun.

But I also cherish the beauty and joy found in the rare – increasingly rare – wild places that have escaped being touched by us. The places that are growing the way they choose to grow rather than the way we planted or placed them. Parfrey’s Glen in Wisconsin is one of those places.

In spite of the boardwalk and the trail along the stream, Parfrey's Glen has a presence that is created by itself - an aliveness, an energy, a sense of consciousness that grows out of the existence of the glen. It is a presence that can’t be traced to the plants, or to the stream, or to the rock walls. It is all of them and more. It is the fabric that holds them all together. You can feel it in your being. You feel it and you know that you are in the presence of something more majestic, more magical, more mystical than anything you could ever have imagined.

You feel it when you take a deep breath in and you realize that it is inside of you as well. You feel it when you listen to your heartbeat and you realize that it is resonating with the essence of that same presence. You feel it when you quiet your mind and sense that energy, that presence flowing through you. You recognize, for a moment, that what you feel is you, is everything.

We need places like Parfrey's Glen.

Thoughts from a Hotel Room

Good morning, Thought Buddy. This morning as I meditated in a hotel room in Fort Lauderdale surrounded by my sleeping family, I realized that this is what this blog is. A thought buddy. A place to dialogue with my inner self, to explore who I am and what I am thinking.

Meditation is so peaceful, the energy so pleasant. It is like floating in the ocean. You don't always know where the currents will take you. The movement is subtle. When you finally look at the shore you can be surprised to see how far you have travelled.

In my meditations, images often come to mind. Like the play of light on water they are there but then they are gone before I can grasp them with my conscious mind. They seem as real as life but at the same time as illusive as dream fragments.

Often faces appear to me. Sometimes the faces are old. Sometimes they are young - this morning a fleeting glimpse of a baby. Sometimes the faces are stylized like ghosts or old tin type photos. Other times they are like live images but always they pass quickly through my mind. So fleetingly that they feel like faintly recalled memories. But these are not images of people I know – at least not anyone I know in this physical life.

I noticed today that while I can meditate without minding cold or noise or many other distractions it is hard for me to ignore touch. Meditating here on the bed in our Florida hotel room (there really is no other place to be - even the floor is crowded) it was distracting to have my husband role up against me.

When I meditate outdoors in the mornings at home, the many sounds of the neighborhood waking up, animals scurrying around the lawn, even the very noisy sounds of weekly collection of garbage never bother me. Is touch distracting because it brings me in physical contact with another person's energy field, one that is "different" than my own?

Perhaps. But later in my meditation I began to feel the energy outside of my body. I could feel "my" energy flow and merge with all the life energy in the room. I felt that I was sharing the peace and stillness I was experiencing with my loved ones and that I was connecting with the inner stillness inside each of them. There was a different quality to this meditation. Not as deep (yet?) but wider (?) perhaps. It is difficult to describe.

All of this brings me back to the connectedness of everything. We are one conciousness, one fabric of life. If we could grasp and feel and know that we are part of that one fabric, could we lose our sense of "others"? Could we lose our irritation at “them”? Could we set aside our many fears of being found wanting or not good enough if we realized that we are all one?

At the same time, could we rejoice in experiencing the unique human incarnations that we have become in order to live for a time in a material universe? If “we” could do this than I could realize that I don’t really need a thought buddy – I have already created a universe full of them.

Prelude to Key West

I am finding it difficult to get excited about leaving home to go to Key West. I think it is because I love home so much. I love my plants – each one of them like a friend. I love watching the gardens grow. I love the things I have placed around my house. Most of them generate memories of special times and special friends.

I love, of course, my animals. It is so hard to say good-bye to Milo, Buddy, Sammy, and the Tiger cats. I love my rituals. Getting up early. Doing yoga, meditating, having a “picnic” with the kits.

I know I will enjoy Key West but I don’t seem to have that driving desire to go somewhere else that many other people do. Maybe I did when I was younger.

I’m not sure if I feel this way because of apathy or because of happiness! Am I absolutely content or am I in a rut? It sort of depends on your perspective. To an adventurous person I must look like I am stuck in a rut. To someone who lives in a frenzy of stress and activity I may look like I have found peace and serenity. I think, often, that I have. Other times I feel like a little something is missing – a thought buddy perhaps. So how do I know?

I guess the secret is always being content with what is. Or, said another way, accepting what is. What is at the moment. I still struggle with understanding how – if I accept what is – I will ever want to change anything. Even my location.

Cats, Souls, and Dog Poop

This morning my husband asked me to lock our cat, Milo, outside the bedroom. Milo's soft, but persistent, meowing was keeping him awake. This was hard for me to do. Milo finds such joy in coming into our room in the morning and snuggling with us. He is always very happy to see us when the sun rises and the world begins to wake up. To Milo our "going away into sleep" is very much the same as when we have been away

(about 45 minutes later)

away on vacation is what I was about to write. That was before Milo asked me to open the window blinds so he could look at the birds at the feeder. Before I stepped in dog poop on my way back from the window. Before I spent 30 minutes cleaning the floor, the rug, my shoe. Before I spent 10 minutes reassuring our old dog Sammy that I still love her. Before I spent another five minutes giving all the other now equally distressed pets their usual and customary morning treats to reassure them that "all is well" and my upset was only temporary.

Companion animals are like small children in the way that our every mood, our every action, our very existence, means so much to them. They take note of everything we do. Skeptics would say we only matter to them because we are their food source. That’s true of course. But that's true for our children as well! I do think even the most cynical skeptics would agree that human children love their parents. It seems equally obvious to me that animals can love their human companions.

These days I think most people recognize that animals feel love and other emotions, that they have intelligence, are social beings, and that they may even have senses and skills that we have long lost. Accepting that animals have souls is a much bigger leap.

Why is it so hard to accept that an animal - that any non-human living being - could have a soul?

Are we afraid that if we acknowledge other children of God it will make us somehow less close to him? Less special? Are we so insecure in our own relationships with God that it is only by convincing ourselves that we are better than all other living things that we feel worthy to be loved?

Yes, God made us in his own image. He breathed his life into us. But he also made the animals and the life breath that fills them.

I think all living things are part of that one breath of life; that we are all threads in the fabric that was woven from the consciousness that is God. What then are souls? And why would only humans have them?

There is Corn in My Garden

There is corn growing in my meditation garden. There is also corn growing in my yard, in my day lilies, and probably in many other places as yet unknown. I didn’t plant corn. I didn’t even know that it was corn at first. I just pulled up the unusual "weeds" that were popping up all over the place.

It was only after a long stretch of good growing weather - combined with an absence of garden care - that one of the plants grew large enough that even I could see what it was. As I reached to pull out another tall "weed", I finally recognized that it was corn.

But what was corn doing in my carefully designed meditation garden? I think, perhaps, it was a tiny reminder to me that when left alone nature can take care of itself just fine thank you!

I feed corn and peanuts to my wild four leggeds all year round. But deep inside I know they would survive just as well without me. In the summer when food is plentiful they eat only enough seeds and nuts to fuel their bodies. The excess seeds are buried in the ground.

Some of the buried seeds will be dug up later when food is not as plentiful. Other seeds, like the corn that is sprouting all over my yard, will germinate, grow to maturity, and provide even more food.

Of course, all the plants won't make it to maturity. Some die from drought or other natural factors. Others are eaten by grazing animals. Some are mistaken for weeds and pulled out by humans like me!

The seeds that are never dug up, the weeds that are pulled, the plants that die before maturity, the droppings from the grazing animals all eventually decay. In the process they give food and sustenance to millions of tiny microorganisms who turn their "waste" into fertile soil. Soil that will nurture new seeds and start the cycle all over again.

What an astonishing, incredible, beautiful miracle! It is almost impossible to imagine the loving munificence that created such a breathtaking design. Almost impossible but undeniably real. How can you help but see the loving hand of God in these beautiful details of nature?

There is corn in my garden. I think I will leave it there.

The End of the Small World

The end of the small world. I had a dream the other night. It was just a snippet of a dream. A scene. Some words. And a lasting impression.

The scene was a meeting room. Several people in business attire seated around a table. One was standing over some documents that were lying on the table pointing out various aspects of whatever it was. It appeared they were going over or developing a plan. The words associated with this dream were “the end of the small world”.

This wasn’t a disturbing dream. It was all very matter of fact. I awoke feeling that I should remember this and do... something? Contemplate it? Share it? Or simply remember?

The end of the small world. That could mean a lot of things. In our doom and gloom society with all the valid concerns we have over the changing climate, the rise of extremism, the ever growing population, those words could be describing an inevitable disaster - the end result of the stress on all our systems both natural and societal. The dream might be a warning from my under consciousness that the world is coming to an end. That is one thing those words could mean.

They could also mean quite literally “the end of the small world”. The small world is where we live when we believe that what we see and sense with our physical bodies is all that exists. The small world is where we live when we lose our faith in something bigger, something grander, something infinitely more divine than we could ever imagine or conceive.

A dream about the end of the small world may acknowledge that there is a dawning awareness, a beginning of a new consciousness, a recognition of a new infinitely larger world in which we know that we are more than just human beings.

A new larger world where we know ourselves as spirit as well as physical beings. A world where we recognize ourselves as part of God, but also as beings who have chosen to experience life in material form. A world where we can experience all the joys and beauty of being alive while still remembering what we really are.

Gentle Teachers

This morning as I meditated on my breath an image came into my mind. It was an animal’s muzzle or snout positioned just to the left of and slightly in front of my face. I could see the dark gray/brown fur, the pattern of whiskers and whisker "dots" along the side of the nose, the dark skin of the lips, and the gentle curving and curling of nostrils with the movement of its breath. I felt the breath of that animal being shared with me as I inhaled and exhaled. It was warm and open(?). I relaxed into it and the image faded but not the memory of it. Like a dream that doesn’t quite go away when you wake up.

My breath was very slow and shallow at that time. I was hardly breathing at all. I was in that space where it feels as though the air simply comes and goes on its own. Or, rather, in that space where there is no need for the air to come and go. You simply exist in it, your body taking whatever it needs directly from the air wherever and whenever it needs to.

Sharing breath with animals is not new to me. Nor would it be to any animal lover. It is simply something that we do – a way we have of communicating with our four leggeds without consciously knowing what it is we communicate. For me, and perhaps for others as well, it began by mirroring what I saw the animals do with each other. An exchange of breath. A sharing of life's essence. A silent story that says this is who I am.

Maybe this image, at this time, is meant to be an affirmation of what I wrote here yesterday. The Presence of Animals. Animals as bodhisattvas. Silent gentle teachers helping us learn to connect with that which is within and around and through every aspect of our being.

The Presence of Animals

When I sat down to work today the squirrel appeared again. When he stopped by my feet, I softly said "good morning". This was too much familiarity so he ran away. Several minutes later he came back. This time I kept quiet while he looked me over before he went on his way. Tomorrow, perhaps, I will bring a peanut. I think I am being trained.

A friend and I have been exploring a theme of sorts. It began with one of those widely forwarded emails that we all get. This one had to do with the death of a beloved family pet and a 6 year old child’s insight into why dogs don’t live as long as we do. He said, "People are born so that they can learn how to live a good life - like loving everybody all the time and being nice, right? Well, dogs already know how to do that, so they don't have to stay as long."

Is it possible that animals are here to help us evolve – to reach the state of presence that they are always in? In some simple but profound way are animals more connected, more aware of the oneness of consciousness than we are?

Clearly when a flock of birds suddenly flies up and begins creating crazy, daring whirling patterns in the sky or when a herd of horses gallops recklessly through a pasture without accidents they are connected to their flock or herd in a way that we don’t understand. They are touching something, some fabric that helps them move as one.

Having witnessed the passing of many of my four-legged friends I have begun to believe that animals also move into the afterlife more easily than we do. When they leave their bodies behind do they sense that they are simply merging with the fabric they have always known they were a part of? Does this ease their transition? Or does it make it not a transition at all – simply an act of discarding a tool (their body) that they are no longer going to use?

Does the example of the animals show us that there is much more to life than what our minds understand? Are these beings here in their animal bodies, their animal forms to help us evolve, to guide us on our way?

Writing for Posterity?

It begins. I will dedicate ten minutes every day to writing. It doesn’t matter what I write. It doesn’t matter how I write it. This is, in a sense, an online journal. A place to put whatever is on my mind. A place to record dreams. A place to put my feelings. A place to put the questions that may not have answers.

There is a squirrel sitting at my feet. He is looking up at me as though to ask a question. I suspect the question is about peanuts. But the appearance of a four-legged just now as I begin this, a wild creature only 2 feet from my space who is totally comfortable with my presence here, is a sign of sorts. A sign that I belong here. That this is my place. That I am doing what is natural for me.

I don’t know why it is hard for me to begin writing, to dedicate myself to it. I know that when I get in the “writers zone” it is something that I really enjoy doing. Sometimes my fingers can’t type fast enough to capture all my thoughts. And many times during my non-writing hours I think of things I might like to “put down” somewhere for further contemplation or just for posterity. What a funny thing to say – posterity. What IS posterity? Who is it? Why would we do anything for it? But it has such an important sound to it.

Maybe I am thinking that what I write is for future me. Is that posterity? Or for my children – because of course there is nothing they want more than to read their mother’s ramblings. Or is there, perhaps, some inner knowledge that tells us that by recording something, by focusing on it, by giving it a form in addition to thought we somehow make it more manifest? That we somehow make more of a contribution of this “thing” to the greater experience of the unmanifested. If we are here doing what we are doing to gather, to experience, to create, to manifest so that all that is can experience all that is perhaps that is what we really mean when we choose to do or say or write something for posterity.

Winter Returns

There is snow outside my window again. The spruce branches are frosted with white. There is a soft white cushion on the stone bench in my garden. Every tree, every bush, every remaining flower stalk seems dressed for a special day. It is a special day.


After weeks of snow and cold a brief January thaw seemed like a welcome respite from a winter that arrived to early and appeared likely to stay to long. But this thaw brought with it a deep fog that tied up highways and killed those who believed they could see through it. It brought tornadoes that destroyed homes and rains that flooded others.

Winter rules in January in Wisconsin. I, for one, am glad to see it return. It is the season for snow and ice sparkling on the trees. For deep cold and deeper reflections. For long nights with time to read and time to contemplate what it is you have just read. For the clarity that comes from walking in a natural world colored in shades of white and gray and evergreen.

Sometimes in the late afternoon when the sun is already beginning to set, I resent the shortness of winter's days. I fight against the darkness and refuse to let my mind and body move with the rhythm of the season.


But right now, in this precious morning hour, I intend to light a candle and absorb the power of this very special time of beginnings.


The seeds that fell to the ground in fall and were planted by nature's (not man's) hand are covered in warm snow, moisture, and darkness. Deep inside each seed the living entity that will emerge in the spring is beginning to germinate, to become what it is meant to be.


So it is with us. Darkness is not our enemy. Rather it is the place where we can go to grow, to find ourselves, and to prepare for emerging into the light.

Namaste

Spiral of Life

The Circle of Life. How often do use that concept to describe the beautiful in life as well as to alleviate the pain of life's sorrows? It seems even the ancient Greeks reflected on the Circle of Life. A friend recently sent me this beautiful quote from a Greek philosopher who lived around the 6th century BCE:

"Out of life comes death, and out of death, life,
Out of the young, the old, and out of the old, the young
Out of waking, sleep and out of sleep, waking
The stream of creation and dissolution never stops."
Heraclitus

But I believe life is not a circle. I believe life is a spiral. I believe we move through iterations of life with a plan, with a purpose. As we spiral we move towards something rather than just circling through endless repetitions.

Each turn on our eternal but not endless spiraling pathway moves us closer to the center, closer to universal consciousness, closer to truth, closer to God, closer to love.

And so this month we begin another trip around the sun, following another turn in the spiral of our lives, moving ever closer to where we began.