This is supposed to be a big year. Yesterday I turned 50 which is supposed to be some pinnacle birthday. My birthday is always somewhat axiomatic because it falls right between Christmas and New Year's and the worry is that everyone will be partied out from Christmas, getting ready for New Year's Eve, so my birthday's bound to get passed over. That idea is a fiction. What generally happens is because of when it falls, friends and family remember the date and essentially overcompensate. My parents did forget my birthday once when I was a teenager, but that was the year my grandpa Pettito died on Christmas Eve, and even then, my dad felt so guilty about forgetting it he wrote me this huge check the day after. Teenagers are always happy with huge checks.
This year on my birthday the moon was super full; it was a special day of meditation for lots of folks, as was December 21, the official beginning of the Year of the Miracle. Lots of my students expected the world to end; they came to school in pajamas (the world's about to end anyway) or in suits and ties (the kid who started that one told he wanted to look good going out). I still made them turn in their homework. School still happened. We meditated on the kids and teachers who got shot in the recent gun violence, and talked about people on the globe struggling with war. I explained to them the meaning behind the words "fiscal cliff" and how there isn't actually a cliff - it's a metaphor of course.
December 21, Christmas, the full moon on my birthday - it's all happened. Lots of people went out of town. I wanted to go somewhere, but I wasn't sure where or with whom. Then everyone started phoning, e-mailing, looking out there for some sign, some big tumultuous conflict, or at least an obvious resolution. Everyone looking out there...
But of course we've got to make it happen - this Year of the Miracle, because what's out there is only a metaphor for who we are inside. We've got to agree to give up the dangerous, glamorous, ego- ridden inner struggle that leads to so much suffering on our planet. We've got to realize it's not about the agony and the ecstasy, but about what's left when we let go of all that. The clinging, the neediness, comes from a fear of what will be there when we aren't bolting away or scheduling a trip or a party or rushing to something big to fill in the gap. Meaning will come when we can sit alone in the quiet of what really is and recognize ourselves.
In short, only when we take out the metaphorical trash, can we realize the truth about what's left. What's left feels like love.
It seems like time to do that. Surrender, surrender, surrender. Release conflict and wake up now.
Why not?
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Changes, Vienna and Christmas...
A dear friend and mentor has been diagnosed with stomach cancer. He is on hospice care in his home. A couple weeks ago, I sat by his side, talking about our usual stuff: his old jobs making jokes on the radio, the ins and outs of Hollywood, what a dirty old man Henry Miller was. After ten minutes our conversation halted; we both recognized it as pointless and he sent me away.
There was a feeling of rejection when I left him; I sobbed that day. Essentially I wanted things to be the way they've always been - the two of us talking writing, and he telling me stories and giving advice. Things can't be the way they've always been. My friend is shifting into a new state; his relationship with everything, including me, is in flux.
At the same time, I've been spending lots of time trying to convince my parents to get together for Christmas. Christmas is a sensitive time in my family; this year my mother flat out told me she wants a break from the holiday - that she would prefer to spend the time alone with my father. Again, I hung up the phone feeling somehow rejected - why, oh why, can't things be the way they always were? I would show up at their house, my nuclear family in tow, and we'd all cook wonderfully calorie laden Italian food, and exchange gifts before launching into a debriefing of uncomfortable, but repetitive family issues.
I longed for my mother, the same way I longed for Bill. I wanted her to relate to me the way it's always been. I felt the same clutching, clinging in my gut as I did with my writer friend.
In the meantime, my daughter Anne Monique, received early acceptance into Columbia College in New York. We are all so proud and happy this week for her, we can barely contain ourselves. She has worked harder at her schooling than I ever thought possible; Columbia has been her dream goal for years. Things are about to change, big time, when she moves.
To be able to release those we love without withholding and judgment, to exist in the world without fear, to remain open and expanisive, moved by spirit - these are the challenges of letting go.
Of course my daughter must leave on her own, just as this Christmas it may be appropriate not to rush anywhere and to let go of traditions, just as I must let go of my dear friend. I wish Anne Monique full and complete freedom. I let go of all clinging to her and my mentor and my mother and self. I'm floating in the moment where I must be now - into the place where I can trust.
There was a feeling of rejection when I left him; I sobbed that day. Essentially I wanted things to be the way they've always been - the two of us talking writing, and he telling me stories and giving advice. Things can't be the way they've always been. My friend is shifting into a new state; his relationship with everything, including me, is in flux.
At the same time, I've been spending lots of time trying to convince my parents to get together for Christmas. Christmas is a sensitive time in my family; this year my mother flat out told me she wants a break from the holiday - that she would prefer to spend the time alone with my father. Again, I hung up the phone feeling somehow rejected - why, oh why, can't things be the way they always were? I would show up at their house, my nuclear family in tow, and we'd all cook wonderfully calorie laden Italian food, and exchange gifts before launching into a debriefing of uncomfortable, but repetitive family issues.
I longed for my mother, the same way I longed for Bill. I wanted her to relate to me the way it's always been. I felt the same clutching, clinging in my gut as I did with my writer friend.
In the meantime, my daughter Anne Monique, received early acceptance into Columbia College in New York. We are all so proud and happy this week for her, we can barely contain ourselves. She has worked harder at her schooling than I ever thought possible; Columbia has been her dream goal for years. Things are about to change, big time, when she moves.
To be able to release those we love without withholding and judgment, to exist in the world without fear, to remain open and expanisive, moved by spirit - these are the challenges of letting go.
Of course my daughter must leave on her own, just as this Christmas it may be appropriate not to rush anywhere and to let go of traditions, just as I must let go of my dear friend. I wish Anne Monique full and complete freedom. I let go of all clinging to her and my mentor and my mother and self. I'm floating in the moment where I must be now - into the place where I can trust.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
The Inspiration of Feathered Pipe Ranch
Melissa at Feathered Pipe Ranch asked me to write a blog about how the ranch led to the creation of Bear Speaks. I first came to the ranch for a "one time" yoga retreat with Erich Schiffmann back in 2002. I wasn't planning on sleeping in a tent, but when I saw the tipi's and tents - out there - I was instantly interested. Howard, who was the ranch manager at the time, set me up in a tent at the spur of the moment.
I had camped once or twice before with my brother, and liked it. There is a crispness to sleeping outside, something organic and life affirming about it. In that tent at Feathered Pipe those first hours, I felt a rush of inspiration; as though I were cradled and stimulated at the same time. I knew I was on to something amazing when I picked up my journal under a lantern and wrote "Good morning to my wakening soul." It came out like an exclamation I'd been holding inside for too long. It's a steal from the romantic poets I'd studied in school, but finally, I understood what they meant.
At the same time I'd fallen madly in love with Erich. I had never understood what yogis meant when they referred with reverence to their teachers. Erich's words rolled over me with a certain sweetness, and I was taken in the purest sense of the word.
Around mid-week out there, I heard a voice in my head, and I realized it wasn't Erich. It was as if the forest itself was speaking to me. I wrote what I "heard" in my journal, arguing with it, accepting it, all through the night, thinking that I was hearing a private message, meant only for me. The voice that is the ranch persisted the entire week that first year.
I returned to Feathered Pipe again the next summer, but now I shared my inspiration with Gary Lemons, Anne Jablonski, and other yogis at the workshop. Everyone was on fire that week; ideas were flying from all of us. The conversations we had over dinner, on the lawn, on hikes, were not just about yoga, but about our dreams, our love, our families. Ultimately we realized we had formed a new, larger family with each other.
I kept sleeping in a tent, and I kept writing everything down. One night when I was headed out there to sleep, I mentioned to Erich that I was afraid of bears. (Black bears get into the trash cans sometimes at the ranch looking for food.) Erich growled. That's when the idea for Bear Speaks really solidified. The idea of a bear as a teacher - a force of nature tutoring someone who thinks she's alone in the forest - became the glue that held my ideas together for a short novel.
Red Wheel Weiser/Conari Press picked the story up instantly and published it. Pat Olchefski-Winston, another ranch regular and a dear friend, painted the lovely watercolor of the bear for the cover.
Bear Speaks is only one testament to the discoveries and connections that happen every year during the precious weeks at Feathered Pipe Ranch. Poetry, art, stories, conversations flow freely from all of us lucky to spend time there. The ranch remains an integral setting for my work, a personal "Rivendale," or as Anne Jablonski put it last summer, "the place where Superman goes to get recharged." I cherish Feathered Pipe Ranch. Bear Speaks is in many respects a love story to it.
I had camped once or twice before with my brother, and liked it. There is a crispness to sleeping outside, something organic and life affirming about it. In that tent at Feathered Pipe those first hours, I felt a rush of inspiration; as though I were cradled and stimulated at the same time. I knew I was on to something amazing when I picked up my journal under a lantern and wrote "Good morning to my wakening soul." It came out like an exclamation I'd been holding inside for too long. It's a steal from the romantic poets I'd studied in school, but finally, I understood what they meant.
At the same time I'd fallen madly in love with Erich. I had never understood what yogis meant when they referred with reverence to their teachers. Erich's words rolled over me with a certain sweetness, and I was taken in the purest sense of the word.
Around mid-week out there, I heard a voice in my head, and I realized it wasn't Erich. It was as if the forest itself was speaking to me. I wrote what I "heard" in my journal, arguing with it, accepting it, all through the night, thinking that I was hearing a private message, meant only for me. The voice that is the ranch persisted the entire week that first year.
I returned to Feathered Pipe again the next summer, but now I shared my inspiration with Gary Lemons, Anne Jablonski, and other yogis at the workshop. Everyone was on fire that week; ideas were flying from all of us. The conversations we had over dinner, on the lawn, on hikes, were not just about yoga, but about our dreams, our love, our families. Ultimately we realized we had formed a new, larger family with each other.
I kept sleeping in a tent, and I kept writing everything down. One night when I was headed out there to sleep, I mentioned to Erich that I was afraid of bears. (Black bears get into the trash cans sometimes at the ranch looking for food.) Erich growled. That's when the idea for Bear Speaks really solidified. The idea of a bear as a teacher - a force of nature tutoring someone who thinks she's alone in the forest - became the glue that held my ideas together for a short novel.
Red Wheel Weiser/Conari Press picked the story up instantly and published it. Pat Olchefski-Winston, another ranch regular and a dear friend, painted the lovely watercolor of the bear for the cover.
Bear Speaks is only one testament to the discoveries and connections that happen every year during the precious weeks at Feathered Pipe Ranch. Poetry, art, stories, conversations flow freely from all of us lucky to spend time there. The ranch remains an integral setting for my work, a personal "Rivendale," or as Anne Jablonski put it last summer, "the place where Superman goes to get recharged." I cherish Feathered Pipe Ranch. Bear Speaks is in many respects a love story to it.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Comfort Always Here
Sometimes it takes moments of distress to help us realize that comfort is always available.
We are never alone.
We become frightened of the comfort that is always here - afraid of our own self-imposed suffering, afraid of death, afraid that love is only a product of our imagination. We become terrified that none of what is happening matters.
But...even in the most seemingly random circumstances we feel the truth - that friends have always been here with us - that we can feel them in the spaces in between the between.
We are never alone.
We become frightened of the comfort that is always here - afraid of our own self-imposed suffering, afraid of death, afraid that love is only a product of our imagination. We become terrified that none of what is happening matters.
But...even in the most seemingly random circumstances we feel the truth - that friends have always been here with us - that we can feel them in the spaces in between the between.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Love Without Expectation
So much of what we do is based on fear. When we discover our lover we are filled with joy, and then we sabotage ourselves, worried, obsessing about his end. What if when he leaves town, works on other projects he forgets us, disappears from our lives altogether? What if we do something so stupid as to make him hate us? What if he dies? Then we fear what has always terrified us - that we will be left alone, alone, alone abandoned by the craving, beating visceral love we recognize as the only thing that's real.
We are never alone.
We've let our minds become sticky, clingy, constantly wanting, bogged down by an insecure, ego glue that must loosen. Meanwhile, our true self waits below for freedom.
The truth is we are unbounded and unlimited. Our lover encompasses us without bounds. We are swimming in love, blanketed by it. We cling because we forget the moment, the now where our lover's cry of satisfaction is real. We can never become redundant to Him, the ultimate lover, our darling friend.
The challenge is to receive love without limit, without the clench - to open to real love, to be secure.
We are never alone.
We've let our minds become sticky, clingy, constantly wanting, bogged down by an insecure, ego glue that must loosen. Meanwhile, our true self waits below for freedom.
The truth is we are unbounded and unlimited. Our lover encompasses us without bounds. We are swimming in love, blanketed by it. We cling because we forget the moment, the now where our lover's cry of satisfaction is real. We can never become redundant to Him, the ultimate lover, our darling friend.
The challenge is to receive love without limit, without the clench - to open to real love, to be secure.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Chocolate Chip Ice Cream and the Free Fall
Lately I've been eating lots of chocolate chip ice cream - mint is my favorite, but as long as it has chocolate chips in it I love it. My real challenge is scheduling everything; it's as if I'm trying to stay in control to counter a deep-seated fear of being out of control and that's funny. I feel like if I lose my hand in everything, I'll be in free fall, and then who know what might happen in the end.
The truth is - I'm not in control, and there is no end.
Instead of being overwhelmed, the insight is to let go and express being without fear, without constriction, unadulterated. That's how we uncover the love that makes up everything anyways.
And in the meantime, as mom would say, relax, get rest, eat properly, and enjoy the ice cream.
Instead of being overwhelmed, the insight is to let go and express being without fear, without constriction, unadulterated. That's how we uncover the love that makes up everything anyways.
And in the meantime, as mom would say, relax, get rest, eat properly, and enjoy the ice cream.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
Sticking to Salvation
So much of what we focus on is of no consequence. It's easy to get hung up on worries and regrets - I'm noticing I create many of my own fears in order to avoid responsibility. Sometimes it seems easier to spin with what's negative, what's gone, than to choose joy.
All that seems lost was never needed in the first place. Every fear, every regret, every longing for the past, or uncertain waffling about the future is inconsequential. No demon, no monster, no tremendous antagonist hovering in the imagination can harm us. Even unto death we are immune.
We are the constantly changing self that is the all and morphs and moves and allows and exists and pumps through the breathing, living, being of eternity.
None of the rest matters.
All that seems lost was never needed in the first place. Every fear, every regret, every longing for the past, or uncertain waffling about the future is inconsequential. No demon, no monster, no tremendous antagonist hovering in the imagination can harm us. Even unto death we are immune.
We are the constantly changing self that is the all and morphs and moves and allows and exists and pumps through the breathing, living, being of eternity.
None of the rest matters.
Monday, September 17, 2012
Obsessively in Love
It's hard to be objective. Teenagers carry such passion, such rage, such insight. When I'm lucky, she'll tell me she loves me, bestow a kiss on my cheek. Lately, the best gift she can give is a flash of her luminous smile.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Here, Now, Always
A short thought for today:
We are never alone.
We are here, now, always - in and as the movement of life.
This moment is Eternal. Truth is in that infinite moment, and there is nothing to fear.
(The photo is of me with my darling friend Anne in Montana.)
We are never alone.
We are here, now, always - in and as the movement of life.
(The photo is of me with my darling friend Anne in Montana.)
Sunday, September 9, 2012
Yeah, That - Eliminating Resentment
How easy it is to feel like everyone around us is a threat! Those of us who claim to be spiritual, on a "special" path, are especially prone to the foibles of resentment.
What we tend to forget is that now is all there is. No prophesied lighting bolt will hit at such and such a time in the future. Instead, the very people who seem the most irritating - the very ones who seem to interrupt our future enlightenment - warrant our immediate attention. In other words what is current, what look like distractions, are the point; the people in our periphery right now are our saviors and our teachers. I've been fascinated by time travel since I read H.G. Wells and the C.S. Lewis Perelandra series as a teenager. Turns out, the key isn't time travel at all - its now travel.
Now travel reminds me that time and space are a farce. You only have to engage in now travel once to be hooked because travel in the now is so unabashedly real.
The key is do it with purity, the innocence that takes life times to master. It can never be forced. Nothing is valid when it is forced or enforced. What we are looking for is a soft realization, the opening that presents itself all of a sudden. We have to allow the now travel. We have to go to the point beyond expectation - beyond seeing ourselves and interactions with others as wanting.
People get hurt with forcing, jamming, set rules. The most valid concepts in the world go sour, become stale if forced. Instead of purging, we're looking for a soft release. That's when resentment against the angels around us fades, and we recognize who we really are. That's when the magic happens.
What we tend to forget is that now is all there is. No prophesied lighting bolt will hit at such and such a time in the future. Instead, the very people who seem the most irritating - the very ones who seem to interrupt our future enlightenment - warrant our immediate attention. In other words what is current, what look like distractions, are the point; the people in our periphery right now are our saviors and our teachers. I've been fascinated by time travel since I read H.G. Wells and the C.S. Lewis Perelandra series as a teenager. Turns out, the key isn't time travel at all - its now travel.
Now travel reminds me that time and space are a farce. You only have to engage in now travel once to be hooked because travel in the now is so unabashedly real.
The key is do it with purity, the innocence that takes life times to master. It can never be forced. Nothing is valid when it is forced or enforced. What we are looking for is a soft realization, the opening that presents itself all of a sudden. We have to allow the now travel. We have to go to the point beyond expectation - beyond seeing ourselves and interactions with others as wanting.
People get hurt with forcing, jamming, set rules. The most valid concepts in the world go sour, become stale if forced. Instead of purging, we're looking for a soft release. That's when resentment against the angels around us fades, and we recognize who we really are. That's when the magic happens.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Beyond the Beyond - Indefatigable
Love exists beyond our physicality; unbound by the laws of gravity, by this small sphere. Yet it is always here - as being above and through and as we are.
Boundless love - all permeable - indefatigable.
How then have we become so situated, so forgetful as to let ourselves be trapped by rules that aren't real? Love is not a lie.
I'm ready to stop falling out of it. I'm ready to stop being tortured by the falsities of my mind.
Yes, we are in transition - but it's already happened - it's happening right now.
Let's stay in the truth of love then, brothers, sisters, everywhere. Unstoppable.
Boundless love - all permeable - indefatigable.
How then have we become so situated, so forgetful as to let ourselves be trapped by rules that aren't real? Love is not a lie.
I'm ready to stop falling out of it. I'm ready to stop being tortured by the falsities of my mind.
Yes, we are in transition - but it's already happened - it's happening right now.
Let's stay in the truth of love then, brothers, sisters, everywhere. Unstoppable.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
Everyone - Always
It's easy to feel insecure. We think if we let go we will be abandoned, but that is impossible. Fear is paralyzing - it coils in and through the gut. When I am afraid my jaw gets stiff (followed by everything else) and it feels as though I am grasping for something. I become unaware of the presence of it all. It's like clutching onto pain. In the pain state there isn't much I can do but duck, squirm, pace, grab onto something to relieve the pressure.
The longing is always there, within. It is a longing for the truth. It's not something a man or woman can fulfill exclusively because it has to do with love. The onus is on us. It feels like we are personally charged to take action.
It's helpful to be tender with ourselves, and then we can remember where we are, who we are - and live. Everything we seek is always there, available to us, non-exclusive. Everyone - always. All of us - together. And then instead of going into fear we realize the blessings. Blessed world, blessed now, blessed all. Awareness becomes the joy, the celebration, and we know ourselves as forever an effect of God.
The longing is always there, within. It is a longing for the truth. It's not something a man or woman can fulfill exclusively because it has to do with love. The onus is on us. It feels like we are personally charged to take action.
It's helpful to be tender with ourselves, and then we can remember where we are, who we are - and live. Everything we seek is always there, available to us, non-exclusive. Everyone - always. All of us - together. And then instead of going into fear we realize the blessings. Blessed world, blessed now, blessed all. Awareness becomes the joy, the celebration, and we know ourselves as forever an effect of God.
Thursday, August 30, 2012
Going for a Ride
It's easy to get overwhelmed. My head is full of contingencies, swirling with what I should be doing, or where I should be or how I should organize my day, vacations, time alone. It's easy to feel that way when I forget the truth, and think I am all alone, in control by myself.
The tiny, petty, "little" me sweats over the inconsequential, plotting desperately for plans in advance about what to do and who or when to do it with. That person has forgotten the deeper, truer reality about who she is - that she is never abandoned or alone. All that swirling of thoughts and concerns has no consequence. Because we are never abandoned; we don't have to be in control.
It's time to stop tormenting ourselves with plans and worries that don't matter, about tomorrows we cannot control. The brain rot of small mind is of no consequence. Its tendency is to cling, shrink, become very small.
Today I remember to relax, to erase every worry, to be at ease. More than ease - today I revel in peace.
Let's let ourselves be moved then. Let's go for the ride.
The tiny, petty, "little" me sweats over the inconsequential, plotting desperately for plans in advance about what to do and who or when to do it with. That person has forgotten the deeper, truer reality about who she is - that she is never abandoned or alone. All that swirling of thoughts and concerns has no consequence. Because we are never abandoned; we don't have to be in control.
It's time to stop tormenting ourselves with plans and worries that don't matter, about tomorrows we cannot control. The brain rot of small mind is of no consequence. Its tendency is to cling, shrink, become very small.
Today I remember to relax, to erase every worry, to be at ease. More than ease - today I revel in peace.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Good News: We Already Know
There is an inherent intelligence to letting go. The best part is there is nothing we need to do, nobody we need to become. We are there already.
It's not egocentric to realize our own empowerment. It only seems like ego when we perceive our being as separate from everything else. I'm getting that it's time to start thinking of everything as one unit - one all - and then "random" happenings, creation makes sense. In other words, we are the happening.
It's a matter of letting go of our insistence of viewing ourselves as contained in a physical space, trapped in an inaccurate world perception. It's our moment, our movement - one big, all encompassing life, there wherever we are and always here.
Simultaneous, inherent intelligence, already happening all at once.
It's not egocentric to realize our own empowerment. It only seems like ego when we perceive our being as separate from everything else. I'm getting that it's time to start thinking of everything as one unit - one all - and then "random" happenings, creation makes sense. In other words, we are the happening.
It's a matter of letting go of our insistence of viewing ourselves as contained in a physical space, trapped in an inaccurate world perception. It's our moment, our movement - one big, all encompassing life, there wherever we are and always here.
Simultaneous, inherent intelligence, already happening all at once.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Ready for Change... Unexpected Delights
I needed a ride to the LAX airport and an Indian girl friend of mine offered to take me. When it was time to go, a strange car pulled up in front of my house, and the father of her daughter got out and informed me that my friend had been called into an unexpected meeting - that he was to drive me instead.
It was a harried drive to the airport. I wondered if he had ever driven anyone there before: he was in the wrong lane in the Sepulveda tunnel, causing a near accident when he moved at the last minute; he kept cutting off buses or sitting tentatively behind cab lines; we had to turn around and re-circle the Departures twice. It occurred to me I may miss my flight.
He talked nonstop the entire time. He kept saying that we do not live in a material world at all - that we are spiritual beings in a spiritual world, but we don't always know that. When he finally reached my terminal, he bowed to me, hands in prayer and said "namaste." I did make my plane to the yoga retreat where I was headed, but what I didn't realize at the time was that the yoga was already happening - right there, right then with my driver.
I saw him again this morning in the park by my house meditating. I was annoyed at first because he was sitting right in the spot where I go to meditate myself. Then I noticed his face; he was deep into it, and I realized just how much of a presence this unassuming gentleman really was. I sat next to him and meditated with him. It felt good.
When I opened my eyes he was gone, but I never heard the footsteps.
I've been thinking about change. I'm realizing how I've been strangling myself with schedules and plans and regimens for my enlightenment - for pleasure. It's my tendency, to want to control joy. Of course the only way to get to that place is to let go of the plan, to step aside and realize it's already here, happening. It's time to relinquish the strait jacket and allow the unexpected delights to register. It's time to stop strangling the happening.
"Today I will make no decisions by myself..." That's the scary line from A Course in Miracles that seems appropriate. It's time for that.
It was a harried drive to the airport. I wondered if he had ever driven anyone there before: he was in the wrong lane in the Sepulveda tunnel, causing a near accident when he moved at the last minute; he kept cutting off buses or sitting tentatively behind cab lines; we had to turn around and re-circle the Departures twice. It occurred to me I may miss my flight.
He talked nonstop the entire time. He kept saying that we do not live in a material world at all - that we are spiritual beings in a spiritual world, but we don't always know that. When he finally reached my terminal, he bowed to me, hands in prayer and said "namaste." I did make my plane to the yoga retreat where I was headed, but what I didn't realize at the time was that the yoga was already happening - right there, right then with my driver.
I saw him again this morning in the park by my house meditating. I was annoyed at first because he was sitting right in the spot where I go to meditate myself. Then I noticed his face; he was deep into it, and I realized just how much of a presence this unassuming gentleman really was. I sat next to him and meditated with him. It felt good.
When I opened my eyes he was gone, but I never heard the footsteps.
I've been thinking about change. I'm realizing how I've been strangling myself with schedules and plans and regimens for my enlightenment - for pleasure. It's my tendency, to want to control joy. Of course the only way to get to that place is to let go of the plan, to step aside and realize it's already here, happening. It's time to relinquish the strait jacket and allow the unexpected delights to register. It's time to stop strangling the happening.
"Today I will make no decisions by myself..." That's the scary line from A Course in Miracles that seems appropriate. It's time for that.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
Unplanned Illumination - Moving with Change
I was listening to the rustle of the wind in the leaves in the middle of the night. My office faces our back yard and when I open the screen on the back door I can sit and write facing the yard. It's like writing outside without the bugs.
Last night, I could feel the light breeze over the plants and the large rubber tree back there, and it felt like the back yard was breathing. Its breath drifted through the leaves and the leaves hummed from the pure pleasure of it. "Hello Wind..." I thought.
I could hear the voice of the wind answering me in the silence of the middle of the night, leaving me with this profound sense of illumination. The best part about the experience was that it was completely unplanned.
Rushing around in control-freak "small mind" mode I often miss the unplanned. It's easy to feel as if I'm engaging in a struggle - a battle to push everything into set parameters. The risk is that I bash into a wall that isn't there at all, struggling and attacking when there is nothing to attack. In other words, if I'm walking around the world in battle-mode, it is because I am struggling within myself.
The wind last night helped me remember that every struggle is internal. The fight only looks external, but really every joy, every fear, every anger, every pain belongs to me, and I can choose to pause, stop it, and listen to the wind.
Last night, I could feel the light breeze over the plants and the large rubber tree back there, and it felt like the back yard was breathing. Its breath drifted through the leaves and the leaves hummed from the pure pleasure of it. "Hello Wind..." I thought.
I could hear the voice of the wind answering me in the silence of the middle of the night, leaving me with this profound sense of illumination. The best part about the experience was that it was completely unplanned.
Rushing around in control-freak "small mind" mode I often miss the unplanned. It's easy to feel as if I'm engaging in a struggle - a battle to push everything into set parameters. The risk is that I bash into a wall that isn't there at all, struggling and attacking when there is nothing to attack. In other words, if I'm walking around the world in battle-mode, it is because I am struggling within myself.
The wind last night helped me remember that every struggle is internal. The fight only looks external, but really every joy, every fear, every anger, every pain belongs to me, and I can choose to pause, stop it, and listen to the wind.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Earthquakes and the Montana Sky
An earthquake just hit here at the beach in Los Angeles. I was writing about clarity when it hit - realizing what should have been obvious - that it's okay, preferable even, to approach what is happening from an angle of joy, to actually enjoy all of it. I had just written those words, and the floor under the sofa where I sat rolled.
I've learned to love earthquakes. There was one particular one that rattled things up a few years ago when I was camping in Montana; it was fun. Now, I love it when the earth shakes and stuff gets spontaneously rattled. There's an inner truth that becomes obvious in the shaking, a truth that's also reflected in the vast Montana night sky with its myriad, countless stars that are really planets, that are really other lifetimes, other memories of other moments, other aspects of self that miraculously appeared when we appeared.
The we that is the I that contains the all reveals itself, and we can see ourselves as conscious beings in a spiritual universe full of infinite possibilities. It's random, it's impermanent, but it's also comforting and real at the same time. Anything can happen when we go into that open space where it is silent but also dramatically alive. That is the miracle - that we are alive, alive, alive forever in this one instant.
I've learned to love earthquakes. There was one particular one that rattled things up a few years ago when I was camping in Montana; it was fun. Now, I love it when the earth shakes and stuff gets spontaneously rattled. There's an inner truth that becomes obvious in the shaking, a truth that's also reflected in the vast Montana night sky with its myriad, countless stars that are really planets, that are really other lifetimes, other memories of other moments, other aspects of self that miraculously appeared when we appeared.
The we that is the I that contains the all reveals itself, and we can see ourselves as conscious beings in a spiritual universe full of infinite possibilities. It's random, it's impermanent, but it's also comforting and real at the same time. Anything can happen when we go into that open space where it is silent but also dramatically alive. That is the miracle - that we are alive, alive, alive forever in this one instant.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
It Works!!
My daughter was drawn to the image instantly, telling all of us that it shows how she feels when she is singing. Last night, this image and the other mandalas on the walls drew all of us in - and their song was healing, healing, healing. Everyone there was somehow blessed.
My immediate family of husband and daughter expanded into the larger yogic family at the opening, and then later when we stumbled onto more unexpected friends at dinner, it felt as if there was no one but family around us.
It's easy to slip, to feel as though life is a bundle of unresolved conflicts we can never escape. Fear, anger and worry can smother the truth of who we are, paralyzing us. And then we are reminded, hit by that sudden "oh," that tweaks us back into joy, and we become aware again of the constant love expressing itself in and through us. It is a feeling of coming back - a reminder of the deep-seated, ancient truth of who we really are.
Thanks Arlene.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
In This Instant... Spontaneous Healing and More
I've balked at the idea of spontaneous healing. I get that I can erase my own mistakes - fix situations I may have misperceived quickly by simply shifting my perspective. In other words, I'm beginning to realize that the only real obstacle to my own success is myself. If I'm walking around angry or resentful or passionate or dreamy that is my choice.
All that self-analysis is frightening; after all, it shifts the blame for my discomfort right back on myself. Spontaneous healing - the idea that my thoughts and perceptions could affect other people is even more scary. Healing involves letting go. There used to be this rope swing at Feathered Pipe Ranch; it would rock high off the ground once you allowed yourself to slip (in an instant) onto it. Then you would find yourself swinging in mid-air, sometimes over a lake, sometimes over the ground. At some point it became appropriate to just let go of the rope and dive right into the lake. The letting go took tons of nerve, but hey, everyone who got up there was hoping they'd have the guts to do just that in the end.
Allowing spontaneous healing is like letting go of that rope. We want to let go into it, but all our internal shit swirls around in our head, keeping us tight, keeping us afraid. It's time to relinquish that fear to this instant of pure, swirling, healing potential. Yes, there is an obvious lack of personal control involved because the creative, healing source is limitless. But if we put on the brakes at this point, try to stop that swing by dragging our feet inappropriately on the ground, we're going to get hurt. Spontaneous healing is not only possible but necessary - our redemption, our calling, the force of our creative being. It is the force that will save the world.
(The picture is of "Babs" Barbara Brady in 2009.)
All that self-analysis is frightening; after all, it shifts the blame for my discomfort right back on myself. Spontaneous healing - the idea that my thoughts and perceptions could affect other people is even more scary. Healing involves letting go. There used to be this rope swing at Feathered Pipe Ranch; it would rock high off the ground once you allowed yourself to slip (in an instant) onto it. Then you would find yourself swinging in mid-air, sometimes over a lake, sometimes over the ground. At some point it became appropriate to just let go of the rope and dive right into the lake. The letting go took tons of nerve, but hey, everyone who got up there was hoping they'd have the guts to do just that in the end.
(The picture is of "Babs" Barbara Brady in 2009.)
Monday, July 30, 2012
The Transcendent Now
Last night my family and I watched as Dana Vollmer of the US Olympic Women's Swim Team broke the world record as she swam the 100-meter butterfly. It appeared as if she defied the standard laws of physics, moving beyond the ordinary "rules" of time and space. The three of us sat watching in awe, managing to utter one collective "wow" when she took the gold.
So often we see ourselves as bound by what is temporal. Time and space - the two key components of our material world keep us in check, and we accept our limits in what looks like a short, transitory life. But what if there were a choice? What if by simply realizing the choice existed we could break out of the old molds of habit and into a larger, all encompassing field of pure energy? From this new perspective of who and where we are, we could deliberately choose to opt out of suffering - to transcend time and space.
It's dawning on me that there aren't "lines of energy" running in five straight paths like a starfish from bodies moving in a suspended, gravity-bound time line. The lines only exist in the temporal - time and space as we choose to be bound. The puppet strings holding us in place are mental constructs we've chosen to use as restraints on what we are doing.
Instead, if we chose to expand beyond our current boundaries our energy would be all encompassing and unlimited. It would be super charged. Instead of acting like temporal beings suspended in space, this energy would reveal that we are transcendent. We could use it to heal...
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
In Praise of Feathered Pipe Ranch
There is a place that no one would dream or believe is real - a place of intense beauty and unparalleled power. The power reveals itself in rumblings: the growl of a bear; unexpected earthquakes; storms so pounding they rip through eternity and hold time hostage.
In this place healing is common place, and divas dance with angels through the aspen trees. It is the place where I fell in love. Only later did I realize it was not with a person, but the place itself.
Now we stand at a precipice - we will either fall as never before or soar beyond all possibility to redemption. The here is the all. Everything else is of no consequence. I'm letting that be my mantra. The here is the all, the all, the all...
I only visited Feathered Pipe Ranch for a couple nights this time, but here are two photographs from the place that always transforms my heart.
In this place healing is common place, and divas dance with angels through the aspen trees. It is the place where I fell in love. Only later did I realize it was not with a person, but the place itself.
Now we stand at a precipice - we will either fall as never before or soar beyond all possibility to redemption. The here is the all. Everything else is of no consequence. I'm letting that be my mantra. The here is the all, the all, the all...
I only visited Feathered Pipe Ranch for a couple nights this time, but here are two photographs from the place that always transforms my heart.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
The Main Character is You
There are different triggers for this bliss; for me it's settling in to my tent in Montana, but we could be set off by anything - something as seemingly trivial as a fresh raspberry picked from the garden can turn on the joy factor. It's fun when bliss hits. Meditation is key. If more people knew its power they'd be lining up at yoga studios to learn how to do it.
It's a matter of being quiet in the overlap, of learning to sink into what's happening beyond the daily business of moving about and getting chores done. When we meditate we learn to engender that overlap without too much fuss. We learn to sit still in the emptiness that is everything.
Then we can become the main character, the centrifugal force for our own joy. There is a sense of being all places in an instant: curled up on my sofa at home typing; in the main yoga room, and out in the woods all at once. We are here, there, everywhere in synergistic burst of awakening.
It all boils down to energy - the expansion and the contraction of ourselves. Let's go for the expansion now - let's hit the largess of everything.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
The Power of Two
Two is a magic number. I used to feel that it was inconsequential - my own "little" relationships with one other person. What does it really matter to the universe if I am in love, if my daughter and I sit and have a heartfelt conversation spread out with our cats at the end of the day, if I wave at a neighbor?
But today I'm remembering that classic metaphor of a pebble in a pond, how one bit of movement eventually reverberates throughout the entire pond. I haven't posted here in a while. Health issues have gotten in the way, the business of daily life, and an erroneous sense that it may not matter much - I should spend my time working on the next publishable book - like these blogs don't count as publication. Maybe only one other person is reading them.
It only takes two - though. Me and one other reader, two people in an interaction to make a synergistic change in the structure of what is happening everywhere. Two people can stir the pot. Two hearts beating love can change infinity.
Two is enough. Two is all we need to turn pain into joy. Two is expansive.
(The picture is of artist Pat Olchefski-Winston and my teacher Erich Schiffmann in the yoga room in Montana.)
But today I'm remembering that classic metaphor of a pebble in a pond, how one bit of movement eventually reverberates throughout the entire pond. I haven't posted here in a while. Health issues have gotten in the way, the business of daily life, and an erroneous sense that it may not matter much - I should spend my time working on the next publishable book - like these blogs don't count as publication. Maybe only one other person is reading them.
It only takes two - though. Me and one other reader, two people in an interaction to make a synergistic change in the structure of what is happening everywhere. Two people can stir the pot. Two hearts beating love can change infinity.
(The picture is of artist Pat Olchefski-Winston and my teacher Erich Schiffmann in the yoga room in Montana.)
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Cancer
A friend of mine has cancer. We are not the grand creators. If we were there would be no such thing as cancer for instance. Sometimes when we find ourselves in insolvable situations it's tempting to blame the creator - to turn to the divine with anger, wondering loudly and defiantely "Why?"
When we are in such a state the whole karma, previous life explanation provides little comfort. Yes, it's possible that my actions from a past life (if I even care to buy in to that when I am feeling sick) could be affecting my experience now. Yet, even as I reject that my past lives are causing me to be vicitmized now, there is always the dance, the current connections and reconnections with various partners. The dance of action and reaction results in conflict.
What does it mean that we take our own churning, our own frustratins or failures and lay them on the people we love the most? When I engage in the blame dance, the thought is that I need to get away from them - and then that pain, that situation, that cancer will go away, but of course that's not how it works.
It matters less about the situation and more about whether we allow ourselves to be hoodwinked by our own smoke screen, our own negative inventions we throw onto the world as a form of pride and habit. It's a matter of perception. We may not be able to control the cancer, but we can control our own actions and reactions to it.
The real question in any disaster isn't "why" but "to what extent can we embody compassion?" Our actions, our ability to stop panicing and embrace what is actually happening with clarity without laying blame will always lead us away from despair and into truth.
When we are in such a state the whole karma, previous life explanation provides little comfort. Yes, it's possible that my actions from a past life (if I even care to buy in to that when I am feeling sick) could be affecting my experience now. Yet, even as I reject that my past lives are causing me to be vicitmized now, there is always the dance, the current connections and reconnections with various partners. The dance of action and reaction results in conflict.
What does it mean that we take our own churning, our own frustratins or failures and lay them on the people we love the most? When I engage in the blame dance, the thought is that I need to get away from them - and then that pain, that situation, that cancer will go away, but of course that's not how it works.
It matters less about the situation and more about whether we allow ourselves to be hoodwinked by our own smoke screen, our own negative inventions we throw onto the world as a form of pride and habit. It's a matter of perception. We may not be able to control the cancer, but we can control our own actions and reactions to it.
The real question in any disaster isn't "why" but "to what extent can we embody compassion?" Our actions, our ability to stop panicing and embrace what is actually happening with clarity without laying blame will always lead us away from despair and into truth.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Incomparable Acts of Kindness
Incomparable Acts of Kindness – Gifts from the Universe
My seventeen year old daughter who is a cooking aficionado decided to give my husband and me this amazing vegetarian dinner for Easter. She spent hours on her week off from school planning, shopping and preparing a “light Mediterranean feast” for just the three of us. On Easter Sunday we were served mushroom ravioli with sage cream sauce, grilled eggplant and zucchini marinated in a rosemary garlic oil, tomato soup prepared from fresh tomatoes, Greek salad topped with carefully roasted pine nuts and feta cheese, and then the crown jewel of it all – dessert – homemade apple pie with an almond, graham cracker crust she had rolled herself, and because according to her, every thorough chef should offer two desserts for a holiday meal, she topped it off with an Amoretti chocolate cake infused with freshly grated orange peels.
The meal was delicious, all the more satisfying because of its source. We tried to get her to hold hands to say a prayer of gratitude, but she reminded me that she is an atheist and such pomp and ceremony was entirely unnecessary. “Mom,” she reminded us when I gushed out my thanks to her for the effort, “I wanted to do it. I enjoy cooking.”
In the meantime, my mother-in-law got sick. There is a form of dementia that attacks and kills its victims in a matter of months, besetting them with unstoppable delusions and weakening their bodily systems to such an extent that it becomes impossible for them to breathe. Our family witnessed mom’s decline from an elegant, perfectly coiffed lady in purple into someone bedridden, reliant in the end on an oxygen tank. If I am truthful, I only visited a handful of times; often she didn’t know who I was. But I could tell she wanted to pray more than anything.
The first time it happened was before she was on hospice care, when she was still pretty much herself, just bedridden. I remembered the “Our Father” from my catholic upbringing; my mother-in-law is a staunch Methodist, but when we prayed together that first time, any prior conflict over religion dropped away. We held hands and repeated the familiar words together.
The last time I saw her she was unable to talk, and her glorious body had shrunken into a much smaller version of herself. I stood by the bed and said “hello.” The hospice worker informed me she could tell mom was responding to my voice – and then we watched as she lifted and moved her hand toward me with tremendous effort. It seemed like the most natural thing to do was take it and repeat the familiar words of the prayer. We could tell mom knew what was happening because her eyes flickered with understanding and finally tears. It’s a short prayer – the “Our Father,” – but it made a dramatic difference in the energy in the room. Everything felt instantly lighter.
It was an easy thing. It felt natural. In the end praying with my mother-in-law turned out to be an incomparable act of kindness, and I was the recipient. My mother-in-law is gone now but my interaction with her has taught me that small acts, acts we may not even think about too hard when they are happening, can make a permanent, tumultuous indent on the psycho sphere. When we catch ourselves in them, we should stop, feel the indelible beat of those delicate moments of grace, and embrace them.
My seventeen year old daughter who is a cooking aficionado decided to give my husband and me this amazing vegetarian dinner for Easter. She spent hours on her week off from school planning, shopping and preparing a “light Mediterranean feast” for just the three of us. On Easter Sunday we were served mushroom ravioli with sage cream sauce, grilled eggplant and zucchini marinated in a rosemary garlic oil, tomato soup prepared from fresh tomatoes, Greek salad topped with carefully roasted pine nuts and feta cheese, and then the crown jewel of it all – dessert – homemade apple pie with an almond, graham cracker crust she had rolled herself, and because according to her, every thorough chef should offer two desserts for a holiday meal, she topped it off with an Amoretti chocolate cake infused with freshly grated orange peels.
The meal was delicious, all the more satisfying because of its source. We tried to get her to hold hands to say a prayer of gratitude, but she reminded me that she is an atheist and such pomp and ceremony was entirely unnecessary. “Mom,” she reminded us when I gushed out my thanks to her for the effort, “I wanted to do it. I enjoy cooking.”
In the meantime, my mother-in-law got sick. There is a form of dementia that attacks and kills its victims in a matter of months, besetting them with unstoppable delusions and weakening their bodily systems to such an extent that it becomes impossible for them to breathe. Our family witnessed mom’s decline from an elegant, perfectly coiffed lady in purple into someone bedridden, reliant in the end on an oxygen tank. If I am truthful, I only visited a handful of times; often she didn’t know who I was. But I could tell she wanted to pray more than anything.
The first time it happened was before she was on hospice care, when she was still pretty much herself, just bedridden. I remembered the “Our Father” from my catholic upbringing; my mother-in-law is a staunch Methodist, but when we prayed together that first time, any prior conflict over religion dropped away. We held hands and repeated the familiar words together.
The last time I saw her she was unable to talk, and her glorious body had shrunken into a much smaller version of herself. I stood by the bed and said “hello.” The hospice worker informed me she could tell mom was responding to my voice – and then we watched as she lifted and moved her hand toward me with tremendous effort. It seemed like the most natural thing to do was take it and repeat the familiar words of the prayer. We could tell mom knew what was happening because her eyes flickered with understanding and finally tears. It’s a short prayer – the “Our Father,” – but it made a dramatic difference in the energy in the room. Everything felt instantly lighter.
It was an easy thing. It felt natural. In the end praying with my mother-in-law turned out to be an incomparable act of kindness, and I was the recipient. My mother-in-law is gone now but my interaction with her has taught me that small acts, acts we may not even think about too hard when they are happening, can make a permanent, tumultuous indent on the psycho sphere. When we catch ourselves in them, we should stop, feel the indelible beat of those delicate moments of grace, and embrace them.
Saturday, February 25, 2012
St. Teresa of Avila and the Bue Light
(Bernini's sculpture of St. Teresa matches the experience my latest character has with her own angel perfectly...)
It appears a bit to the left of my field of vision in my mind's eye. I say "mind's eye" because my eyes are closed when it happens. The blue light starts in the corner of my awareness, moves until it is right in front of me, and remains with me even as I open my eyes and look at the physical world.
The blue light before me is comforting and soothing, and I recognize it immediately as existing outside my body although I observe it using a point of awareness within my head.
I like it - this light. I can never predict exactly when it will come to me, only that I know it will come eventually - that it will begin as a pin prick of light and grow to the size of a small globe before me. The feeling of watching it, being aware of it, is softly pleasant.
And then, without a plan, or calculation on my part, he enters my awareness. I am conflicted about him, and so I hold back from the light. Communing with him seems inappropriate, as though it might threaten my relationship with my husband. I feel close to the being associated with the light, yet we exchange no more than a few bits of idle conversation. It's not like we speak about anything serious.
When the blue light leaves, I feel my shoulders tighten again. I get up and look at the flashing green numbers on the digital clock of our microwave: three o'clock in the morning. Merging with the light is an act of courage; it makes me wobbly in a good way.
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