HOW TO SAY "Yes!" TO LIFE

Pay attention. Watch for bluebirds                                         

and trains. Distant train whistles are soulful

echoes; speeding cars delight little

boys. Blue wings beat out the rhythm and

colors of hope. Notice the plump song

sparrow - a little body pumping out

music. Trains and birds are accordions, holding

our collective breaths before transforming

us into dance tunes.    

 

Show up. Count the eyelashes on a

sleeping child. Catch the smile of your

suckling babe, when the tiny mouth

opens wide, spilling milk from cherub

lips that dribble down your breast all

sticky, gross and indescribably

precious. Be pen and paper for the

last requests of one you love.

Smooth your hands over your body.

photo by Stephanie Landis

Let hands say with fondness  -my body has

many parts. Marvel over the lines and detail,

having a toddler's no shame. Then, being

gassy is only "peeping."  And, maybe even

marvelous like horses exploding 

into a gallop.

                                                                   

Play with your shadows. Invite your inner 

multitudes to dinner. Notice how love, 

ymiu.com clip art

like sunlight and your own position, 

lengthens or shortens your characters.

Use your best china on colorful linen

cloth. Introduce yourself to yourself; get

to know humanity this way, through honesty,

acceptance, compassion.  

 

Be gentle. Always and above all, be
tender, easy, forgiving your processes, your
angst, your temper, your struggle to love. As you 
do with you, so shall you offer to others. Throw 
away your measuring stick; fling your soul wide 
awake. Embrace what is, stomp and kick your way 
to acceptance. Or sigh.

When stuck in the mud trumpet loudly.

Ask for help from the herd. Do your 

hard inner work. And then watch Tim

Conway's Elephant Story outtakes. Laugh,

cry. Wear your heart on your sleeve right

beside the washable dragon tattoo. Set your

Facebook account to pirate lingo.

Listen with your heart to the song of the

moon. It will drop your jaw, like Richard 

Strauss music.  So will the gak gak! of a 

crow harassing an eagle in mid-flight. Lie

on the beach under the splash of milky way,

listening to the night sky. Hear the sound

a soul makes when awed.

Stay with what's uncomfortable. Put 
up a bluebird feeder and nest box for
your dying wife, knowing every time a
bluebird feeds, builds, your heart will rip
apart with loss and love. Allow your farm 
dogs to hunt groundhogs. Gentle souls 
can know reality; predators can lay across 
your lap, cozy. If you turn away, hurl up 
your pancakes after the first kill, embrace the paradox. Somehow, it all belongs.   

Say goodbye. No matter how hard or 
full of weeps. Build monuments, cairns of
stone or shell. Gather wood. Stand around
the funeral pyre, the birthing table too, and give honor, thanks, dignity. Record your steps. Plant trees, light the fire, look deeply into eyes of loss and place, of memories, of hellos and dreams. Then, when it's time to move on, say goodbye firmly.  

Open your heart.  Let that movie in, fully. Lay 
down your armor; bring tissues, let stories stir 
you to action or sleeplessness. Especially, when 
the little one trips into your room rem-stage 
sleep, and throws up undigested pieces of the day 
on your good quilt.  Hold the sobbing girl, depressed, 
anxious, let her heart open yours. Lie on the 
green grass and stare at the sky, until your heart is wide and expansive. 

Cultivate wisdom. Roll over and play dead

when needed. Say no frequently, so your 

yes can be wholehearted; aren’t those fully alive

attractive? And, every time you take off your

shoes, or fall asleep, or sigh into a yoga pose,

practice dying. Slip off whatever is too tight,

and breathe, knowing in your soul – 

after the pinch - freedom!

Honoring the life of the newest angel in our family- Elaine, much loved and newly released from this earth. 

A Bluebird Hears My Heart

photo by Mim Hurst

Bluebird, bluebird through my window

Bluebird, bluebird through my window

Bluebird, bluebird through my window

Oh Johnny, I am tired.

My daughter, Stephanie, and I were talking about my new bluebird feeder and how much I hoped to lure bluebirds to our meadow. We started singing the children’s ditty above, but couldn't remember the second verse:

Find a little friend and ……

Find a little friend and….

Steph offered- “....and put ‘em in your pocket”

I shook my head. Those are words to the song Catch a Falling Star. Again we sang hoping the melody would trigger our memory. Suddenly, we heard a soft childish voice and realized my grandson had been finishing our phrase quietly in the background:  “Find a little friend and tap her on the shoulder!” 

We hadn't heard him as we were engrossed in our exchanges. Delighted, we tapped him on the shoulder, then hugged and tickled him in celebration of his cleverness. He squealed his happy response!   

Kids remind us how often we don't pay attention to the smallest voice. We hear what we want to hear, give attention to what we deem important or on all the externals, and miss the inner, the quiet, possibly the most profound.

Truthfully, I love deep listening. I tend to be good at picking up on what others miss. I’m not so good that I don’t need reminders, though. It’s been a deep listening kind of winter.  Cold, endlessly windy and snowy, I’ve sat by the hearth of my heart- warmed by internal fires - and did inner house cleaning.  I’ve listened and noticed, allowed some difficult transforming and releasing of old stuff.  So much so, that I want to be DONE with the season.

My body and soul longed for spring. 

So, I prayed for blue birds. Praying involves doing what I can do provide food and habitat, then lovingly sending out a call to the bluebirds. It involves waiting, watching, trying to let go of all demands on said bluebirds. Why should I mess with their lives making them help me cope with mine?  I peek out the window frequently though, and hold my breath, as it's possible to be obsessive and impatient while letting go.

As I mentioned before, it’s been a horrid winter. The snow never ended. People died. My family received news of my sister-in-law’s end stage cancer. Other difficulties were challenging. Interior shifts unsettled me. I often felt helpless and discouraged. I thought I needed a sign of hope, of new life, of spring after this long grunt of a season, so I prayed for bluebirds.

I’m thrilled to announce: A PAIR OF BLUEBIRDS FOUND MY FEEDER TODAY!!!!

I watched them this morning, skin tingling with wonder, as the male bird tenderly fed his mate a meal worm.

His loving attention reminded me of my brother’s tender care of his beloved, dying wife.  Some churches practice washing each other’s feet as a reminder of the call to service during holy week. Foot washing isn't always nice; it requires humility, love, and staying with what is uncomfortable. My brother, and maybe this blue bird, are doing ‘foot washing’ in real life. 

As I watched, I asked the pair of birds to choose my nest box to nest to raise a family, even while knowing the fleeting beauty of the moment. I know I can’t pray and summon anything. If I could I would instantly heal my brother’s wife. And my cousin and all my family and friends.  

Once in a while, when I am vulnerable and open, something unexpected and wonderful happens. Something comes as pure gift, an intersection of my asking, my receptiveness and Divine outpouring. A bluebird hears my heart. Or another small miracle – marvelous but, easily missed. Like a bit of synchronicity, a child’s delightful whisper, a Divine consolation or soulful contemplation. All bring a goose bumpy sense of timelessness and connectedness to love.

Bluebird on Holly, photo by Mim Hurst

All this blue bird longing made me curious, so I looked up “bluebird” on a dream symbol website. “To see a bluebird in your dream symbolizes both happiness and sadness. It is also an indication of purification and resolution to the opposing conflicts/paradoxes in your life.”  Day dreams and longings must count, because happy and sad – yes indeed!  

Like Jude singing the song lines for me, my body and soul have wisdom my mind hasn't grasped. My body and soul know what I need to more fully lament and rejoice. Like a small child’s voice, intuitions and longings, bring wisdom and encouragement.  This is the voice of God in my life, the voice of love, helping me notice, hold the moment, and at least know somewhat of a desire to not clutch or grasp.   

My winter was full of purification – a task I may never truly finish – but I am finished with winter.  

Whether or not the pair stay, THIS is the season for new life, for hope  .....and for bluebirds!  

carolinabirdclub.org

Emergence

Photo by Stephanie Landis

Emergence

Waiting. Body still, eyes

absorbing the quiet morning; thirsty soul drinks in the beauty. Yesterday’s snow laces

the pines, a thin veil of cloud mists the sunrise. Moments later, sky brightens, revealing snow geese silhouetted by gray light.

Their honks beat

a longing in my soul- oh how

I ache to fly with white wing, up and up,

soar! Belonging - right there third in the row –

following the impossible

 pull of instinct, urgency.

housefinch eggs: photo by Stephanie Landis

Does spring pulse in my

soul, tugging me toward conception, nesting,

a turning and breaking of shells?  

First, I must work for emerging,

struggle, grieve the loss of womb, cave, 

hearth. I tremble, even as I stretch

toward what is dawning.  Dreams 

incubate, impatient to pip. Embracing reality

- challenge enough. How do I engage what  

is forming, stuff too new own?  Too 

strange, unfamiliar, so downy

and vulnerable.

I weep my goodbyes, reach 

for tomorrow, catching hints of 

yellow, newlings tumbling 

about, tripping through grasses,

bobbing on currents, comforted under wings

surprisingly there. Feasting on life, and

the softness of Mother.

photo by Owen Newman

Sweet Cauldron of Wonder

It's snowing; winter is dragging on. I must play to remain sane. I'm far too serious much of the time anyway, so a 'play' reminder is good. Even when life is difficult, maybe especially then, I must play.  

Some of the photos in this blog post are from a personal retreat. One is from this snowy day. The poetry is a free write assignment from an Abbey of the Arts online retreat:  The Soul's Slow Ripening: A Lenten Retreat.  (scroll down for links)  I combined things from both retreats, and managed to do what was suggested while not doing what was suggested. Love when that happens! 

My heart sings and plays when writing poetry. Even when I'm not very good. May you find some joy in my playful, 

poetic becoming  ..... 

~ ~ ~ 

Fire Within

I am a silhouette, illuminated

by Fire within, and by

Spirit walking, breathing,

praying me on,

from behind. 

                                                                             ~ ~ ~

Sweet Cauldron of Wonder

I am a curtain,

canvass for the sun

who playfully paints me

with Light. Draws

me in waves, like S’s, and

calls my name: Soul. Sharon.

Sweet cauldron of wonder.

                                                                       ~ ~ ~

For Liza

I am puppy.

Vulnerable, self-centered, needing

love, life lessons, consistency,

and wild, succulent play!

I am pure POTENTIAL.

First following God properly

on the left; perfect heeling position.

Only to break out, forgetting left.

Nipping at God’s heel, driving, wanting,

controlling. And God whips around,

laughing. Surprised, I fall into obedience.

But, Love sends me ahead. Confused, I wait.

Love encourages, motions me onward, smiling.

Scampering ahead, a new game!  This

puppy body pays attention.

Somehow, with false starts, sudden finishes,

spiraling path, Life walks behind me, showing

which way to turn. How to trudge, to heal.  

Mourn, play; stop.  And when to simply sail,

empowered by Spirit’s breath. I am puppy!

Miraculously, finding boats forming

under my quivering animal body. 

                                                ~ ~ ~ 

Links:

~  Retreat in Lancaster, PA city - A place for solitude, soul tending and refreshment.    http://tendingplace.weebly.com/

~  Abbey of the Arts - Transformative living through contemplative and expressive arts.   http://abbeyofthearts.com/

Ugly Art?

Art and dreams are full of symbolism. Some language is
 deeper than words; imagines can help us express what we 
know.

                           







  I made the following collage for three reasons.....

One, to express the depths of my sorrow over world events. Two, to express the rawness that I feel knowing of my sister-in-law's sudden diagnosis of pancreatic cancer. And, three, to express lament over this winter that never ends, the frozen pipes, poorly insulated 164 yr old farmhouse that can't keep out the bone chilling temps, endless other farm hassles, the budget in the red, and my all round crappy day filled with puppy digging in my potted fig tree (3x!) and grandson's naughtiness. Including pushing down the puppy gate that guards the fig tree. Meltdowns. One because the bright colored plastic tape strips he's trying to stick on the floor get wrinkles in them!  

 

Actually, I had four reasons. Number four- I've been waiting for time and inspiration to make a prayer mandala for the online retreat I'm participating in, called Sacred Seasons: A Yearlong Journey through the Celtic Wheel of the Year, offered through Abbey of the Arts. 

I had some time on Ash Wednesday, so I made the collage, and posted it to Facebook, writing, "so appropriate as I feel like a pile of ashes. So many discouragements. Instead of groaning and ranting and smacking....well okay I did rant to the farmer and I might have smacked a toe when I kicked a chunk of ice embedded in a snow drift on our morning walk......but instead of dwelling in that misery, I sent cards to my brother and sister in law, misted my gorgeous better-late-then-never blooming Christmas cactus. Now, I'm going to sit on my sunny window sill and make some ugly art. Some very ugly, messy, ashy art. Maybe when I'm done, I'll be able to rise from the ashes and continue to wait for spring.

This is my Imbolic - Candlemas Prayer Collage. It's not what I expected but what I accept.

Shockingly, as I uploaded this on my computer and brought the collage up on my screen, giant water drops like tears seemed to fall out of that eye image to roll down the screen. I freaked out a little -it seemed like God was crying too. Then I saw the pot I had just put on the kitchen pot rack above me was dripping water - not completely dry out of the dishwasher. What a powerful 'image' though, of  Universal lament. 

The suggestion after creating the collage was to write what our soul is experiencing - to deeply engage each image in the collage.  So I wrote this: 

"I am blue. Heart blue of pain and violence, tears blue as my sister-in-law is facing stage 4 pancreatic cancer. I am the moans of my brother watching his wife suffer. I am the scream thundering from my belly, raw and angry, sick of cold and winter. I am my grandson throwing a tantrum. I am spikes of exhaustion. I am silver lashes viewing life, seeing with the eyes of my heart. I am orange fire and presence. I am silver ash, chaff burning away. I am yoga, bending and breathing and not ripping. I am red shards my grandson cuts into my life: heights of love and depths of frustration. I am an exclamation point. I am crazy tangles of joy and grief and anger. I am a snowflake's spectacular beauty. I am pink sunrises and glimmers of red, like cardinals, like hope, hiding between branches. And I am fine, a human being fully alive."

After my Facebook posting a friend wondered why I called it ugly art? I originally called it bad art, but changed to ugly. The question made me realize both of those words are not descriptive of my intention to make something opposite from soft, flowing or pretty. Or nice, or positive or unbeat and victoriously Christian. Right then, I needed to make something s-h-a-r-d-y, with edges and closer to a  S C R E A M  than sweetness and joy. 

Screams too, belong......


                          ...... laments have their place.  Just ask my brother, or any kid. While I love some parts of winter.....this winter I may just want to scream until spring!!!!   

                       

CROWNS AND POPSICLES DO NOT PREVENT TEARS

Yesterday, our place was full of happy chaos! Mostly happy, anyway.   

A puppy pounced on a squeaky toy pulled by three laughing, calling kids. Spilled milk from a toddler’s cup puddled on the counter then followed the slight incline of old farmhouse from counter top to floor as Papaw ran for a towel. Nana followed giggly voices attached to skittering feet, closely observing the erratic race through the house.  She watched for signs of puppy bites to little ankles or children jostling too much.

In the midst of all the happy cavorting of said children and puppy, suddenly, one grandchild, a girl with sunshine for hair stopped running, fell to her knees beside one fire engine riding toy, and peered under the seat. Gleefully, she began scooping up handfuls of brilliantly colored, white-numbered dice and plunked them into a nearby red bucket.  All action halted instantly at the sound of dice hitting tin.

 

Puppy was curious, the small boy horrified.  His trunk was being looted right before his eyes, and his hidden treasures pirated.  Loud, mournful wails replaced the tinkling-on- tin as his small arm heaved backward readying for delivery of a sound thrashing to the golden head in front of him.

Nana intervened, swooping the indignant one up in her arms. Tears gushed down small cheeks as stammered words proclaimed ownership of all colored dice. The golden girl stood, then, offering her own condolences.  Nana, looked into the eyes of her youngest grandchild.

“I understand how hard this is for you,” she said.  “You may say you don’t like this.” (Nana loves how the small boy’s mommy tells him this when he is asked to do something he won’t appreciate, so she copies her style style.)

“I don’t yike this!” Boy quickly exclaims.  Nana gently continues.

“These toys are not really yours; they belong to Nana and Papaw. They seem like yours because you play with them more than your cousins do. Since you weren’t playing with the dice at the moment, it’s okay for her to play with them.  Sometimes, it’s best to share and other times it’s best to put our favorite toys away and not share. Tonight is the night for sharing though. Okay?”  

He meant to say, okay, but the o got stuck in his in his mouth as a fresh round of sorrow overtook him: Oooooooooooooo.  And then, he quieted, and spoke clearly.

“I need a pophickle.” The popsicle thought reminded his heart of the hurt so the wailing began again.  Since the conversation seemed more interesting than dice, the golden girl remained by our side.  

And this is where "I" -Nana - have this moment of the day in a freeze frame.  You know how clarity hits you smack in the heart sometimes?  Time seems to stand still?  It happened to me, right  here in this moment.

“Why do you need a popsicle, dear?” I ask. 

“Becuz, I’m sad.”  He draws out the word sad, drops his head and his eyes, tears hesitating on his lashes. When I’m silent, he looks up at me, his mouth crumbled, cheeks wet, brown eyes round and wide. 

Oh, he is good, this darling child who has observed human behavior for three long years. He is completely genuine too. There is absolutely no guile, no conniving in this child. His emotion is pure, raw, and yet, studied. Everything he’s learned up to this very moment is coming into play. Everything, we adults have taught him, by our actions, the TV shows we set before him, the subtle and obvious ways we tease, coerce or gently manipulate others.  He is simply mirroring it all back to us, with perfection. Why should he not be rewarded? 

The combination of angst, imitating, and 3 year old logic is deadly effective.  Many a weary adult has succumbed, myself included.  I confess my mind would love to stop it all here and be able to analyze into a sort of play by play. I wish I had years of study in psychology and human behavior to eloquently express all that I know and feel about this simple moment.  

Will I give him a popsicle?  Will I allow food - sugar and fat - to comfort him in his hour of need?  Will I choose food over honest human connection?  Will I slap a treat in his hands instead of walking deeper into this moment of discomfort with him?  

Frankly, I am tired. It’s been a long day of sopping wet snow suits, muddy boots, of lifting heavy snow balls to build a snowperson, of getting out snack after snack and cleaning up spills, of scolding the girls for getting homemade Gunk on their good shirts, of separating puppy teeth from pink mittens, of stopping the boy from jumping on girls and knocking their heads into giant sized goose eggs.

My lesser self want to give the popsicle.  After all, from his crawling about until now, every scrape he’s had involving the mouth or head involved something cold and icy to stop swelling and comfort the bruise. Why not continue the trend? It’s quite logical on his part to receive a popsicle also for his bruised heart. It would instantly turn tears to smiles, and buy me some time while I manage the puppy and the other two kids.  Besides, comfort food is what our whole culture pushes, right?  It’s what I grew up on.  Food = love and love = food.  Doesn't more connection happen around a table or a fire pit, then from silently sharing some space or from talking heart to heart?

I decide I’m wearier of my own food obsessions and conditionings, so I kiss his wet cheeks, hug him tight and set the timer.  His little face shows intrigue.

“When this timer goes off, we’ll decide if we are hungry. Until then, let’s read a book and snuggle on the sofa!” 

Time moved on then, the moment passed. Nana read the picture book, “The Crown on Your Head”

to the brown eyed boy and blonde headed girl, while the puppy chewed contentedly on a cow hoof she purposely dropped on the way to the book shelf, and the older child contented herself with a book of her own choosing.

After the book, the children felt and looked for their crowns. Nana told them how sparkly and special were their crowns.

 And later, when they decided they were hungry, Nana and Papaw pulled out a box of tiny cones and filled them with vanilla and chocolate ice cream!