Images




My spirit sings this morning through images. As I cut and paste chickadees chirp, hop above me like tiny cheerleaders. A squirrel scolds. I nod to the bushy-tailed creature. "Sorry. Perhaps today I'm your invitation to deal with irritation."

The smell of incense colors the air. I've reverently pinned my pettiness and ungratefulness onto the sweet stick before lighting the match. Smoke, and my foibles rise up, curl, dissipate.  I smile. Yet, this little ceremony of naming and honoring what needs releasing in me brings contentment and a whispered good bye.  Adios. Adieu. Slainte!

I cherish time for myself, where my soul deepens, my inner senses sharpen. Where I see myself as I am, both my light and my shadow. I name, welcome, integrate each part of myself. Let go when I can.  Radically accept what I can't. Ask for grace.

Images speak softly. Beauty. Mystery. Creativity. Stillness. Reverence. Humor. Fun. Fear. Strength. Desire. Solitude. Innocence. New beginnings. Old egoic patterns. Joy.

Yes to all that is life!

Joyfully,
Sharon


"Everything belongs" Richard Rohr

"People are like stained glass windows: They sparkle and shine when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light within."  Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

Nothing to Lose But Our Illusions

 
Nothing to Lose But Our Illusions

The above is not my title.  I found it in an advertisement flyer for the The SUN magazine. The title belongs to Derrick Jensen interviewing David Edwards.  Here is segment of interview -

  
Edwards: Once you start to see through the myth of status, possessions, and unlimited consumption as a path to happiness, you'll find that you have all kinds of freedom and time. It's like a deal you can make with the universe: I'll give up greed for freedom. Then you can start putting your time to good use. 

Jenson: And if someone says, "But the problems are so big, what can one person do?"

Edwards: Once you realize that helping others is also helping yourself, the size of the overall problems becomes irrelevant. You're not a one-man or one-woman army out to save the whole world. You help simply because it does good and it feels good.

These words caught my attention.  I've experienced moments of wanting to change the world, save the world.  Sometimes I ponder what greed holds me.  And, who doesn't want freedom?  

In the last few months, I've felt clingy.  The interview invites me to examine the relationship between clinging and greed. Was there a hint of greed in clinging to my old, sick dog, not wanting to let her go, or in clinging to familiar patterns of family, friendships, church, relating to others and not wanting things to change even while purposefully making new decisions, excited by personal growth, opportunities and healing relationships?   How does one discern the difference between healthy emotions of grief, achingly longing for a better world and unhealthy nostalgic clinging or entitled wanting?   One's interior can be a tricky landscape.   

I had a physical experience of clinging recently, clinging to a rock wall!  A few weeks ago, under the expert guidance of my sister, Elle, and brother-in-law, Rich, I tried rock wall climbing using a rope and harness. Halfway up, I couldn't find the next hand/toe hold. I froze.  Every cell of my body, especially my fingers and toes, remembers the clinging.  I responded, “I can't!" when Rich instructed me to make the next move.  Like my experience of being stuck on that rock wall,  I've been interiorly frozen in place, gripping the familiar, holding onto my thoughts-ideals-wants, trying to be open and free but unable to make anything change exteriorly or interiorly, tiring, yet afraid to let go and lean into the harness of life.  

Long before the rock wall experience, back when I first climbed into some real unknowns in my life, I remember eagerly embracing the concept of living the questions.  I even felt some pride in my ability to be at peace amid the questions. Then, fatigue set in. Irritation and frustration followed.  I'm reminded of the iconic story of the children of Israel wandering in the desert for forty years. As a kid in Sunday school I remember tuning out that story – who can take the hundredth telling of all that Israelite complaining and grumping?   Now, I just smile, seeing the human condition, seeing my own weariness in barren places. Like the Israelites, I easily become my wants.  Even my high ideals can become wants.  Is this also greed?    

I sense some interior shifting. This sense of easing up began before my rock wall climb. The actual climb has become symbolic, a marking of my intention toward greater self-awareness and growth, a way for my body to help move my soul along. Elle tells me the body is made for this, but often I forget this wisdom. I’ve intentionally put my body in positions of trust through yoga moves, prayer prostrations, using the lovely wooden kneeling meditation bench a friend made for me, but I easily forget other physical activities like running, walking, exercising, body rolling, massage and wall climbing can move me along as well. Fully integrating body, mind and soul is my growing edge. Perhaps my religious ancestors were wise to get up from their church bench, turn around, kneel on the floor and face the back of the bench during corporate prayer.  

I want to lose my illusions, let go of greed and clinging, but I also want to honor the difficulty of the process and be gentle when I find myself holding on.  Sometimes I'm simply unaware that I cling. Self-awareness takes time, courage, solitude and practice.  I bow in gratitude for every one and every thing companioning me in this process: every teacher, guide, pastor, family member, dog, bird, mountain, rock, river, flower and tree...every illness and interaction...every song, poem, word, hug, interruption and experience.  Okay, I admit my mind recoiled when typing ’interruption.'  My heart is truer than my smaller self, wanting to let go of irritation when I'm interrupted, so I allow my fingers to say the message first and trust my soul will move in that direction.     

In reflecting, I always come back to trusting life will bring exactly what I need to flourish and grow; sometimes the moves will be easy, as were my first spider-like moves up that rock wall.  Sometimes it will take more courage than I have and others will need to pull on the rope and help me move. Occasionally, I'll have no other option but to completely let go and fall into the harness. Then real stuff not illusions will hold me. Love. Awareness. Authenticity. Trust. Beauty. Goodness. Truth.   
                                                                

Joyfully,
Sharon         all photos on this page are courtesy of Elle Beiling      

~We inhabit ourselves without valuing ourselves, unable to see that here, now, this very moment is sacred; but once it's gone, its value is incontestable.             ~Joyce Carol Oates

~Dependence on God is not submitting to a greater force, or surrendering to a God who makes me do things against my will, or who will discipline me for every intention not fulfilled; it is just loving this wonderful and weird created world, accepting life as it unfolds (not being a door mat though), embracing what is, learning from mistakes and allowing Love to grow, without believing the illusion that I'm in control of everything."  Sharon         

~Be transformed by the renewing of your mind...        ~ Saint Paul, Romans 12:2

Poignant Moments

Every morning, for the last month, I see Dad's Braun shaver on my bathroom shelf.  When my siblings went through Dad's personal items, my husband, Jay, requested the shaver. We put it beside our stack of bathroom towels, knowing it needed cleaning before using or storing, but neither of us doing the job.  There it stayed a daily reminder of Dad.    

Immediately after his death, each glance of the shaver brought a wrench to my gut. Later, a tug in the heart.  Then, with each tug came memories: me as an awkward preteen watching Dad shave at the laundry sink, knowing each motion he would make, eagerly anticipating the opening of the cabinet and the splashing on of Aqua Velva. How I loved the smell of Aqua Velva mixed with the smell of his morning coffee!  Singing the Aqua Velva TV jingle with my sister, I was proud Dad used Aqua Velva because "there's something about an Aqua-Velva man." I remember watching Dad contort his mouth while shaving the cleft in his chin. How did he get all the hair out of that cavern of a cheek dimple?

Now, as I wonder if my brothers also watched him shave thus learning the manly morning ritual, I absent-mindedly pick up the shaver.  Suddenly, I'm propelled to the last memory of holding this in my hand shaving Dad a few days before he died.  Tears come as I remember his exhaustion from just moving his mouth around for me. I catch myself imitating his mouth shifting left as I hold the shaver up to the right side of my chin. Sad spell broken, I laugh, then purposely turn  it on and shave a swath of hair from my own cheek. I'm comforted with this mixing of my fine, feminine facial hair and his wiry, white beard stubble.  

Cupping the Braun in my hands, I think about him losing the ability to care for himself. I wonder if that was as hard for him as it was for mom. Even with advancing dementia mom could put words to her feelings.  "It's not right that daughters have to help a mom shower and comb her hair."   Dad never voiced much, but a sigh or a quickly exchanged glance communicated much tenderness, gratitude, vulnerability and pain.  Such unguarded glances usually brought tears to both pairs of eyes. Alas, I often opted not to catch too many of them.  I so wanted to protect his dignity.  I feel some regret over my opting out now, but I also respect the choice knowing such intimacy is both precious and sometimes too poignant to prolong.  I'm incredibly grateful for moments Dad allowed us to see his heart.  

Inhaling deeply, fortified with sweet memories, I'm ready to clean the shaver. I snap up the trimmer blade and stubble falls like snow. I'm shocked at the amount!  Each shake brings another cascade of hair snow until my sink is coated.  Again, tears prick my eyes. Dad was always so fastidious with his stuff. Illness and aging require much letting go. I unhook the little brush inside and begin brushing out more stubble.  Not long ago, Dad's left hand cradled this shaver as mine is doing, as his right hand brushed.  I can almost feel his rhythm.  Reverently, I brush the shaver clean, enjoying the scent of shaver and falling hair. 

Shaver cleaned, I run my hand through the fallen stubble. It's beautiful and gritty. Dad's DNA in my sink.  Related DNA in my body, in the hand hovering over the spigot. I feel connected. This moment is wondrous, yet utterly ordinary.   Like life, like death. Like every moment I choose awareness. 

I turn on the water and gently wash away my father's hair. Good bye again, Dad. I love you.
Sharon

 ~~~~~

"You're my kind of guy, I want you so,
baby everything about you is go, go, go,
With Aqua-Velva lotion the romance began
because there's something about an Aqua-Velva man!"    (TV jingle as I remember it. :)



Listen to your father who begot you, and do not despise your mother when she is old.
Proverbs 23.22

I pressed my father's hand and told him I would protect his memory. My father smiled and passed away to the spirit land. Chief Joseph

Waiting For Rain

There is a hush outside this morning. No bird chatter. Even squirrels stop their relentless gathering to ponder the gray canopy above. Bright streaks on the eastern horizon fade as grasses cling to single sparkles of dew. The countryside waits for rain.

Last week, I leaned into my car to retrieve something and rose too quickly smacking my head soundly on the way up. I automatically rubbed my stinging head. When I comb my hair, rub or scratch my head, I’m reminded of that painful smack. The bruise says pay attention! Why am surprised with each reminder my scalp is not fully healed? Perhaps the bump is symbolic of other bumps in which I’m expecting too much of my body, of myself.

I remember my illness that ended in surgery this past August. Repeated smacks to my physical body! I was mindful through the depression of illness, in listening to my body, honoring the need for surgery finally. The surgeon did a wonderful job and the ordeal wasn’t as dreadful as I anticipated. I’m surprised at the lingering bruise though.

Did I expect things to go the way of a surgeon’s simple descriptions? You lay flat on a table during anesthesia while the surgeon cuts away this and that organ, glues you up, then 4 days in the hospital, a week recovering at home, a month to get your energy back. Did I subconsciously hear ‘fixed, done - like in a month I’ll feel like surgery never happened?’ Modern medicine is amazing, and I certainly don’t want a doctor focusing on the bum side of surgery, but I long for a more realistic, holistic, respectful approach with professionals to walk with you through the whole realm of healing. Couldn’t there be hospice for the living and recovering?

My father died three weeks after my surgery. Death is a smack to the gut, to the heart. In the intensity of family gathering, planning services, sorting-cleaning out-finalizing details from a precious life, soaking up the outpouring of love from friends and extended family, in the miracle of my body functioning as well as it did, in all the grief and beauty, I lost myself.

Nature often reminds me of the power of a good pause. My soul waits with nature; not for rain, but for my interior to assimilate all that has piled up in my life. I need this pause in the moment too. Looking around, I’m astonished at the tiny whitecaps in the ripples of the lazy brook running through the meadow. And, when did the tip of the maple tree turn red? I don’t know what I’ll experience in this spiritual and literal pausing, only that I want to embrace it.

Joyfully,
Sharon

Legacy

                                             

     Legacy

My aging father

sadly said good bye to gardening

handing me brown-

skinned treasures;

his knobby hands cradle

tuberous bulbs.

His smile promises striking orange-pink.                                        

I plant, watching green blades

grow broad and abundant…

year after year,

lovely thick clumps with no blooms.

I wonder if Dad holds the secret

of gladioli. I mourn each season’s loss

plan to dig up, discard, but not yet.

This spring, I’m ill, vulnerable and

rich spikes with voluptuous buds

rise triumphantly above the green clumps.

I watch in wondrous anticipation.

Perhaps the secret

is in letting go. No wonder glads

have become memorial flowers!

My heart swells with promises

of orange-pink while knowing

I patiently loved only green.

Dad’s legacy lives in orange-pink

promises, in lush green letting go,

in growing in wisdom and dignity.   

                                                        

                               

Love you, Dad….sharon

May I be Awake to the Presence

A cardinal calls from high in the Silver Maple the sound delicate and musical.

Uncaring, or competing, our golden banty rooster awkwardly flap-flies to the top of a fence post. His position is at least eight feet lower than the cardinal, but high enough for morning cockiness in surveying his kingdom. Fat black hens cluck and scratch below salvaging fallen seed from the bird feeder. Banty Boy crows, neck stretched, chest thrust so far forward his scrawny toes clutch wood to keep from toppling.

I smile at his swagger, his chicken testosterone, his little bird brain with no clue he’s too small to breed the fat hens he primps to impress. I’m grateful he decorates the fence. He belongs in my garden as much as the beautiful red cardinal. I am awake to the presence of Love.

                                                     

I’ve stopped counting the times I’ve heard this phrase: May God be with you. It’s a lovely phrase and I know what is meant by it, but I like rephrasing it to this: “May I be aware of Love’s presence.” If I believe God or Divine Love is closer than my own breath, how could God not go with me, with you? When God feels distant, and I feel separated from love, I usually catch myself sleep walking through life, numbed by wants, shoulds, schedules or difficulties. When I shake myself awake, Love is right there. I like the reminder to remain awake to the Presence of Love, that constant energy force around me, around you, surrounding all. Perhaps the common phrase: may the Force be with you, could also become - may I be aware of the Force!

May our awareness and awakening impact the world!

Joyfully,
Sharon


“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go out and do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”     Howard Thurman

 
 
 

Blogging Hiatus

As you can tell, I haven't been blogging.  Not sure when I'll return...there is much happening in my life: hubby's job changed (which amazingly changes everything!), other writing projects, my own joyful immersion in spring and my gardens, and some things I'd rather not 'be with' but life happens and I do my best to accept. Until we meet here again...

Joyfully,
Sharon

If the sight of the blue skies fills you with joy, if a blade of grass springing up in the fields has power to move you, if the simple things in nature have a message you understand, rejoice, for your soul is alive.      Eleanora Duse