tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30587537424492164762024-03-05T19:29:22.468-05:00Everyday HappeningsWritings from my corner of the worldheartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-39928033890072198662018-11-02T16:16:00.001-04:002018-11-02T16:18:05.152-04:00SamsonLife has been moving too fast. Too many moving parts. Slowing body. Maybe a slowing mind.<br />
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I have been remiss in writing about a very quiet, soulful companion in my midst. And, I am feeling badly that I am just doing this.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBYPB3zSgZamEJy_DWQlptR3bfPMUeWXsdcQtvj48tDYDHV5TevTBWLyzer-Ipe4A3EJWOsnPSn1QBD92yGB010A1MSFUWDbpgsh7okmsAtnBPM-dCt4DiAnHF4fcJUcwsi6GIoSTl6UI/s1600/DSC09861.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBYPB3zSgZamEJy_DWQlptR3bfPMUeWXsdcQtvj48tDYDHV5TevTBWLyzer-Ipe4A3EJWOsnPSn1QBD92yGB010A1MSFUWDbpgsh7okmsAtnBPM-dCt4DiAnHF4fcJUcwsi6GIoSTl6UI/s320/DSC09861.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Samson</td></tr>
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You see, Samson became a part of my family and work on December 26, 2016. Another rescue collie with low vision and entering his mid-life, at 6 yrs of age. A sweet, anxious but quiet guy. Big guy for a collie at 78 lbs when I first got him. Down from 100 lbs when the rescue folks took him in and fostered him for 8 months. He's weighing in at 68 and with muscle loss this summer/fall. Slowing down. Hearing worse, vision about gone. He's only 8 yrs old now.<br />
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His story was that a family got him and put him in a small backyard pen. They fed and watered him. He's never really responded to his name. They never realized that he had low vision. A neighbor encouraged them to surrender him to Collie Rescue Inc. where they worked to socialize, groom and provide physical care for him.<br />
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It had been almost one year since Finn had passed when I was ready to have another dog. That time coincided with his availability.<br />
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Other than his anxiety with being left alone and thunderstorms, he is a very gentle, quiet soul. I learned early on that he could be trusted to be in the counseling session with me, seeking a pet on the head, and then lying down. He also let children play with him, brush his hair and read to him in sessions.<br />
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He's been such a sweet guy.<br />
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And now he's entering some pretty serious health issues. No clear diagnosis since this summer. But it's now clear that his life is winding down. This week it came to a head. Vets. Urgent care vet centers. Mixed diagnosis. Xrays showing big changes. Meds won't fix. Surgeries dangerous. Maybe cancer. Maybe something else that isn't good, either. Not good.<br />
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And my mind is saying: too soon, too soon.<br />
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All of this is taking place during the week of Halloween, All Saints Day and All Souls Day. This is the week where some traditions end the year or begin to enter the time of endings.<br />
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This autumn is still warm. Trees are 2-3 weeks late in turning. There is a feeling that maybe we can fool winter. Maybe we can fool Death. Life goes on forever. Doesn't it?<br />
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Alas, our forms are always changing. Eventually, we - every living thing - has a date with ending, ends, the end.<br />
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Samson. Beautiful Samson. You are still here for now. I am still here for now. Such gratitude for your gift of living with us. Such gratitude for your enormous, gentle soul.<br />
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heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-51797019192993649012018-10-13T17:40:00.001-04:002018-10-13T19:47:14.681-04:00Deep Fried Love and a Condiment birthday<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Another birthday arrived. Heinz 57. Ketchup. Catsup. Goes with everything. Well almost. Always catching up. The condiment, never the main dish. Grilled. Baked. Crispy and fried is better.<br />
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In my family, people take sides over condiments. One side uses ketchup on everything except ice cream. Another side used a dislike for condiments as a requirement on their internet dating profile and got a condiment-hating partner to marry. I'm somewhere in the middle of the condiment preferences.<br />
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Expectations. Hopes and dreams. 57 years of breathing air on this earth. Grains of sand draining away. What to make of this?<br />
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I had planned a trip during my birthday for a 2-day workshop in MN, a state I had never visited. I justified this trip as "self-care," but was finding it increasingly too much work to pull off feeling like this was self-care.<br />
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Then I think of climate change and how it is to be on a jet with those contrails across the sky. This can't be good for the environment. I just read a report that we have been given until 2030 to figure out how to turn around our bad habits before it becomes too late. I have kids and grandkids and love lots of other people who are likely to have to deal with this mess, even if I don't. And, 2030 isn't that far away!<br />
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So, I did a retreat from home. Sylvia Boorstein has a nice little book on doing just that. I thought that I would use metta practice (a form of prayer) throughout the sitting, walking, eating, sitting, walking working, sitting times. At the end of the day, I'd practice the transforming suffering method of tonglen to work with a challenging situation. Instead, I found in my mailbox a poem from Brother Steindl-Rast's Gratitude newsletter. The poem is about the grace of forgetting all the things that have built walls in our lives and finding the freedom to live and love without those burdens. <a href="https://ahundredfallingveils.com/2013/06/11/one-morning/" target="_blank">One Morning by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer</a> I dropped my plans of metta and tonglen practice.<br />
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As I sat and walked, I read the poem before each sitting practice. And let the words seep into unseen places, long loosened up by years of such a longing. I found a volunteer purple basil plant blooming in from a crack where the garage and driveway come together during my walking meditation. How had I missed her? I carefully tugged her free and replanted her before autumn's frost claimed her.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Poster-sized card from Partner for last year's birthday</td></tr>
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By the end of the day, I was surprised that a new word entered my being. Delight! Yes, delight. I had been released from the burden of words and managing relationships and work and the world during meditation. Just being was more than enough. And, delight showed up.<br />
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Funny thing is that Partner has seen this for a long time. Delightful. A theme for last year's birthday poster he made for me. He said I've always been my own worst enemy. My "word" for 2017 and until now: Devotion. Devotion to God. Devotion to Love. Devotion to Life. Dropping the unnecessary, torturous judgements, criticisms, delusions, etc., for a day anyway. How sweet this openness to delight. Wonder is right beside it. Partner has been waiting for this awareness to arise for a very long time.<br />
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Wait. Watch for it... See how rich and thick I am being poured out into this life! It's a fine way to celebrate a condiment kind of birthday over this deep fried life of mine.<br />
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Did I mention that a shared root for delight is delicious? Ohhh, yummy. So tasty. Babies, dogs, old people, young people, lovers, the seen and the unseen, cranky coots, crones, ... all part of the great universe's menu.<br />
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When my husband asked his mother how to know if he was in love when we were dating, she responded, "Could you eat her up?" I guess he decided he could, because we've been married for 37 years during the lean, tough years as well as the rich and full times.<br />
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May we walk each other home together in love and without walls. May we see the Divine in and through each other. May we see Life and Love in all beings. May it be so.<br />
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heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-81387656423120451742018-03-20T19:39:00.002-04:002018-03-20T19:39:13.363-04:00The way of peace<div style="border-image: none;">
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This was written December 17, 2017. Today is the first day of spring and we are having our biggest snow this year. I found the time to actually get this posted. Enjoy. </div>
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Sitting here in the grey cold of the 3rd Sunday in Advent, the joyful candle is lit. (I'm still cold.)</div>
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A local United Church of Christ congregation has become a favorite place to worship. I probably get there once a month. This was a good Sunday to go. A retired pastor leads the service once a month. He has an amazing gift for speaking truth in the most gentle and loving ways.</div>
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The scripture we worked with today was from Luke. Zechariah had regained his voice after losing it when he blew off the angel Gabriel (God's messenger angel) saying he and his wife were too old for this promise of a baby. He regained his voice after the surprise baby was born and he wrote the name "John," as in John the Baptist, down as informed by the angel's visit. Only then did he regained his voice.</div>
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There is so much to that about doubt, bitterness, loss of heart, and, ultimately, humility. I was thinking as the pastor retold that story, that God basically was saying to Zechariah, "You go and think about who is in charge here," when he lost his voice.</div>
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The primarily focus today was on Zechariah's praises to God once he received his voice. How amazing that his view was on tender mercy and hope in the face of life's challenges ending with this as a path of peace.</div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 500; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px 0px 20px;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="passage-display-bcv" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline; margin: 0px; padding-right: 10px;">Luke 1:78-79</span><span class="passage-display-version" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline;">English Standard Version</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="text Luke-1-78" id="en-ESV-24963" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">because of the <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-24963A" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-24963A" title="See cross-reference A">A</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>tender mercy of our God,</span></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="indent-1-breaks" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 0;"> </span><span class="text Luke-1-78" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">when the sunrise shall dawn upon us <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-24963D" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-24963D" title="See cross-reference D">D</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>from on high </span></span></span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="text Luke-1-78" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="text Luke-1-79" id="en-ESV-24964" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">to <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-24964E" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-24964E" title="See cross-reference E">E</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>give light to <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-24964F" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-24964F" title="See cross-reference F">F</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, </span></span></span></span><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="text Luke-1-78" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span class="indent-1" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box;"><span class="text Luke-1-79" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; position: relative;">to guide our feet into <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-24964G" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-24964G" title="See cross-reference G">G</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>the way of <span class="crossreference" data-cr="#cen-ESV-24964H" data-link="(<a href="#cen-ESV-24964H" title="See cross-reference H">H</a>)" style="box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 22px; position: relative; top: 0px; vertical-align: top;"></span>peace.”</span></span></span></span></span></blockquote>
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<h1 class="passage-display" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; font-weight: 500; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px 0px 20px;">
<span class="passage-display-version" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: border-box; display: inline;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;">Last week, I was up early and got to see the dawning of the sunrise in the southeastern horizon. A bright reddish-orange ball of fire arising. Gorgeous. Optimistic. We made it through another day and night to the dawning of a new day.</span></span></h1>
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Something about the words of kindness, hope, love in the midst of the cold, hard times of winter, ...life. Both Partner and I were quietly crying, tears rolling down our faces. Such medicine, these words. </div>
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What does it mean to be faithful to the hope and love of a Power greater than me or us? Zechariah had been faithful and good and was a little bitter and disbelieving. </div>
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<em style="background-color: white;">In the Advent seasons, when the past has fled, unasked, away<br />and there is nothing left to do but wait,<br />God, shelter us.<br />Be our surrounding darkness;<br />be the fertile soil out of which hope springs in due time.<br />In the uncertain times, help us to greet the dawn and labor on, love on,<br />in faith awaiting your purpose hid in you<br />waiting to be born in due time.</em><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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There is a special kind of silence in this prayer written above by Ruth Duck that was used in today's service. The dark shows up where there appears to be no movement, no hope, and time isn't ours. Important life is forming, maybe completely undoing and being something else entirely. We are being reformed.</div>
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My own prayer goes like this:</div>
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Lord, give me the strength to be patient with what I don't have control over<br />
and an ability to appreciate the winter dawn as the potent day it is with its' deeper night wrapped around it. Sometimes these days are covered in ice and snow and grey skies that fool me into thinking that each day is just like any other day - a time to keep the pace of peak sunshine and weather going as if I were immortal and the days long.</blockquote>
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Help me remember that people across time and cultures slowed down for storytelling, and "chillin" out, a kind of medicine in its own right. May this time of story and renewal be deeply healing. May those with eyes to see and ears to hear absorb what is needed, what prayer God is answering. May our feet be guided into the way of Peace. May our souls be filled with love and new life. </blockquote>
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Amen (may it be so).</blockquote>
heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-31110798120796675122017-11-15T12:43:00.001-05:002017-11-15T12:43:17.744-05:00Love reflects LoveThere are so many teachings of Jesus that have impacted me - pointing to how we care for each other - ourselves, our friends, our neighbors, strangers, and our enemies. Jesus's words are like the air I breath.<br />
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A fundamental understanding of Buddhism is that change is inevitable. It's what we do with change that matters.<br />
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A driving question in my life has been: Where are my people?</div>
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On this day, it is with souls in the warmth of a living room on a foggy, rainy day.</div>
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A small group of people met for worship in the home of one of us preparing to enter a hospice facility this week. Everyone in the circle has decades of shared joys and sorrows, celebrations and troubles, and the thick soup of life.<br />
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I am reflecting on the changes and the fundamental truths that got me to this point. While I moved my Quaker membership to another meeting 8 years ago, it is this group with whom I spent 20 years of my formative adult years and with whom were called to worship during this particular day. </div>
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Some of us had shared in a Marriage Enrichment training and kept up with potlucks and practicing "the skills" for several years beyond the initial training as we coped with raising kids, working, and trying to get along with our partners. (Okay, sometimes we wanted to kill our beloved or leave them.) Others had not participated in that group, but had served on committees together, raised our kids together (and talked about how our relationships were driving us crazy), and worshipped together. </div>
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The key word: worship. </div>
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We worshipped together in a pretty vulnerable way over these many years. In an unprogrammed Quaker meeting, this is, indeed, very intimate. There are no paid ministers. There is no one elevated to guide the "service." The service is sitting in silence, waiting for a sense that the Divine or Holy One or Guidance is working through the group and sometimes someone lifts up a message needing to be expressed. Worship is the root practice of opening our hearts to the Mystery of Love.</div>
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Infused with our daily lives, we came together with the understanding that the sacred is infused in everything we do, how we live, and most importantly, how we love. And, we often fell short. Often is big ways. Somehow, the community is still chugging along. Isn't that what Church is all about? </div>
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What eyes am I seeing through in the midst of fog? tears? change? tenderness? fierceness?</div>
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At worship with these familiar friends, one person said that "Love reflects Love." The words are intense enough, but he kept saying it like his hair was on fire. </div>
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In the moment right now, I am looking at the autumn trees and see how this is true. Even the woods are aglow with Love reflects Love. In the winter, it will be with the cold crispness and the breathtaking ache of life. And in the spring, it will be with the bursting color of flowers. Maybe there will be another summer for some of us and the juiciness of "Love reflects Love." How beautiful each of these faces, these seasons, in the midst of the 10,000 joys and 10,000 sorrows.</div>
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What seems true right now is that the immediacy of Love burned away any petty crap that I had been carrying around. Somehow, we all had survived our marriages. Except, now we had to face the loss of our lovers. Each other. What we have fought so hard to build and live within. One Marriage Enrichment couple already experienced a death as the other partner was in the tunnel of dementia. Obviously, they weren't with us in worship physically. Some of us have dealt with cancer, heart disease, and more. We are really getting down to the sick, aging and dying part now.</div>
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My hair is on fire with "Love reflects Love." It is a burning truth. Except for me, it is more like the Buddhist Tonglen practice - breathing in hot, difficult suffering and breathing out cool, soothing compassion with my hair on fire.</div>
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The roots of these relations are proving to be more important than the history I attach to them. Time and space are unimportant. Simply put, they are friends. They are my people. As we all return to God, I keep learning how we all belong to each other.</div>
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heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-86530587922812247632017-09-20T21:37:00.005-04:002017-09-20T21:37:52.815-04:00When is a heavy heart lightened?Being one-half of a pair, I am sometimes surprised by our interconnectedness. The knot was tied over 36 years ago. And, we had a few years of fun friendship before that. In many ways, I felt like I got to watch my beloved partner mature into adulthood. Now it feels like we are moving into old age.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love hair!</td></tr>
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Looking back to the winter of 1980, there was a moment as "friends" where we went to leave a gathering and walked out to the parking lot together. We both will never forget the moment there was an absolutely electric/magnetic charge between us. I felt it everywhere. It was one of those moments where the impulse to reach out and kiss this young man was almost unstoppable. I wanted to dive into the unknown with him. I'm pretty sure both of us had the hairs on our body standing on end.<br />
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His memory of that moment was just as electric with an added thought: Really, God?! Her? She's the answer to my prayers for a partner?!<br />
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At the time, Partner had been running around with a few other women, but he was looking for something more. For those of you who know me, boy if he didn't get something more!<br />
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The next week, we made the dive. We went out almost every night until we got married 16 months later.<br />
<br />
So much has happened between here and there. So many joys, sorrows, challenges, and juiciness.<br />
<br />
One of our saving graces has been that we have a shared desire for God/the Divine/Love. It is not abstract. We see it in everything and through the eyes of each other. We just have to remember to lift our heads from the daily grind.<br />
<br />
So when this year's challenges between the sad state of the world, big changes at Partner's work, and minor health things arose, well, it seemed right that his heart felt heavy. My heart felt heavy.<br />
<br />
We both had minor skins removals, polyps removed in our insides, tests run. But there was a moment when someone caught his heart doing weird things. This lead to a cardiologist which led to more tests and finally a specialist within cardiology.<br />
<br />
This past week he had an ablation procedure done. No big deal to those who do them. Not so minor to those having it done to them.<br />
<br />
No need to go into the details. It was a long day for everyone. We left home at 8:15 a.m. and got back home at 11 p.m. (A special thanks to our daughter for covering dogcare, a cousin who lived near the hospital who offered hospitality, and a meditation friend and his wife who lent us their EZPass. Big thanks to those who reached out with cards and prayers.)<br />
<br />
As Partner was coming out of the anesthesia, he told me that his heart felt lighter. A week later, it is still so. The added benefit is that he has much more energy. The kind of disease process at work was subtle. He was missing about 1:4 beats, which lead to him feeling his heart wobble in his chest, and extremities becoming more and more numb. The next thing would be to pass out. He drives heavy equipment. Not a good thing.<br />
<br />
So, these procedures sometimes take, and sometimes, the heart goes back to its old ways. In which case, a pacemaker is in his future. This summer his cardiologist had pronounced his heart was about 15 years older than his chronological age. Maybe this resets the clock.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfR8MzUYTyAmMl5OhirR2k1QvYshL1tarqHBl0ep7qSlgaQXCyOXreiYd9EucCaaHCjZFzJ_CNQMOohDqq8DKFOKF-8sf0LLCdfgbJ2RBXogm-N9mGeEnUgZRS4X2jjL7tP01eGkUDZSM/s1600/Recovery_20170911_180056498.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfR8MzUYTyAmMl5OhirR2k1QvYshL1tarqHBl0ep7qSlgaQXCyOXreiYd9EucCaaHCjZFzJ_CNQMOohDqq8DKFOKF-8sf0LLCdfgbJ2RBXogm-N9mGeEnUgZRS4X2jjL7tP01eGkUDZSM/s320/Recovery_20170911_180056498.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Recovery</td></tr>
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It has taken me more time to feel "lighter." I was around to provide gentle, supportive care those first days. No deep bending, lifting or much of anything those first few days for him. I was glad to be around to help or just be present to what arose. I ran the risk of being a nag because he would forget and do something he wasn't supposed to do or vice versa.<br />
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It was a time of reflection, laughter, and tears - for both of us. What do we want to do now? How do we want to be in this next phase of life? Can we remember to connect more deeply? It is true that we do Marriage Enrichment skills weekly, which is a spiritual practice for us. But how to freshen up our relationship? We have been holding a Quaker-style meeting for worship most Sunday mornings at our home. We pray at mealtimes.<br />
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It got me to thinking how the happiest couple I knew was my mother's parents. They did not argue. Their childhoods had been so difficult that they seemed to have made a pact about how they wanted to be. They had a family business together. And, they were very physical with each other.<br />
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They were sexy, really. Even after they aged and had their own health challenges, their touch was physical, even if it was a smile across the room.<br />
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I'm not saying sex fixes everything. But for me, it helps me stay connected to myself and not disassociate or go into my thinking mind. And it reminds me how wonderful touch can be when it is hooked with a loving heart.<br />
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Can I remember that there is this powerful thing called Love operating in the heart of our relationship? How much have I missed of the Divine by not seeing the gift of Partner as an invitation to more? Can I stand the risk of experiencing such goodness, knowing that this,<br />
too, will end?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp7mcjbpDSiU-VevWLolCW3KNhLa_SX9pyjGM_W2ZU19msSm8oLeejzuL093F-L6M-VrvTdh3WszYlLEqE0lUqUtWuUlWbJlsCBxwYCe8NtezlpmQkMju8l6IPWHJtkpyPJ_dhgG8_UI/s1600/DSC09869.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAp7mcjbpDSiU-VevWLolCW3KNhLa_SX9pyjGM_W2ZU19msSm8oLeejzuL093F-L6M-VrvTdh3WszYlLEqE0lUqUtWuUlWbJlsCBxwYCe8NtezlpmQkMju8l6IPWHJtkpyPJ_dhgG8_UI/s320/DSC09869.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">May we have more of this</td></tr>
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On his first day back to work this week, he became overwhelmed with emotion at an event we shared in the evening. He felt so much better! He had a new lease on life.<br />
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I relaxed. Yes. My heart is lighter.<br />
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-23320848619940066892017-08-14T15:17:00.001-04:002017-08-14T15:17:20.627-04:00Such giftsThis morning's gift was... muscle spasms in my back. Monday morning getting out of bed. What felt like a "cold" in my back, soon because spasms that depending on my move, would gently clamp to wringing the breath from me.<br />
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Today was a retry at a vacation that was supposed to start this past Friday. Friday was basically a work day, but mostly at home.<br />
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So Saturday was better. Naps after lunch.<br />
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The news of the Charlottesville, VA protests was personal. Friends live there and clergy I know responded to the National Council of Churches request for religious leaders to protest hate and assist those in need. Was is true that Japan launched a missile over North Korea?<br />
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Sunday, we held worship together at home. I made a pound cake, my newest comfort food to make. Later in the day, a vigil was held in my hometown in response to the Charlottesville violence, which I attended and saw several familiar brothers and sisters in peace.<br />
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Our a/c died last night. So the repairman is here today. First-world problems. More time for art, music, and domestic life while waiting... for things outside my control.<br />
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There is an added poignancy in the ordinary during these extraordinary times.<br />
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Partner offered to pick the spicy mustard greens I had planted earlier this summer. I am not sure he will eat them. Earlier in the week, he picked the beginning of a concord grape harvest. He doesn't really like them, either.<br />
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Such love.<br />
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-44491947857419557522017-01-05T13:05:00.003-05:002017-01-05T13:05:24.031-05:00Emerging from the Dark on the Shortest Day Being an emerging old woman, sleep is something that happens on its own terms. Last night was one of those times when sleep was short. You'd think on the eve of the shortest day that sleep would want to cozy up in bed.<br />
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I got up at midnight and moved to the the recliner in the living room for a half-hour or so. (Samson, the collie, followed me.) But my mind kept returning to the state of the world. Oh, Lordy Lord. What a mess.<br />
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At 12:30 a.m., I got up in earnest - time to work. I wrote my work notes, filed them, and did other office-related work. That got me to 1:30 a.m. Good ole Samson nearby.<br />
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In the dark of the night with my quiet work done, I lit Our Lady of Guadalupe candles on the kitchen table window sill with Samson at my feet. Our Lady who visited the peasant Juan Diego in the mountains, not the church leadership. Our Lady who sees the Suffering in the world and in some way aids them. Our Lady who visits the least of us. Our Lady who hears the cries of the world.<br />
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It struck me that this was the perfect time to make a "healing hat."<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV_a5_fc_Lb9m_K5Zv3IX1PS7eHAl57HOtyJ-msvJLQUJ5Uo2FPHTBzT0c9UdnY3TDV-WlMuuftFCTFbIvr7v-EMacaejvxkWoMHqT80FLsfhrGeGRZxdOn8YyuyfTgvAHfPG5MkKpPM/s1600/Prue+healing+hat+2016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQV_a5_fc_Lb9m_K5Zv3IX1PS7eHAl57HOtyJ-msvJLQUJ5Uo2FPHTBzT0c9UdnY3TDV-WlMuuftFCTFbIvr7v-EMacaejvxkWoMHqT80FLsfhrGeGRZxdOn8YyuyfTgvAHfPG5MkKpPM/s320/Prue+healing+hat+2016.jpg" width="180" /></a>I have several friends dealing with cancer. I made my second hat and gave it to an artist friend who said her treatment center was the most colorless place she'd ever been to. How are you supposed to heal in a place so grey.<br />
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My first hat was actually started in response to a Christmas without my grandson here. I was sad and needing cheering up. I took the mesh from the spiral ham and started tying colorful curling ribbon to sections. I wore it that Christmas Eve evening when the rest of our family showed up. Ironically, my very particularly aware artistic niece at age 5 was not impressed and thought I showed bad taste. But that did not deter me since I had raised teenagers.<br />
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I used that hat for a workshop on healing and music this past summer after making my friend her own hat for chemo baldness. Actually, the hat sits over a lamp in her living room and is a conversation piece. She now sends me red mesh from citrus to make other hats.<br />
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When I make a hat, there is a process evolving. Last night, I light a candle, play Healing Harp music from Sarajane Williams, and pick the colors for the particular person for which the hat is intended. Measure and cut each strand. Thinking of the Three Norns or Goddesses of Fate in Viking culture, as I write this: one to weave the thread, one to measure the length, one to cut the ribbon's length. One ribbon at a time. Knot by knot. It is an act of prayer.<br />
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So in the belly of darkness, I felt drawn to make another hat for another friend undergoing chemo. Instead of the intense brights of summer, these colors were frostier. White, lavendar, mint green, blue-green and purple. Winter in the midst of the fire of disease and treatment and loss.<br />
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Praying about the state of the world, my friends and family, my friend with cancer, and my desire, as I listened to Sarajane, to continue to play the harp for sacred events, healing circles, reflection, and celebrations.<br />
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I was also thinking about how I and other women have been sharing their stories as grandmothers and their roles in supporting their daughters in birth in some way. Holding the door on unnecessary interventions and c-section advocating for what is called for in the best sense of the family. The memories of my own labors in the middle of the dark and quiet night with birth before or at dawn. Such a thin veil.<br />
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The hat was done before sunrise. Partner up and ready to leave at 5:30 a.m. The braiding of his hair, the warm kisses in predawn before heading out to the frigid winter air. Waiting for the rosey dawn sky to emerge in another hour or two. The tending to the household, the meditation group, an elderly friend, a local business fundraising for mental health support in the community, and then later in the day, a nap.<br />
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Oh, Blessed Mary that never has it been known that anyone who sought your help was left unaided, with confidence, humble and repentant, full of Love and Hope, this favor I implore. Amen.<br />
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May I be an instrument of Your peace.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIp3mMLlnpd7ANsqpY4H-6gTao9A6wN4q71VU56Ai6leYkK83DZ742lPz75KWaFJMAlJTHqoRUdWGbiJP7yaPgPLG-ebFyBIm2pBQS86Dx4bwFzXVSxmF7cWVkAWGVDzVURq6HsD-dT_Y/s1600/Two+healing+hats.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIp3mMLlnpd7ANsqpY4H-6gTao9A6wN4q71VU56Ai6leYkK83DZ742lPz75KWaFJMAlJTHqoRUdWGbiJP7yaPgPLG-ebFyBIm2pBQS86Dx4bwFzXVSxmF7cWVkAWGVDzVURq6HsD-dT_Y/s640/Two+healing+hats.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Healing Hats on Gloria, Samson in foreground.</td></tr>
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-1755370563703821712016-09-11T13:03:00.003-04:002016-09-14T10:04:25.613-04:00The Yeast of Life is Sour<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrUl9zChzxpdHJa5H2VZmza2-AgsLlrhwxtAJLTCZFPul0YiRZAoWlfx-FL32c7EP3q9vsY_82yl2vatw0TAxS4MJkdsKkoY6AgM-TjzHPDMmNGV9uf_M94XKz1i7CbI54W9imGGOzjg/s1600/Sourdough+started+with+4+bubbles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOrUl9zChzxpdHJa5H2VZmza2-AgsLlrhwxtAJLTCZFPul0YiRZAoWlfx-FL32c7EP3q9vsY_82yl2vatw0TAxS4MJkdsKkoY6AgM-TjzHPDMmNGV9uf_M94XKz1i7CbI54W9imGGOzjg/s320/Sourdough+started+with+4+bubbles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sourdough starter showing off it's action.<br />Ignore the tomatoes muscling in for a picture.</td></tr>
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It's summer and a lousy time to be baking. But I have a creative compulsion and a fear of poverty that motivates me to make things. Don't ask me how that's supposed to help since I don't sell these things. And many of the "things" I make, aren't edible or wearable - even the things that are supposed to be edible or at least decorative.</div>
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But in the midst of our September heat wave, it seemed a good thing to make some sourdough starter. After paying for breads in the store and not really being satisfied with it, I wanted to give it a go myself.</div>
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Sourdough starter is a living thing. My youngest daughter now 30 years old played some kind of a game where the kids checked some sort of technology to feed or tend to their imaginary characters? What those kids needed was some sourdough starter. There is stirring and feeding it. Then making something with it. You can share it with others. The game of Starter as a Living Being (lots of living beings) in a bowl or jar that is growing when on the counter or put to sleep in the coolness of the refrigerator, is way more real than the techno game. And, there is more sensory involvement.</div>
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The first thing I learned was that the rottener it smells, the better the tang. As an old farm girl, this had echoes of silage. I think silage was described as sweet. Okay, this was sweet in a rotten kind of way. Who eats rotten? Well, the dog for one. Maybe there is something primeval about this living blob that demands curiosity. Who eats funk? I remember how my kids love rotten cheeses. Okay, there sometimes is a good funkiness to edibles, I guess.</div>
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Don't let the funky smell in the kitchen scare you, I think, as I walked into the kitchen recently. Of course, I had to be sure and checked to see if the compost container (a used quart yogurt tub) was overripe or something was foul in the kitchen garbage. But no, it was the starter being busy.</div>
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I also learned that some people have definite ideas about whether to use bought yeast, a "natural" yeast or someone else's starter. I'm too soon into the process to have an opinion about this yet.</div>
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I am also thinking there are lots of people who won't eat yeast for their health. Good self-care is my idea of personalize medicine. I respect dietary limitations.</div>
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I have learned that for some reason, the rye flour makes a tangier and bubblier starter than when I made it initially with the unbleached bread flour.</div>
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The first sourdough bread was made with flat beer. I think I was the only person in the house to willingly eat it. Partner tried it to be polite, but isn't eating it on his own volition. Housemate encourages anything that is homemade as opposed to bought/factory made, but hasn't really helped herself to it. Honestly, the bread didn't have that tang I was looking for, either. But it did have something.</div>
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Partner's said it was a passive bread. I think he meant passive-aggressive bread. He described the taste as bland until swallowed, and then, there was a pungency to the flavor on the backside. </div>
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I didn't experience the bread like that, but that is what makes food so interesting. </div>
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We don't always think that visually things are experienced in inherently different ways from person- to-person and assume that people see what we see, unless we know we have a profound visual impairment. But taste? We know growing up in families and in community know how different taste can be perceived, because someone may love a particular food (you could fill in any food) and someone else will seem repulsed or neutral about it. We wonder how that could be, but it is so pervasive these differences that we instinctively know people experience taste very personally.</div>
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Round two on making something with the starter meant that I decided to "feed" it with warmed then cooled milk and rye flour in equal parts and let it sit on the counter for at least 24 hours. I let it go 36 hours. Some experts suggest really letting it go for several more days to really give it tang.</div>
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The second attempt to use this rotten, living yeast colony feeding on flour, milk and yeast was with a cinnamon sourdough bun recipe. Two weeks ago Partner, in passing, mentioned a hankering for cinnamon rolls before I even thought of sourdough starter. So this time, maybe I could find a way of using the yeast in a way that would, hopefully, be more pleasing. And, this time the funkiness was way more active and exciting.</div>
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Good news. Bad news. </div>
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The good news is that Partner liked them. Housemate liked them. I texted a picture of the rising buns on a pan, and one of the kids managed to find their way home to visit on a Saturday night. I sent an extra one home with her. I liked them, too. But, goodness they were sweet!</div>
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Bad news. I love how forgiving food is in my world. I rarely can follow a recipe. This time, nothing fatal. I rolled the widest part of the 9" x 15" (except it was longer than that)of the dough and cut 1" circles from the log of cinnamon rolls. So, there should have been 9 larger, with more spirals in them, rolls from the log of dough. I cut back on the baking time in hopes that this wouldn't over bake them.</div>
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So, the bad news was... there was no bad news really. Just worry about my inability to follow directions. I tell people I can't hear directions given aloud. But I don't seem to be able to follow written directions, either. </div>
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And, the sourdough starter was given another cup of rye flour and water to replace the amount taken for the recipe. So, the starter has been given another chance at making something new.</div>
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I just have to remember to stir it every few days in the fridge... And what's the worst that can happen? I have to make new starter, which means allowing a bowl of yeasty life to grow on my kitchen counter. That is about as much responsibility as I want for life right now.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcs9uxPFXq6yACm9kywZ3r-Ib4ERuTh_V3-pRfRcrua87K4DF1SqtjqmScXfK_jDzkNkUVZzx0H0Xvw3lndUCJRggF6PWT_-rvyX2oRBvMqCwm_mUROkVEoDSCvPpgNT3Dj1LPU5pFxLw/s1600/Cinnamon+Sourdough+buns+9-10-16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcs9uxPFXq6yACm9kywZ3r-Ib4ERuTh_V3-pRfRcrua87K4DF1SqtjqmScXfK_jDzkNkUVZzx0H0Xvw3lndUCJRggF6PWT_-rvyX2oRBvMqCwm_mUROkVEoDSCvPpgNT3Dj1LPU5pFxLw/s320/Cinnamon+Sourdough+buns+9-10-16.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeasty edgy cinnamon goodness<br /></td></tr>
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-73605696877320733372016-06-11T19:01:00.001-04:002016-06-12T09:09:29.860-04:00Sorting through the ashHow interesting, a draft from 2014. It is now 2016.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">International Day of Prayer 2016, <br />Catoctin Mountain Park, Thurmont, MD</td></tr>
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Mom is getting ready to turn 75 and Dad died the summer of 2012 with father-in-law 6 months later the same year. The truth seems to be that I never seem to relax. I seem to be waiting for the next shoe to drop.<br />
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A beloved member of the mediation group died of cancer May, Friday the 13th, 2016. His memorial service was earlier today, the same day my grandson had his first recital playing the guitar. No way to attend both events. The widow encouraged me to attend to the living.<br />
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From 2014:<br />
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It's been two years now since Dad died. I wasn't sure what to expect.<br />
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As it turns out, there is a slow thaw around his death for me. It gets complicated by the family dynamics of kids doing their things and mom recently having, what I refer to as, her dry run at having a stroke a few weeks ago. She's returning back to work - she's 73 years old, and driving.<br />
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I was feeling a bit edgy last week. Friends have had elders and parents die within the past few weeks. I attended a funeral for a co-worker's parent.<br />
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The truth is: as my own children are finding their way and settling a bit, I can relax enough to feel. My grandson turned seven-years old in May and recently spent a few nights with us without his parents. After seeing him biweekly for his first four years of life and then losing much of that time with him as a result of a divorce and other family dynamics, this is indeed tender time.<br />
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It is a tricky thing these defense mechanisms. I'm reading John Gottman's book called The Science of Trust. For me, it is a slow read because I am trying to take it all in.<br />
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One of the ideas is that if we experience things negatively, then we keep using that lens and dismiss the positive.<br />
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This is such work for me (a positive, hopeful view) as I feel like the Other Shoe is always dropping. How does one experience mental illness, addiction, physical illness, poverty and death as positive?<br />
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As the thaw takes place, what I am aware of is how much I am afraid to love. I don't want to be hurt. I don't want to lose my beloveds. Death is that sharp edge always waiting around the corner to steal away Life.<br />
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Writing continues to be a struggle. But what is the point of living if there isn't life to live? Music and making cards seem to be my best hope. Work is work.<br />
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On my Fridge is a quote from Leonard Cohen: <br />
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Poetry is just the evidence of life.</div>
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If your life is burning well, </div>
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poetry is just the ash.</div>
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Here's to the ash!</div>
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And back to 2016:</div>
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Here is to Vic! </div>
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And to the living, </div>
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beloved Grandson.</div>
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heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-60835103745994053892016-05-09T20:20:00.001-04:002016-05-09T20:20:53.419-04:00Journey to the International Day of Prayer's Chapel This YearI was on my way home from a several day journey taking me from home on Sunday, May 1 to Florida and then on Wednesday, May 4 returning to see my grandson and daughter near Philly that afternoon and evening. On Thursday, I returned from Pennsylvania to start back to work that afternoon in Frederick, Maryland. I love my work, but I needed a break.<br />
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May 5 is also the International Day of Prayer. I decided that an hour of prayer and meditation before entering back into the not-vacation mode would be good. Coming down Rt 15 from Pa into Md, I wondered where could I worship and pray?<br />
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I figured my fall back would be the Basilica at Emmitsburg or the Grotto of Our Lady of Lourdes where Mother Seton had her vision of Mary an exit or two further down the road. I called a colleague, who is a minister, to see if her church was open on the auspicious day. But I got her voicemail.<br />
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My van drove past the exit for the Basilica of the National Shrine of Mother Elizabeth Ann Seton. When I went to the Grotto, I was surprised (and had forgotten) that it no longer is a quaint little quiet spot for reflection, but a tourist center, with two large buses in the outer parking lot today and a store by the bell tower.<br />
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I turned around and headed back to the highway and continued thinking, maybe I just needed to pull along side the road at 11 a.m. and take my chances. Prayer can be anywhere. The Catoctin Mountains are beautiful. The Blue Ridge mountains represent home in so many ways for me. I find myself exhaling a little more deeply when I am near them. Besides, I didn't want to spend my time driving around looking for a place since I had to be in town for work at 12:30 p.m.<br />
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As 11 a.m. arrived, I had not heard from my friend. The roadside shoulder off Rt 15 hardly seemed to be the prayerful place I was seeking. At 11:01 a.m., I found myself pulling into the Catoctin Mountain State Park's Manor Area. The Visitor Center was closed. A lone car was sitting there. No one was in the first picnic/play area. No cars were in the furthest parking lot, either.<br />
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I parked and got out of Partner's vehicle, a Dodge Journey, aptly named Pegasus. The air was chilly, the sky cloudy, and a light drizzle kept trying to get established.<br />
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Ah, today's chapel is here:<br />
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And here:</div>
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My family roots on my mother's side lived a few miles from here. I know my grandparents walked this area. My youngest daughter held a birthday party at the park one year. Memories that are deeper than my own lifespan live in these woods. Connections to these spring-fed mountain waters and rocks resonate in my bones.</div>
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I had come from a re-baptism in the ocean waters while on the Florida trip just two days prior. The feminine water pulsing in those waves was salty and gritty. In contrast, the peewees and the thrush were singing here with a crispness and sharp echoing in the woods that no electronic music could recreate. The babbling brook uttered its' own song.</div>
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I prayed and sang and did a walking meditation in these old woods alive with spring. I tried to take in everything that I saw and heard and felt. Lots of green. Familiar friends, the trees were comforting.</div>
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When I left the park, families with children and older couples were in the other parking areas. Life looked ordinary and normal. I returned to work.</div>
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The next day, a friend who knew about this side trip, said with great excitement, "Do you know where Catoctin Hollow Road is?" I couldn't place it. But after a wracking of the collective brains in our household, someone got a map. It was the road beside the park off Rt 15. A body had been found by morel hunters just off the road.</div>
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Was the dead body there the day before when I was? </div>
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It grieved me to think that while I was walking the banks of the creek, a 1/2 mile away there probably was a body dead in the woods. I can only hope it was a naturally occurring death and fresh on Friday, May 6. But I am aware of the violence in the world. There certainly have been times of great violence in the world. But the chilling and increasing ease with which people are killing each other frightens me.</div>
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No word on the cause of death yet. But as I looked at the pictures I had taken with my little camera phone at the park that day, I noticed a photo where at the bottom of a tree someone had knifed in the word/name: DANA.</div>
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For most people, Dana is a name of a person. For Buddhist and mindfulness practitioners, this has a different meaning. Dana (pronounced like the name Donna) is the practice of giving freely a donation to teachers who teach on how to end unnecessary suffering (the dharma).</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look towards top of beech in picture: dana</td></tr>
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Yes, of course. The trees stood witness to something in the woods down the road. The birds are singing of spring in the midst of the world's turmoil. The babbling creek upstream, in its unformed words, rhythmically flow from the mountain springs to the salty ocean without thought about how. But we too, can stand witness to and sing of and swim down towards our final destination called home as we put our hands together in prayer celebrating, lamenting and giving, what is ultimately, only ours for a brief span to time, back to the earth. It is our seemingly unique gift as humans to do this act in this particular form: praying in all manner and in all ways.</div>
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I have to laugh at how playful the universe can be. Maybe I say this just to amuse myself in the midst of the hardness of life. But how can I take myself so seriously when the trees look tatooed with the message I need? Where the exposed roots seem like outstretched arms, perhaps a version of the multi-armed Buddha of Compassion? This tree certainly gave its bark freely to carry the word Dana. </div>
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Although, I do wonder how Dana is doing these days? Did she/he cut it into the bark her/himself as a declaration of existence to the world? Or, did a lover mark the tree in hope of eternal love for each other? These, too, seem like acts of prayer. </div>
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I bow to the teachers and the teachings and the community of living things everywhere! May there be peace, love and humor in the world, just the way the world is.</div>
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heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-5280616710195782902016-03-18T22:44:00.002-04:002016-03-18T22:44:24.076-04:00Dog fur <div>
Back in November 2015, I wrote this piece and never posted it. Before I add more to the collie story, this part needs to be told.<br />
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What brings joy?</div>
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After 16 months of a reclaimed granite counter sitting outside in front of the garage, it finally got moved inside. (Long story, not for here.) Hooray! </div>
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This meant that I needed to clean and rearrange the office to create a desk with it. Actually, Partner and some co-workers moved the granite onto two two-drawer file cabinets, and wha-lah! A desk. Now my job was to clean it and set it up. </div>
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I think this would be a happier moment if I didn't feel like crud. A low-grade cold has been settling in for the past two days. I put off cleaning flower beds for the winter because of the sinus pressure.</div>
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With the desk set up, I needed to clean the floors. This required bent over, nose-dripping scrubbing. </div>
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I began to feel weepy. Why?</div>
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Maybe I feel worse than I let myself know. Maybe it is the dog hair from Finn swirling around the edges and being caught up in items stored behind the cabinets. He'd passed over last January, but those fluffy collie fur bunnies still showed up in odd places.</div>
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I've been looking at collie porn on Facebook. That means I look longingly at those beautiful pictures of well-groomed dogs with stately smiles. But the stronger experience of looking at those pictures is the strong felt-sense of soft fur. I miss Finn's softness.</div>
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Pictures don't capture the work involved. In and out several times daily for potty breaks, regular feedings no matter what, grooming, vet visits, etc. He was a rescue dog with lots of quirks. But Finn was a companion. Always there. Nosing me in the leg for a pet or snack.<br />
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Last night, I went to sleep on the recliner. Partner had been in bed for a few hours. Reading, I fell asleep.<br />
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The dream was set on a familiar farm. The farmhouse had a wrap-around porch. I was down the lane at the barn. I saw on the hill a coyote-wolf cross. It was coming toward me. Frightened and nowhere to go, I stood. This creature turned into a collie. Then there were five beautiful collies. They seemed ready to come with me in a pick-up truck. A very pregnant collie was directly in front of me.<br />
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I awoke in a scared, racing-heart kind of way.<br />
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The collies were beautiful and comforting. It was the fear of the wild coyote-wolf coming toward me that affected me.<br />
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Who knows what is basic physiology of the the mind/body - racing heart/panic and dream imagery?<br />
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I awoke enough to go to bed and snuggle with Partner. While dread of the wild coyote-wolf cross was with me, so, too, were the beautiful, gentle, soft collies. (Ironically, those fuzzy collies are called rough collies.)<br />
<br />
I could never have predicted the power of having a collie in my life a few years ago. I miss Finn.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-28871109635850046512016-03-02T16:16:00.000-05:002016-03-18T22:26:37.796-04:00Justice<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFV4JH8ilBfdqy5KHUJZHUx8t2_2CnsIRzvygGMjIjsUGsxw-z1dMN26355EIKssWY7Z3SzvhkncTrpCd64rsyWQicMG6nKFXssWa2qi_e2dN8FGAsArlJg-OepJ0q8qRV_rK2sUJLoC0/s1600/God+is+Watching+sketch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFV4JH8ilBfdqy5KHUJZHUx8t2_2CnsIRzvygGMjIjsUGsxw-z1dMN26355EIKssWY7Z3SzvhkncTrpCd64rsyWQicMG6nKFXssWa2qi_e2dN8FGAsArlJg-OepJ0q8qRV_rK2sUJLoC0/s320/God+is+Watching+sketch.jpg" width="306" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sometimes, there are just no decent words that capture the times. </span></div>
heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-10339754422893025092015-09-14T12:12:00.001-04:002015-09-14T12:17:22.877-04:00The Magic of Surprise<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes there is an intersection of magic and surprise.
Those are times when you get more than you can imagine. A few Sundays ago was just such a
time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCPzOcXp52F81nOCLePcpoAYfYwReV4ptLGUAZt_DCwdrROp6d5FYNySbWLshERS42e6asqbHPWHg68GApjXuC8MW2ONcdAUttufQ-psnpla2r4CrwKsTLzkU1kT9OF-m-e3599RtfaU/s1600/DSC09837a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaCPzOcXp52F81nOCLePcpoAYfYwReV4ptLGUAZt_DCwdrROp6d5FYNySbWLshERS42e6asqbHPWHg68GApjXuC8MW2ONcdAUttufQ-psnpla2r4CrwKsTLzkU1kT9OF-m-e3599RtfaU/s320/DSC09837a.jpg" width="154" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Agnes</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Agnes was going to play at a local church on the first
Sunday in August with two services, each with communion. I decided to sign up as a
volunteer musician on that Sunday because I figured attendance would probably
be at its lowest point for the year with people on vacations. Thus, less
pressure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the process of planning the morning, Partner and I talked
about his role. Yes, he is the Sacred Schleper of the harps – especially in moving Agnes to and from the house to a venue. But, he also helps me by walking the space while I tune and warm-up.
Harps are not the loudest instrument and I don’t have sound equipment. He gives
me feedback on how the sound carries and what I need to do to accommodate this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we arrived, Partner unloaded and placed Agnes in her spot. I started tuning and practicing. Partner walked around the church. Later partner told me that the sound guy saw what he was doing and said there was no bad seat in the house and pointed to the rafters and the sound system.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While tuning, Sound Guy quietly set up one single mic beside the harp. He assured me that this was a very good mic. I saw him,
but had no concept of what this would mean in the service. Canned harp, I
thought, referring to a tinny kind of sound I dread. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
After the first service, Sound Guy came over to Partner and myself after people dispersed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He had another sound person play back one of the songs I’d
played over the sound system in the church. My reaction was to try to keep talking and
deny that it was the song Agnes was playing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The music sang throughout the church.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first song he played, I had a pause where I wavered in
my playing. He quickly signaled to the other person to change to the next song.
It was clear that he was trying to get me to listen in an encouraging way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I paused and laughed saying that this wasn’t me, it was the
magic of the sound system in this space. He patiently leaned in and subtly
suggested that wasn’t entirely true.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was so hard to take this in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am used to the sound of Agnes in my ear with the
vibrations ringing through my fingers, chest and legs from her powerful voice.
This is why Partner is so vital to sounding out new spaces for me. I have no
perspective.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sound Guy shared a bit about his background. Without giving
away who he is, let’s just say I now think of him as Super Stealth Sound Guy.
He has worked in the music industry for decades. But the thing that got to
Partner and me the that Sunday was this man’s huge heart as a person dedicated
to children with disabilities. There was a whole-heartedness to his very being. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p>Did music help enable or support that in some small way?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He seemed to enjoy the harp. He said he treats the harp like
the human voice because of its sound qualities.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After both church services, lots of people came up and said
that that the church has its praise band, the organ and choirs, but the harp
brought something quieter and more calming. There was so much encouragement
from everyone. I was surprised when people clapped after I played in the
church in both services . (Those irreverent church-goers.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afterwards, I got a cd from the Sound Guy of the tracks
that I played in both services. It was shocking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My playing wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t awful either. I am
trained to listen critically to my music. In the midst of playing, I experience
mistakes as huge in the context of the piece. It takes a lot of mental energy to play the music, anticipate the problem spots, recover from the oops, and keep playing. However, listening to the cd
helped right-size the errors, and show me where I had recovered. In the scope
of the whole piece, everything was just fine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found myself thinking of this experience as something akin
to the Aboriginal peoples’ experiences of the shock of seeing oneself in a
photograph for the first time. What is this? This isn’t me, as I pinch myself. Yet, this is me in a certain sense
of space and time captured by a particular medium.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was a violin student in the 1970’s, my teacher loaned
me his reel-to-reel tape recorder for demo tapes for competitions and
auditions. One feature it had was an “echo-plex” function so that the sound could range
from rather dead/flat to sounding like it was being played in a hall to a
ridiculous echoing that distorted the music altogether.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find myself struggling with the technology of sound capturing
and containing – beautiful, but non-the-less, manipulating sound. The truth is that there are very important recording artists I would never have heard and who have enriched my life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sound Guy literally was a master sound guy. My shy self has been playing harp because of
its sonorous, vibratory qualities; and, I have viewed playing as an act of
prayer that is lifted up to the heaven and penetrates hearts. Mostly, it is an
act of impermanence. Now what? It has been captured and beautifully. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I forgot that the very healing qualities of the harp might extend beyond my small ideas of healing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
May I not lose sight of the potential in all life. May my
life be (and yours) be filled with creativity and beauty as a gift of life.
What we do with it matters. May that vitality, bliss, be made manifest until it
echoes out in infinity. What magic!<o:p></o:p></div>
heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-13789074402062627672015-09-06T19:28:00.002-04:002015-09-08T23:43:36.692-04:00Blessing of the Harps<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbVNBzOAgt8RiHORegZEHMds3kNAcl2KywBDIHZbIbhhq9yNQyOxkdOkFiEwLzRoyJmqzpjmrsX-BmyhBcdozJ4h7074BnOMwbJTKvDv-ned1JyxFUseFKnGR64LMB1aC0ZtUtaQqyv8/s1600/DSC09837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirbVNBzOAgt8RiHORegZEHMds3kNAcl2KywBDIHZbIbhhq9yNQyOxkdOkFiEwLzRoyJmqzpjmrsX-BmyhBcdozJ4h7074BnOMwbJTKvDv-ned1JyxFUseFKnGR64LMB1aC0ZtUtaQqyv8/s320/DSC09837.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Agnes, Grace, and Gloria</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
It seems to be my practice to reserve some things for obsessive planning and others for holding lightly and seeing what comes of it.<br />
<br />
Last weekend, we held a Blessing of the Harps. This was done with Partner. But the impulse arose after attending the Therapeutic Harp Forum in July and hearing most of the spokeswomen from various therapeutic harp certification programs speak of some kind of spiritual component that makes this all work for them.<br />
<br />
In my gut, I knew when I started playing the harp that I would need five years of harp lessons before taking the harps into the world. This past year, the sixth year, there was a slow, natural unfolding of taking the harps out of the house and beyond student recitals. Hearing about the healing power of sound, the science and the art, and the relationship to the player and receivers, I found myself ready to act on owning this work in partnership with the harps and Partner. And, Partner, in his supportive role as his role of Sacred Schleper and refiner of the sound, was in agreement.<br />
<br />
Partner, growing up Lutheran, thought there would be a formal program. How was this to go?<br />
<br />
With our experiences of hosting Quaker meetings for worship, I was thinking of worship in the manner of Friends. This usually means that we sit together with the intention of quieting ourselves and listening for the Still Quiet Voice Within or the Divine; then, speak or share if moved to do so. But we weren't limiting this to Friends-style Unprogrammed worship.<br />
<br />
I had asked some friends to attend. Some had experience with Friends' style of worship while others hadn't. Some were familiar with meditation practices. Some were clergy.<br />
<br />
Perhaps they could be thinking ahead of time about the role of music in their spiritual life, or music as an instrument of healing. In hindsight, it interesting to note that no one from my spiritual direction peer group (although, some held the event in prayer), nor meditation group, nor Friends meeting showed up. Instead, the women who showed up are spiritual friends with whom there are deeply personal connections. Somehow, this was as it was supposed to be.<br />
<br />
I had no set agenda. Just that the three harps, named Grace, Gloria and Agnes, would be blessed as instruments of healing, in service to Love.<br />
<br />
Preparation amounted to this: I cleaned house; Partner did yard work; I made cookies for the potluck. We reflected on the teachings I had learned about the harp, music, healing and the sacred.<br />
<br />
Friends brought a dish to share. A friend, who grows flowers, brought a beautiful vase of flowers for the room.<br />
<br />
My youngest daughter happened to be around and took pictures of the harps. Photography is a gift of hers and I was overjoyed that she would stick around to do so.<br />
<br />
At the appointed time, we began to gather. Pictures of the group were taken. Daughter left the room to attend to her art and we settled into our circle.<br />
<br />
The singing bell was rung to start the worship/blessing.<br />
<br />
Two ordained Interfaith ministers brought their stoles and one of them smudged the harps and each participant with sage. This would have never occurred to me, but was a lovely start. Another person added their opening blessing and gave a precious gift of three 2-cent coins from Ireland - the ones with the national symbol of the harp on it. (Ireland is the only nation with a musical instrument - a harp at that - as its national symbol.) Later we taped a coin to the bottom of each harp.<br />
<br />
Stories of music as truthtelling, of ritual and community building, and healing were shared. Singing. Blessings. Heart-felt connections, weavings of that mystical place that uses words and sounds and silence to evoke something deeper. Love. All present.<br />
<br />
A little way into the sacred circle time, there was a pull for me to introduce the harps and let everyone hear each harp's own voice/sound.<br />
<br />
Grace is the little lever harp I got started on with the simple tunes. She is a friend's harp on "permanent loan," in need of care at the time I got her. Grace was given to me with the prophesy that: You are going to have a mid-life crisis and need her. She got put back together in playable condition once the crisis hit and launched me into harp playing when words no longer helped for what I was experiencing in life.<br />
<br />
Gloria is a petite pedal harp that I got second hand on consignment with no intention of buying one. I thought I was buying a better lever harp to take while getting trained in trauma work. During warm-up before the blessing of the harps, I played around and came upon the pedal settings for that Calgon-bath sound - a pentatonic scale where there are no wrong combinations of notes. It all sounds good together. So I "riffed" on her for a little while during the sharing. Later a friend said she felt transported to her mountain home with creeks and streams running nearby. I would later reflect on how this little powerhouse is often neglected. I need to let her out more.<br />
<br />
Agnes. Lamb. What is there to say about the concert grand pedal harp with the big sound box? Agnes named herself. Several mornings I woke up to the name Agnes. "Really, Agnes?" I thought. But she wouldn't let it go. From what I knew of the name Agnes, it come from a celebrated prepubescent girl in the third century A.D. who was martyred for her Christian faith. I could see a bit of Agnes in myself. My mother wrote "strong-willed" in my baby book when I was less than a year old. I can relate to those youthful characteristics of tenderness and rawness of unadulterated youth and the steeliness of strong moral beliefs - a certain kind of innocence. What I really heard in Agnes was "pure tones" of something timeless, beautiful and powerful that belies the outward label of youth. She is my workhorse - of immense intelligence in that big body. Agnes sang Sarajane Williams' music, a contemporary and gifted healer and musician, during the blessing.<br />
<br />
During the service, each harp wore a stole over their post. Each had significance. One stole was woven as a clergy stole for me years ago. Another cloth was hand stitched to read, "The road to a friend's house is never far." The third cloth came from a friend's trip to India with family. When I played a harp, I took off the cloth and wore it, returning it to the harp when finished.<br />
<br />
Harps go back to some of the earliest times. There are cave paintings with a lyre-style harp. In the Old Testament, David was called to play to sooth Saul's soul/mind/misery. Pythagoras used music tones to heal. The Celts believed harpers needed to be able to evoke three emotional states: laughter, tears and slumber.<br />
<br />
The Celts have a pretty extensive relationship with the harp. Their tradition views harps are living, made from wood and gut. It would take up to one-hundred years to make a harp. The community looked for the harper to play that particular harp and they would be joined for life, with the harp being buried with the harper.<br />
<br />
Modern concert harps have so much tension on their soundbox (roughly, one ton of pull), that they don't last much longer than 100 years - as they are only able to take three rebuilds before not being functional. They aren't like other string instruments with a much longer livability time. Yet, a concert harp takes at least a year to break in, and warms in sound over time. Harps live about as long as a long-lived person.<br />
<br />
For the Celts, harps are sacred. The harper's job was to play the songs the harp witnessed. In the role of war, harpers would hold up the harp to witness what took place and return to play the harp's story. It was believed that the song would reveal the truth in the hearts of those who could hear.<br />
<br />
As the circle deepened in sharing, personal losses and joys and the state of the world were included in our stories. Earlier this spring, a friend in the circle shared with me the story of the Iranian cellist who played at bombing sites to help us all remember our humanity in the face of inhumanity.<br />
<br />
How do we attend to each other?<br />
<br />
As the timeless time of the blessing of the harps wound down, a song of blessing and completion was sung. The Nepalese singing bowl sounded. We rose and gathered in the kitchen for food and talking and lots of laughter.<br />
<br />
The basic framework of showing up, sharing stories in an honest way, and communing afterwards sounds like a basic formula for tending to the sacred. But it is what we bring to it. And, that cannot be predicted. The tenderness of the Blessing of the Harps blew my mind.<br />
<br />
May Grace, Gloria and Agnes sing their songs in a way that attends to the needs of the world with mirth, tenderness, and calming in truth. Blessings.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-67471104959286654192015-08-14T03:55:00.000-04:002015-08-14T03:55:06.858-04:00Waiting for the world to become sane<div class="MsoNormal">
I keep waiting for the world to become sane and remember
that seems similar to wanting to be God. You know, idolatrous, wanting the
world to be in my image, not the way it is. Which doesn’t compute, really. Why
can’t it be like I want it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dad's Bible was always somewhere near one of his many thrones around the house. I got my own Bible for confirmation in 5<sup>th</sup>
grade and still have it with those underlined scriptures, so important to an achingly
searching- to-be-okay-with-herself teenager. It was in those texts that spoke
of love and kindness and a kind of utopian Kingdom of God that gave voice to what I hungered for.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My own life is anything but a utopian KoG. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2_ty8Tf5FspFWSk3h-fwwL_ioshPxtDLwqrv-3mUBY8Py9OcCcHrTld4359InMb8zrvxO_T9vQZEW6H-2i6PpJWMvK432TPBMOh5YSd2Jxak392qTVn8475cdh3rqpeK3OXVMueColY/s1600/July+2015+Trinity+UM+Parking+Lot+Marigold.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB2_ty8Tf5FspFWSk3h-fwwL_ioshPxtDLwqrv-3mUBY8Py9OcCcHrTld4359InMb8zrvxO_T9vQZEW6H-2i6PpJWMvK432TPBMOh5YSd2Jxak392qTVn8475cdh3rqpeK3OXVMueColY/s320/July+2015+Trinity+UM+Parking+Lot+Marigold.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="180" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Monday before last, with the clinical director out of town,
I got a call in the morning from the church administrative assistant: You might
want to come in early. A van drove into the side of the building and knocked a hole in
the foundation. <o:p></o:p><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure enough. Everyone was huddled around the side of the
building as the van was being towed and the police were leaving. The building inspector said the building was safe
enough. We had power, phones, and water. I leaned over to the administrative assistant
and said, “I’ve always told folks that I could counsel from the back of a
truck.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remembered a picture that I took of a crack in the church parking lot just a few weeks before. Two rogue marigold blooms defied the odds by planting themselves in the ashalt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been in worse situations. One counseling job that I had
gave me no notice of a problem. The building had been burned overnight and I
pulled into the parking lot that morning and wondered why it looked like a fire
drill. Building to the left; people on the right side of the parking lot
huddled. Next client in a few minutes. Nothing like taking a seriously paranoid schizophrenic to the local McDonalds for coffee and "counseling." </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The fire/arson was related to a recently discharged patient. I was nine days into this particular job. I lasted 10 months at that counseling center before deciding my life was important
enough to honor my fear and sleeplessness.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s been ten days and the hole is still there with a piece
of plywood covering it. Anyone could break in. I found a shoe on the outside
steps this week. Staff thought a homeless person had probably been sleeping on
the landing and lost their shoe. They kindly placed it nearby, in case the person returned.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This past Monday before leaving for a family funeral, I
heard sirens galore near my home. I looked to see if the highway was backed up,
but no sign of any problem there. I left the house and drove down the road only
to see two police cars and police tape around a popular parking area. A car looked
like it had wrecked. I couldn’t make out any people in the car.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend texted me soon afterwards and throughout the memorial
events. News reports of a possible double homicide – people in the car didn’t
die from the “accident.” And, a nearby apartment fire burning out several
families was also the home of one of the "accident" victims. It seems likely that the
female was murdered by an estranged husband. They were supposed to be signing
divorce papers that morning. Other reports surfaced of the male running from
the apartment building shortly before the fire.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Relief was my first response when I learned that the victims weren’t on my client
roster. This might sound selfish, but I think any reasonable therapist would be
worried for their clients. It might be considered one of my worst fears on behalf
of my clients.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This week has been a no-radio news and definitely a no-TV
news week. I can barely stand the ridiculous political shenanigans while people
of all kinds are suffering in ways that are not being addressed in any serious way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there is a weirdness to my own poor timing. Partner and I finally got it together to agree to see Jimmie Carter give one of his famous Sunday School lessons at his church in Plains, GA. I literally booked the flight on the same day it was announced he was having surgery. Since then the news reports indicate he has advanced cancer and is getting treatment. It is highly unlikely he will be giving a Sunday School lesson for the public in September. Sorry Dad. This was a Dad bucket list event that neither of us will get to fulfill.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a time I imagined myself a politician or a minister or a lawyer or a social worker or a musician or an artist. Maybe even a teacher or a writer. In all those roles, there seems to have been a desire to create a better world through an idealistic lens. But, I am not sure how sane that would have been. I don't have the juice to save the world anymore, let alone save myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, I seem to be learning a different kind of sanity through the harp as a spiritual practice. It is building on my
meditation practice by applying the arts in a way I don’t entirely
understand. To be sure, the beautiful and sonorous sound of the harp is a deceptively alluring and challenging partner to master. Do we ever master anything?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In an age where talk is cheap and harsh, I am looking for another way. Perhaps, I am applying the Buddhist concept of the middle way, somewhere between silence and noise: music?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The best part of playing the harp is that talking is
optional. Mostly, I let the music
speak for itself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am feeling more and more like the KoG exists in our heart.
I am just one person. Jimmie Carter seems to have mastered many of the things I'd hoped for. (Although, I haven't heard anything about his musical talents.) Dad really struggled with his lessons in failing and failing greatly. The harp isn’t a substitute for hugs or food or clean
water or health or housing or justice. But I can let the harp’s resonant voice sing a song that promotes love and sanity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-12454332004826863652015-07-04T05:33:00.001-04:002015-07-04T05:33:25.936-04:00Turtle Mountain meditation<div class="MsoNormal">
Turtle makes annual trek.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little Turtle carries home with her. No matter where she goes, there she is. How beautiful. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a turtle who seems to cross from south to north
through our property about this time each year. It goes from one small creek to another. We put up a fence for Finn last
year in the back yard where the trek usually took place.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What will happen this year? Will the turtle return? Will is
get confused or just go around the fence?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Apparently, the birds and trees must have warned the little
turtle. It crossed our property in front of the house this time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The anxiety was all mine.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXZbyB-xgc6OCCvMu6r4GX_uqmtVLXnFINwKZzA31yqMrAWOMikEx3orCReqChqQi62Q6wEROyWf5DR9Vqo3Zy4Yb146XCzOs8eWSF4YOBlqlkHOPLEulhxp_g89cwGq_wam0WQJJUto/s1600/cropped+turtle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="269" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEXZbyB-xgc6OCCvMu6r4GX_uqmtVLXnFINwKZzA31yqMrAWOMikEx3orCReqChqQi62Q6wEROyWf5DR9Vqo3Zy4Yb146XCzOs8eWSF4YOBlqlkHOPLEulhxp_g89cwGq_wam0WQJJUto/s320/cropped+turtle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am reminded of a week-long silent meditation I was on in March of this year. The words "Turtle Mountain" kept coming up for me. It had something to do with the quiet silence of being with oneself no matter where I was or what is going on.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
In Chinese lore, the back is the human body part connected to mountain energy. Unlike mouth that speaks or ears that hear, back is just there supporting activity. The symbol of back as earth's mountains is that one can experience them as easy such as coming down the mountain or resting on a boulder, or taxing as one climbs up the mountain. Sometimes effort is called for; sometimes rest is required. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Back/Mountain is always there in a self-contained way. It is deeply sacred space and unknowable. You cannot take it all in, yet there are glimpses of its grandeur.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
On this day of the turtle crossing, it feels like we have our own little sacred Turtle Mountain. In the silence, we exchange gratitude for this intersection of human and turtle on earth's back.</div>
<o:p></o:p>heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-77374570437962435622015-06-03T22:27:00.001-04:002015-06-03T22:27:25.745-04:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxARooPSdKQxBQgIfTia5KkMm7BOJHyYQInUfRAquKS2Lf6XyhanvH1hKzRh2Ktnv8OpSt9lGdzAUfduMwjhh_kYtVSG7eFhMfpejHAadYfQfDzg7UFy0HXDCOqVAxOAORJ0pgp7nn0I/s1600/Tibetan+Bowl+in+Flower+Bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfxARooPSdKQxBQgIfTia5KkMm7BOJHyYQInUfRAquKS2Lf6XyhanvH1hKzRh2Ktnv8OpSt9lGdzAUfduMwjhh_kYtVSG7eFhMfpejHAadYfQfDzg7UFy0HXDCOqVAxOAORJ0pgp7nn0I/s320/Tibetan+Bowl+in+Flower+Bed.jpg" width="180" /></a><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">You can’t unring a bell.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I awoke at midnight. It had been a busy day. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">By the end of my time at work, I was having
word-find difficulty. Counseling looks easy, I think to myself. But right now, it feels like a
kind of marathon.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is rewarding to see clients express new-found epiphanies, others
continue the hard work of moving through difficult content. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Coming home, I was
hot and tired after sitting in a small stuffy room
on the second floor of a mid-1900's Cape Cod-style house. The bathroom is probably bigger than my counseling room. I bring my own water because the kitchen sink's plumbing doesn't want to drain.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dinner with Partner was at 8:30
p.m. A blessed time of eating on the patio before the mosquitoes started nibbling at our ankles.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe I need to pray for a client or my family or the world.
Maybe I should go outside and meditate under the night sky. Maybe I could roll
over and go back to sleep. But I can’t.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The night before last, Partner and I were tired when we
finally caught up with each other. Another late night. Struggling with the
confluence of past decisions and the repercussions now, we tried to talk it out. We are old enough to
know that at 10 p.m., nothing good is going to come out of this attempt to problem solve. So we headed off to bed. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This led to difficulty
settling down. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. Soon childhood memories were expressed - of the times we slept with our respective
siblings and got into trouble. </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For Partner, mom would holler from her bedroom. For me, dad
would holler from his bedroom. But our memories diverge from there. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> had a strong memory of terror once the Daddy Dragon had
been aroused. He would get up, march/stomp angrily to our bedroom. The covers
would be ripped off. We would get pulled around or half-lifted out of bed and received his
rage-fueled spankings. No Daddy, we would beg. I would beg. Wouldn’t it have
been great if I could have kept my hands to myself?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I kept this to myself, but asked Partner if his mom ever got
up and punished him. Sure, and I deserved it, he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Is this one of differences between mother/son and father daughter
relations? Mom’s punishments weren’t so threatening? Dad’s force could tear you
to shreds. I kept these thoughts to myself, too. But I couldn’t shake the embodied memories of dad’s spankings and the terror.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Partner rolled over and went to sleep. I got up and
journaled – about other things. But not that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lately, I’ve noticed I have been shuddering. You know,
the involuntary sudden shivering that has nothing to do with being cold. Partner said
I’ve always done that. But I am more aware of it right now. My colleague
noticed me doing it while talking about a family situation. She was encouraging –
good, get it out. Shaking helps move energy through the body. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tonight, I know that I want to meditate outside, but I am
afraid. Afraid of the dark. Afraid of snakes. I saw two dead black snakes on
the road today. A copper head was killed last week at my parent’s farm. The
snake in my mind is all wrapped up in reptilian fear. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I’m not excited about the healing metaphor of the snake’s
regeneration and shedding of the skin, etc. It’s the bite I’m afraid of. And, I
wish it weren’t so.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am remembering another ringing bell. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sweet chiming of the beginning and end of the sangha's (meditation group) time together. We ring the bell to start our practice time together. We ring the bell to end our practice time together. We ring the bell before we dedicate our practice time to all living beings - no short-cuts, no dividing into good/bad, important/insignificant, no splitting or mincing generosity.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">No matter where I am, they are with me, too. And, it has been the causes and conditions of my life that brought me to them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, may my father and all aggressors including me, be a recipient of that merit, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is a bell I don't want to unring.</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 8pt;">
</div>
heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-88234769280435552852015-03-10T23:25:00.000-04:002015-03-27T23:19:17.580-04:00Teacher and Friend Moves OnWritten mid-January 2015:<br />
I am not a person short on words or ideas or images. However, I am struck by the uselessness of them sometimes. <br />
<br />
<br />
It has been like that in trying to write over the past year. <br />
<br />
<br />
After continuing struggles over the past years, it is quite a show to watch stunning tragedies unfold. Last year's pain had a lot to do with family members with mental illness and/or addiction. I got to experience Nar-Anon's love and support - the 12-step program for families with a loved one with the illness of drug addiction.<br />
<br />
<br />
In the middle of all of this, Finn developed a neurological problem. We thought we were going to lose him in August. His vet changed medications and put him on a drug that bought him time.<br />
<br />
<br />
As we upped his medication with each backslide, there was a point in January of this year where he could no longer tolerate the increase in medication. He was incontinent, in pain, and having difficulty with getting up.<br />
<br />
<br />
Partner and I learned about ourselves as we each dealt differently with Finn's decline. <br />
<br />
<br />
I could see the pain, dealt with the incontinence, and overheard the vet staff talk amongst themselves about how a dog owner they'd seen before us was keeping a dog alive inhumanely, selfishly when it was in terrible pain. I felt a knife cut through my own heart as they were talking. Were we doing the same thing?<br />
<br />
<br />
Partner was often the person who fed and got Finn up in the morning to go outside before leaving for work. He also played and talked with the dog after work. He had hoped that Finn would just die in his sleep (isn't that what we all want?) and that we wouldn't have to make a decision. But, who knows how long this could go on?<br />
<br />
<br />
After Finn had several bouts of incontinence of bowel while I was on a medication that made me nauseous, I felt I couldn't keep this up. Partner and I spent time talking, processing our thoughts separately, and coming back to talk some more. There were tears. I spoke with the vet. They had difficulty getting him up and dealing with his incontinence when we left him with them during a visit to friends between Christmas and New Years. The decision was up to us. He had a good life with us. He wasn't going to get better.<br />
<br />
<br />
Conversation with Partner also revealed a need not to have to bury him. Our new property is basically a crust of grass and trees over rock. Partner had buried our other animals for the past 30 years. Not this time. Okay, I'll have him cremated. Partner also didn't know if he could emotionally go with us to the vets. Okay, just help me get him into the car. The staff and I can get him out.<br />
<br />
<br />
In the end, Partner did go with me to the vets. He came home from work, took Finn around the property to his favorite spots, loved on him, and cried the whole time. When it was time to go, he went in with me and stroked Finn lovingly. We both did. The vet gave Finn a sedative first. This is when Partner really got how much pain the dog had been in. <br />
<br />
<br />
When we first got Finn, he was very anxious and panted for the first 3 days, puked from anxiety, etc. The way he responded to the shot was similar to his relaxation response when we got him to settle down. Pain creates anxiety and tension. Our beloved Finn never barked and was true to his nature of not complaining. <br />
<br />
<br />
The vet came back and gave the final shot. Almost immediately, the breathing ceased. He looked asleep and relaxed. We sat with him a little while longer. But truthfully, we had been given plenty of time with him in the room while he was alive. We couldn't stand to be there much longer after the death. <br />
<br />
<br />
We walked out into the snowy night and cried.<br />
<br />
<br />
Finn got me through some tough times. I'd gotten him before the year of some big deaths: my last remaining grandmother, my dad, Partner's dad, extended family, friends and neighbors - over 20 deaths that year.<br />
<br />
<br />
Losing Finn was like losing a spirit guide. He soaked up so much grief and anxiety. There is nothing quite like collie fur, so soft and fluffy. He was an easy-going friend who shared our home with us during his last years.<br />
<br />
<br />
Thank you, Finn. We miss you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-10187185111023856812015-03-10T23:18:00.000-04:002015-03-10T23:18:15.875-04:00On Finn in August 2014<br />
<div style="line-height: 18px;">
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Written mid-August 2014:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Finn is on his last legs, his last dog year, his last days. Our family is saying their good-byes to our sweet canine friend.</span><span style="color: black; font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpopieBXHTbdFAHaAfcnoiQY1aMOK_M2ErbdwY2Onp_HVu0IGu_uc_l_x6I9CpRwDF1TsDVY1WoY0CyfN9u7TP6WDXHlWB_CvjWGdfO6SxMHxJeLA21rq_f_BniihIK1eR2v1QeRBONN0/s1600/DSC09451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpopieBXHTbdFAHaAfcnoiQY1aMOK_M2ErbdwY2Onp_HVu0IGu_uc_l_x6I9CpRwDF1TsDVY1WoY0CyfN9u7TP6WDXHlWB_CvjWGdfO6SxMHxJeLA21rq_f_BniihIK1eR2v1QeRBONN0/s1600/DSC09451.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></span></div>
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Below is a slightly modified version of a letter to a friend who asked how Finn was doing:</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Talked to the vet this morning. We are in "doggy hospice" mode. I'm trying to be home during the day with Partner here in the evenings. Somehow, the Universe provided a light work week for me. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt 0.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Finn's having difficulty getting up. He walks in circles. Head is pulling to the left side today. Twitching eyebrows on both sides, but more on the left. He stopped eating from his dog bowl yesterday and stopped drinking today. He'll take his medicine tucked in a chunk of cheese from the floor while lying down or eat cooked chicken given to him yesterday from the floor; but otherwise, is not interested in eating.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Bowel movements have gone from solid to diarrhea this morning and this evening to mucus. He's been somewhat incontinent for a while now, just more so.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The vet </span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">tried to prepare us for some kind of progressive neurological degeneration a few weeks ago. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Looking back at our most recent visit, I had asked for a six-month refill on heart worm medication and flea/tick coverage. They didn't give it to me. I thought they forgot and asked again. But still didn't give it to me when I picked up the first pain med.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Partner and I had our cry yesterday as it became clear that Finn is really sick and dying. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I am<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><i>so</i><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>going to miss this dog. He's been such a gentle soul and companion. He has gotten me through so much.</span> </div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">We are glad we could provide some safety and solitude for him these last 2 1/2 years after what appears to have been a very hard life.</span></div>
</blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Since the letter, his pain medication has changed and he is more animated. We are told this is temporary, but I'll take it if it means he feels better.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 18px;">I hope our efforts are what you need. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 18px;">Blessings as you journey from here to the Great Outdoors, Finn. </span>heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-31568469354030070642014-05-31T17:25:00.002-04:002014-05-31T17:25:43.639-04:00A Six-month Delay: Happy New Year!Originally written January 3, 2014:<br />
<br />
I can remember thinking: boring is good. 2013 almost delivered.<br />
<br />
We were on our way to Quaker meeting on New Year's Eve for a 7 p.m. service when Partner got a cell phone call from one of our neighbors.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
You might want to come home. Your next door neighbor's home is in flames. Don't know if your home is involved. The wind is blowing in your direction.</blockquote>
We made a U-turn. I took the back way home since the other road already had traffic problems due to a doe that had just been hit. No need to sit in traffic as everyone slowed down to look at a dying deer.<br />
<br />
As we drove closer to the house, two fire trucks carrying water were going toward our home. Rather than take the main entrance, we took the back road to (hopefully) bypass what we expected to be either a closed or busy road. As we drove on the highway near our home, we could see the orange glow and sparks. My stomach, which had been churning, now sank. A cold chill ran through my body.<br />
<br />
As we drove towards our driveway, cars, trucks and fire equipment were lined up on both sides of the road. The orange glow shined above the woods near our home. Large sparks glittered in the night sky.<br />
<br />
As we pulled up to the house, large pieces of ember and ash were falling from the sky. They came down in the yard and on the house. They seemed to go out pretty quickly. No fires were seen.<br />
<br />
Partner noticed someone walking across our yard. What were they doing there? Maybe, they were serving as a guardian.<br />
<br />
We went inside, changed our coats and shoes to something warmer and more durable. With no sign of fire on our house or yard, we walked the path between our two homes towards the activity.<br />
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We could hear the firemen and sirens. But the most amazing thing in the cold, dark winter night, was the embers falling from the sky into our woods and around us. The wind was up and sharing the fire with us. What a show! They looked liked big glowing orbs turning to white flakes. I'd never seen anything so enchanting and shocking.<br />
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As leisurely as they landed, they fizzled out.<br />
<br />
We had a heavy rain just two days ago. The river was high, so we didn't take a much anticipated canoe ride that morning. This fire shed new light on what had seemed frustrating before. The precipitation had seemed unfriendly and a douser of good times. Now we were grateful for the sogginess of the woods, the house, of the ground, as it was beginning to freeze in the dark.<br />
<br />
As we came out of the woods into the opening of our neighbor's buildings and yard, the realization that the house was almost gone hit us. Somehow, there wasn't much going on. The fire department had been trying to keep the fire from expanding, but was letting the house finish burning out. It wasn't much longer and the house was pretty much reduced to a few brick pillars.<br />
<br />
The fire that had been blowing in our direction was calming down. In Partner's quiet observation, he noted that the fire department would likely need to come back to tamp down re-igniting fires over the next few days.<br />
<br />
No one was hurt. The children had been at a grandparents' home for the New Year. The adults in the house got out just in time before the house imploded with fire. They left with the clothes on their backs and a purse. One of the dogs ran away frightened, but came back later that evening. Everyone accounted for. In less than an hour, our neighbors lost everything, except each other.<br />
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How does one bless the last year and look forward to the next in the midst of this? Relief. Life was spared. That pretty much sums it up.<br />
<br />
Yesterday, an expected snow came early. As I looked out of the window, rather than feel excited by the beauty, I was initially struck by the large flakes looking like the ash that fell. I wanted to cry. <br />
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Later in the night as the winter storm switched from snowing to high winds, my mind would not turn off. Remembering Partner's words, I felt I needed to "sleep" in the back room to check on the woods, in case the now-empty property was on fire again.<br />
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At 5:30 a.m., Partner got up to turn off his alarm. I had recently dozed and had a nightmare where I awoke with a vocalization that feels more like a scream stuck in the throat. I seem to be underestimating the depth of the recent events.<br />
<br />
We are okay. Nothing was even scorched that I know of. I reflected on the possible trauma my neighbors and others might experience given such a rapid and complete loss of belongings.<br />
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Pema Chodron talks about how our own troubles provide the ground for empathy when connecting with others. This little taste of a close call is so much closer to the bone than I originally thought. I can't think about it too much or I'll get lost in fear. How can I be available to those in much greater pain? fear?<br />
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On this fiery end of 2013 and wintery new beginning of 2014, may all beings (including you) be safe, happy, well, and at peace. <br />
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5/31/14: An update. Our neighbors have a rental for the year and are rebuilding while trying to work and raise their children. The community came together. Lots of love was expressed. It's been a tough and tender winter and spring. Life.<br />
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-20750944855745445762013-12-27T16:15:00.001-05:002013-12-27T16:18:49.075-05:00Winter and the Rising Morning StarWhat happened to 2013?<br />
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I'm not sure. I think I spent the year trying to be present to the moment. And now the end of 2013 is here.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Zen flower arrangement</td></tr>
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18 months since Dad died; Grandma before that. 12 months since Father-in-law died. So many other deaths in 2012/2013. How does one adjust to such loss?<br />
<br />
I got to hold a friend's newest grandson this fall. He was just a few weeks old. So much love. So much beauty. What gorgeous new life. I didn't want to hand him back. But that would be an old person's greed. <br />
<br />
There are new grandchildren from an emerging blended family. We got to spend a week's vacation at the ocean. It was the family vacation that we had been planning but weren't ready for until this year. Fishing, swimming, playing, eating, sleeping, watching the moon and ghost crabs on the beach at night. Adjusting to the newness on a land with shifting sands.<br />
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Work is settling into a nice rhythm. I have long-term clients with whom I cherish the opportunity to nurture. I feel very fortunate. <br />
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Music continues to be an important part of my life.<br />
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Home life is interesting with assorted friends and family in and out (human and other sentient beings). Loving the flow and companionship. Grateful for a patient partner.<br />
<br />
A few visits with cherished friends. So important for perspective from what one friend once called me - <em>provincial </em>for having lived in the same area my whole life.<br />
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Going on seven years now, I continue to sit with a meditation group loosely affiliated with the Vipassana tradition (loving-kindness practices). I tell people I've ordered my life around this group. They meet on Wednesday mornings. It's the glue that holds me together throughout the rest of the week. The depth of meditation, the tender and humor-filled sharing afterwards, all point toward loving kindnesses that expand the heart and mind. <br />
<br />
We spent the first half of the year going over Gil Fronsdal's <em>The Issue at Hand</em> on meditation concepts. (You can download a pdf file of this book at <a href="http://www.insightmeditationcenter.org/books-articles/the-issue-at-hand/">http://www.insightmeditationcenter.org/books-articles/the-issue-at-hand/</a> ) The second half of the year, we've been reading Stephen Levine's "Healing into Life and Death." <br />
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As we continue to deal with those three unavoidable pains in life of aging, illness and death, this practice becomes so real. We lost our first member the summer of 2012 - just 6 weeks after my dad died. We continue to have close calls. I only half-jokingly say that we are in graduate school for living in this group.<br />
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Each one of us is watching the grains of sand slide through the hour glass quickly. <br />
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This sense of time and timelessness was evident when I had been accepted for a Rohatsu retreat scheduled for the first week of December just a few weeks prior to the event. Rohatsu is a Japanese Zen celebration of who we think of as the Buddha, the man Siddharta, and his awakening after trying out all kinds of ways to seek enlightenment or realization. <br />
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The story goes that Siddharta was sitting for 40 days under a bodhi tree and as he saw the morning star, realized the interconnectedness of all beings and things across time and space. From there, he did what he felt called to do, help others seeking a better way of engaging in life.<br />
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There was an open slot just a few weeks prior to the retreat. Yes, I would figure out how to get there.<br />
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Somehow, in honor of my father, I found myself taking the train out to the retreat in New Mexico from the eastern seaboard. Heading west, I listened to people's stories of suffering and could offer a listening ear, a prayer, a kindness. Also, unknown people kept asking me: why are you going to this particular center. Even when I got to the Zen center, I kept running into people asking me why I was there. It seemed to be a question that I couldn't shake.<br />
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Why was I there? I was interested in a particular zen teacher. I loved how she embodied the stories she told. Tone of voice. Pithy, concise stories. Laughter. Hand gestures. Her whole body spoke the message.<br />
<br />
Soon after arriving, I realized that there was something at this point and time in this retreat center that was off. The teachers had been jet-setting and were exhausted, running on empty. This was also a very important celebration/retreat - almost like a homecoming for long-time students and priests. The week was filled with lots of ritual practices, including practices saved for special occasions. This was a retreat for insiders. The very first night, the lead teacher announced that they would no longer offer the retreat on a first-come basis. It would be by application only.<br />
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As a newbie, I was tested in a multitude of ways. No problem. I can clean toilets with Bon Ami and no gloves. Why did you wait until I cleaned them before telling me where the gloves were? Oh, the women's dorm's heater is broken? No problem, I brought a wool shawl, a blanket and warm socks. But why aren't we allowed to use the space heater when everyone else has heat? Two elderly women from the local community dropped in to meditate. They were rudely asked to leave. On and on. If this is zen practice, yuck. <br />
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Of course, this could just be more material to work with. Yet, at the deepest level, I could hear the story of Joshu and the request to come in for refuge at the gate, eat if one is accepted and needs nourishment (including spiritual teachings) and then wash the bowl and break it (clean out residue and break old thoughts/containers about how one believes about their spiritual tradition). And then, go out and back out into the world. For what other purpose is there except to be oneself in the web of interconnectedness?<br />
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I decided that while I <em>could</em> stay and experience the retreat as it unfolded, that the realization was that I was awake - or awake enough - or awake now and later would fall asleep, as is the rhythm of life. No matter where I am or what I am doing, I have a community and network of friends and teachers. Every moment is a teacher. <br />
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So I took the train back two days after arriving and washed and broke my bowl.<br />
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As a result, I got to listen to and help others with their joys and sorrows all the way back home. I gave away my sleep on the first night back to deal with an ill elderly woman sitting beside of me. The train car's heating and a/c was broken. It was either extremely hot or frigid. The next morning I gave away the blanket to an underdressed blind man going from sunny California to wintery upstate New York. Over the period of the next day, I gave away food from my backpack and two lucky pennies to a mother of five children in shock from the realization that she would be on the train for three days and that she didn't have enough money for food for the trip. <br />
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I listened to stories of sisters living together in their later years, either during or after caring for an aging parent. I heard people shut down when they heard something unfamiliar or didn't jive with their world view. I saw a drunk man removed from the train after passing out and missing his stop, only to awaken enraged. Several individuals and couples were traveling east on vacation and to visit family. I got to sleep the second night after my seat partner got off the train late at night and got to spread out across two seats until I awoke the next morning.<br />
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And an amazing thing happened, when I got home midday about 48 hours later, a friend picked me up from the train station while another fixed soup. The three of us got to share a meal together in the most ordinary and sacred way that seemed to be both in the moment and across time and space.<br />
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We carry "home" within us. No matter where I was, I felt both at once at home and a visitor. It seems to be something I am training in.<br />
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Someone from the meditation group later asked how all of this helped me connect with my father, knowing that my dad's ashes had been scattered at the train station where I departed and returned. <br />
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I responded that he was both a troubled and a generous man who reached out and connected with peoples of all kinds. He specialized in talking with outcasts, but would talk to anyone. He took the scripture literally in the section that asks of us: “Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?” The response goes like this: “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”<br />
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The journey, it turned out, revealed that I am awake enough. I was given the opportunity to connect with the goodness in my father on this trip. Coming to terms with my dad was like landing on the moon and seeing the earth. Beautiful. How sad that we have all these geo-political-interpersonal conflicts on such a beautiful globe in the universe. And yet, that also seems inherently human.<br />
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It is my wish that each of our own great awakenings be realized. That no matter how dark the night, the morning star is revealing more than we know. It is this message that the best of all winter spiritual traditions point towards. <br />
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Dad, where ever you are, thank you.<br />
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-22915627487034947082013-09-30T14:32:00.001-04:002013-09-30T14:32:15.449-04:00Is it curiosity or folly?The other day I went over to Mom's farm. Pulling up between the garden and the house, I noticed that the Havahart<b>® </b>trap had a juvenile raccoon captured in it.<br />
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My mom has been waging war on the groundhogs. They've been burrowing under the sheds and ruining the old stone foundation to her farmhouse. So she has good reason to be concerned.<br />
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However, no one is usually around to watch the traps. My mom doesn't actually attend to the traps. My brother-in-law does. He lives over an hour away and doesn't always make a weekly trip.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A different bandit </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I called Brother-in-law on my cell phone walking over towards the cage, "Did you set the trap?"<br />
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"No," he replied.<br />
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"Then who did?" I wondered aloud.<br />
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"Guess your Mom did before she left for work a few days ago", he responded.<br />
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The little raccoon was weak and shaking. He would try to do things with his paws, but the strength just wasn't there.<br />
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Bringing my attention back to Brother-in-law, I asked, "How do I spring this thing to let the little guy out?"<br />
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He tried to explain it to me, but I wasn't getting it. I simply depressed the solid piece that was sprung shut and pushed it down to let the youth out.<br />
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I have to be honest here. I was a little worried about what could happen as I handled the cage. Would he bite, scratch or turn on me once he got out? <br />
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Pushing down the trap door down, the little fellow took a few moments to turn around and gingerly moved forward towards the doorway. He took his time sniffing and figuring out what to do. He slowly moved past the hinged bottom and towards the garden. Then, he toddled through the tomatoes and up the hill into the thick weeds.<br />
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As I hung up from talking to Brother-in-law, I felt a little shaky myself. Would this little guy make it? He sure seemed weak, possibly hungry and dehydrated.<br />
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He's been on my mind since then.<br />
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I keep thinking about cautionary tales or saying like, "Curiosity killed the cat," or the story that I resonate with which is <i>How the Elephant Got Its Trunk </i>by Rudyard Kipling. The little elephant constantly gets into trouble for his curiosity and observations.<br />
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The trap was like a dead-end to nowhere with no way to get out. There was no nourishment or water. It might have been called Havahart<b>®</b>, but it in no way seemed to behave like having a heart when it traps animals and then starves them with neglect - not the intention of the manufacturer.<br />
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Perhaps I am still smarting from my own youthful ignorance in the same way as the little raccoon. But I have been playing with the word <i>folly</i> as I watch people blindly or mindlessly apply pat stories or answers or cliches to situations.<br />
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Then Sunday morning while at my Quaker meeting, a woman shared a message about a prisoner who cared for another much maligned prisoner under hospice care. The nurse encouraged the care giving prisoner to help the difficult person and find the capacity to build a friendship. She described the story as inspirational and the heart of spiritual work.<br />
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At the same time she raptly sang about the healing power of love - which I am a believer in, too, I was aware of a another Quaker meeting mired in craziness for the past seven years with a man who actively promotes hate of all kinds of religions and ethnicities on his personal website. This meeting has what a friend of mine calls <i>Kumbaya thinking</i> - that if we just love someone enough, they will change. Meanwhile, people who can no longer tolerate the pain of this man's actions simply have left the meeting and possibly the Quaker community altogether.<br />
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"Good for them," I say. I'm finding that I like what passes for sanity these days.<br />
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This might seem like a stretch, but I was feeling as if some of my Quaker Friends are lost in a have-a-heart cage without proper food or water and a little delusional... and they can't tell the difference between what is nourishing and what is debilitating because they can still see out of the cage, or, maybe they are trapped and are stuck.<br />
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Recently someone was telling me that they learned a powerful lesson about limits: Just because you can, doesn't mean you should. Just because Quakers can take the spiritual bait, doesn't mean they should tie up years of engaging with someone not interested in love or life or compassion.<br />
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To be sure, not all Quaker meetings have such poor boundaries or spiritual arrogance. However, the crazy making aspect some meetings have has the energy or feeling tone of<i> folly</i>. What a waste of energy.<br />
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The trap door opens: Little raccoon finds his way out. <br />
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Will the troubled Quaker meeting and all confounded religious groups be so lucky? Don't know, except I need to turn this over to what the 12-steppers call their Higher Power.<br />
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-74709723876622750292013-07-30T08:59:00.001-04:002013-07-30T08:59:22.587-04:00The distance between two hearts<div style="text-align: center;">
Looking up at the sky</div>
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Between distant shores</div>
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I see the Source of my being</div>
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Who knew we were this large? </div>
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There is a point where one is too far from the shore of the past and not within sight of the shore of the future.<br />
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A month ago was the anniversary of Dad's death. I found myself between the firmness of solid ground. When I reflect on this, I realize that I have been seeking this place. Reading Pema Chodron's books about what we think of as permanent and reliable, may not be all it is cracked up to be. In fact, it is an illusion and causes us much suffering. There is nothing absolute except change and Love.<br />
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When jumping into deep water, try not to sink.<br />
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For several years and maybe all my life, I have been seeking a solid sense of self. The thing is, this sense of self is too small.<br />
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Partner and I were heading home the other day and he remarked that a two-year spiritual nurturers program, School of the Spirit, changed me and changed our relationship. I was surprised. That program took place ten years ago. I had no idea he felt this way.<br />
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When I asked him what was he thought changed, he thought carefully about what to say:<br />
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At first he said, "I was worried it would change you and our relationship."<br />
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Then he said, "It began to soften your edges. Eventually, you didn't fight so hard to be right all the time."<br />
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The timing of the School of the Spirit program coincided with my mid-life development shift - it was an initiation into the Jungian second-half of life phase. The lessons got harder. Yet, those friendships and gifts continue to serve me by teaching me to lean into those places with others when I would otherwise tend to go it alone.<br />
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It seems to be human nature to resist what we are afraid of. The universe has been a wonderful tool for exposing all the ways I have tried to control and protect myself - and others - from trouble. It simply doesn't work. The work of growing into a lighter self is called for. One cannot swim or take a boat across the way with extra weight dragging the body down.<br />
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What is left after letting go of unnecessary baggage is the opportunity to experience with freshness what has been missing - what I have been missing, and to see how vast the universe is.<br />
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I see the stars and remember my birth and death and the space in between. <br />
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Dad, this is in memory of you. Your bones may have been flung at railroad stations and placed under a weeping cherry on the farm, but your spirit was always much larger.<br />
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-66722709092380348632013-05-08T15:58:00.000-04:002013-05-08T15:58:48.681-04:00From dirt and cinders we come, and thus returnMy family spread almost all of my father's ashes along with the remaining ashes of his father in mid-April. There was barely a plan.<br />
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I had always blamed poor planning on my dad, but now can see that we all contributed. At any rate, I felt that spreading his ashes would help provide some kind of closure, whatever that means.<br />
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After the chaos of his sudden death last June and the durecho (intense summer storm) the night after he was found dead, I have to admit that I was a little on edge the week leading up to this event.<br />
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It didn't help that we had a dramatic shift from winter weather to temps in the mid-90's just days before the family gathering. I know the weather isn't personal, but it was unnerving. This was barely April! What else could possibly go haywire?<br />
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Somehow, we managed in our messy, poorly communicated ways, to pull off something that felt like something meaningful in memory of our dad.<br />
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Ingredients included a medium-sized box of Dad's ashes, a "sippy cup" with the remaining ashes of his father, four living generations, two vehicles, the farm, two railroad stations, bubbles, a white weeping cherry tree, a dead log, and assorted readings. Of course, there was the obligatory family meal. Humor. Dry as the ashes.<br />
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In two vehicles, the generations piled in and went to the Point of Rocks train station. A dead hawk was in between the eastbound tracks. We walked closer to the iconic station and flung ashes.<br />
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Pap, his father, loved trains and kept track of time by which train whistle blew in the valley. In his youth, Dad got off at the Point of Rocks train station from Washington DC to visit his grandparents on the farm he would later live and die on. Passenger trains pricked Dad's consciousness as he saw how people were treated based on their skin color. Trains were powerful. They were his ticket to freedom.<br />
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As my grandson shook out ashes from a coffee scoop (both men lived on stiff, black tarry coffee), he looked the part as if they were casting for the Little Lebowski. We all took turns flinging the remains of these old men across the track so bits and pieces might hitch a ride back "home" - to DC - where both men had been born.<br />
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From there, we took the back roads to Harpers Ferry, WV and spread a few more ashes. Just as we got there, the eastbound Amtrak train pulled in. All aboard.<br />
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Back to the farm, we had lunch where generations of both sides of my parents' families ate in the very same room with a view of Sugarloaf Mountain to the east and the Catoctin Mountain to the west. The day was beautiful and not too hot or cold.<br />
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After lunch, my brother-in-law had prepared the site for planting the tree.<br />
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We read original writings from Dad and one of my sisters, Wendell Berry's Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front, the Quanglewangle Quee and verses from Job.<br />
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More ashes were dumped in the hole and around the tree. Bubbles were blown. An old tree trunk cut to sit on was placed near the tree with the "Crumpity Tree" written on it - a phrase of the childhood poem from the Quanglewangle Quee that every child who grew up in the family or farmed out to stay with us heard him read.<br />
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As I watched my grandson pour out the ashes, I couldn't help but think that he didn't really have a clue as to what was going on. But then, I wasn't sure I did either.<br />
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Except, I felt like I could finally let go and that he could finally rest in peace. He wasn't sitting in a box on a shelf indefinitely. It was spring and he was outside. Maybe now his sinuses wouldn't bother him. No more ongoing angst about where the money was coming from for the next crop or bill. No more worrying about when or who or how we would get around to putting this man's soul to rest. </div>
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So this was closure.</div>
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After a lifetime of tending fires on that farm to keep the house warm, of tilling and planting the soil, and of his own inner turmoils that kept him bound to struggle, perhaps he was finally at peace under the weeping cherry. As I saw the great grandson he called Alex the Great-Great, I could only hope that this be so for all of us.<br />
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<br />heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058753742449216476.post-39935739309075454412013-04-05T16:38:00.000-04:002013-04-05T16:38:11.973-04:00Hungry Ghosts of the Food KindToday I walked into a Weight Watchers center. I hadn't even put it on my "to-do" list or personal goals. In fact, I can't imagine losing weight at all. Yet, like an alcoholic who knows that the obsession with their favorite substance is ruining their life, I blindly made my way.<br />
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I told Partner at lunch that I thought I was going to go sign-up.<br />
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In the past, I had all kinds of reasons not to do it. Money. Time. Hormones. I already know about good nutrition and self-care. Don't I teach it myself?<br />
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Walking through the door felt incredibly scary. I was in the midst of wrestling with my demons, yet had enough sanity to continue walking and forced a smile. But deep within I felt shame. Deep shame and sadness. I wanted to cry. How did I get to this point?<br />
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My confusion has to do with food and my relationship to my self and the world.<br />
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My story line goes something like this: I grew up on a farm where "if we had nothing else, we damned sure had food." Another message: food is love. Survival at the physical and emotional levels seems to be the theme, even though I am about as safe as anyone could be at this time in my life.<br />
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I gained weight beginning in early childhood. I did my first Weight Watchers as a teenager. I've been teased about my weight from my earliest days. I've never been thin, but even when I was in a healthier range, my head was always in "fat girl" mode.<br />
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When I was in my 20's, I started to see a counselor to cope with the stresses of life. After several months into counseling, this brave person brought up my obsession with food. I worked at a health food store. Tried to fix healthy meals. Nutrition wasn't the issue. So, I was encouraged to study my eating habits.<br />
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A few weeks into self-observation, I found myself at home with two small crying children and feeling incredibly overwhelmed. I grabbed a pack of rice crackers, turned the rocking chair facing the corner of the room (as if to put myself into time out) and sat eating those dry, tasteless wheels as if they could somehow help.<br />
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This incident really helped me get in touch with my stress-eating response. It wouldn't be until just a few years ago that I actually felt a deeper connection to my condition. I lost weight and had a more balanced approach to eating for a while.<br />
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As I approached my 40's and now 50's, I simply didn't need as much food to live. At some point, I gave up trying to keep my weight down. Food brought me pleasure. At the same time, I felt like I was losing control of my own life.<br />
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I found myself overeating again and didn't seem to be able to stop. I was uncomfortable. I was aware I was doing this, but kept at it and decided to observe whatever arose.<br />
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One day in particular helped me gain understanding. As I ate and grew fuller, there was a point where the distention/pressure in my mid-section crossed over some kind of line. It was like an adrenaline pick-up. I experienced it as release. I could relax now.<br />
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Almost immediately afterwards, I realized that overeating caused some kind of relaxation response, I had a realization that this tight feeling felt like self-hugging. The bands of tissue, ribs, skin, or whatever else felt like tension, literally, held the "me" that was needing self-soothing or whatever I took for love.<br />
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It was an insight that, while useful, didn't really change anything. I did practice compassion for myself and others who use food to self-sooth. But, I continued to creep up the scale.<br />
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So why go to Weight Watchers now?<br />
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In trauma work, therapists talk about what happens once a person finally feels safe enough to "thaw" from their helplessness of the trauma. Is it possible that my life is finally "safe" enough or that I have enough pieces of a foundation for moving forward? Or am I just so miserable, that I feel that I cannot tolerate this self-abuse anymore? It just isn't worth the distorted pleasure that keeps tricking my brain into more eating.<br />
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Having a financial safety net that didn't exist earlier is helping me overcome the cost of paying for support. Then there have been the horrifying moments of seeing my naked self in the mirror. Or worse yet, after my father-in-law's death, I developed a crack in my skin under my belly fat. It took a week to heal. I was mortified. I was one of <i>those</i> fat people.<br />
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This is such a tender place. If you see me, don't scare the "me" that is afraid by talking too loudly or slapping me on the back for encouragement. Should I fail at this, it would just add to the shame. If I am "successful", then there are a whole host of problems around identity that worry me. And besides, what is failure or success when what I really just want is to live my life?<br />
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If you feel moved to share your hungry ghosts stories, whisper them to me - we don't want to give them any reason to stir up trouble.heartgardenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14864965866758228200noreply@blogger.com1