I am meant for the new year. Designed for rebirth. The changing over of time, walking through the fire of transition is what I seem built for -- a spirit put into action by the promise of shed skin, sunrise, awakening, the giddy anticipation of all that is to come.
Even as December dawns, something essential and intuitive is released in my veins, pumping like opium, unleashing the dark and beautiful beast of future joy and pain mingled, the everlasting sign of change, growth, and creation. I crave it, need it like breath.
I am sitting still at the last. Watching. Something sacred. A mirror of life lived, cradled in the breaking of another moment, infinite and temporary, together weaving the eternal picture. Now as the sun breaks over nearby rooftops, radiant light against the rough, new-formed diamond of my heart, I am exposed to the shards of existence.
Would that I could bottle this for each day that opens. For you, my son, my love, for every life. And yet I see this spark shining from unexpected eyes, from unanticipated meetings, and know it for what it is. Infinite potential. Everywhere in everyone if only I am willing to see it.
And I wonder...perhaps the new year is just an unwholesome attachment to the inner landscape of my life -- to look inward rather than outward. Outward facing I see things that take constant care, relentless tending. In here I get to settle into the solitude of only my voice. In here I always get my way. I don't have to decipher my voice from theirs, my will from the world's. It is a place I want to be when I am most other places and I do see the folly in that. Yet, I cannot lie about it. It's a reminder that I am flawed and rankled with humanity. In fact, I love it, love to say it, feel it, be in it, wear it, my happy and guilty proclamation.
To read, write, sit and be still more often than not, is heaven divined. Like a silk thread that weaves its way between the homespun fibers of the rest of it. I am satisfied.
So, I am ready for this midnight rendezvous. I will put on my tender openness and bring it to the party, meeting friends I've traveled with this past year: fear, love, willingness, surrender, joy and gratitude. I will even invite the wall flowers to dance: reluctance, hesitancy, defensiveness, pain, resentment. Oh, dear there are a lot of them. But I must beckon them all along so the whole is retained, dark and light, like the time traveler who's pieces are dictated to follow lest he become shards of matter and nothingness.
And as with every year, my greatest hope is to remember this fresh willingness every morning I wake.
May we revel in newness with each passing day.
With loving-kindness,
Chantill
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sweet morning alone
Small change. Ten cents. A nickel. Perhaps a quarter. This I can doll out piece by piece. But my own? How very different. Or not. This entry, for instance. It is just small change. I have sat down with one goal in mind: write this post without changing a word. No backspace (except to correct for spelling). No highlight and delete. You're getting this unedited. My final offering for 2011.
It's a paradox, no? Or should that be yes? To write about change without changing a word. Maybe a koan? Maybe a (stopping now to take a sip of coffee) meditation. Yes. A meditation. In words. Time. Space. I wonder at the change that surrounds me. We all want it, but often don't know exactly what it means. I want change. I want to change. Somedays the biggest change I can manage is a change of clothes. Other days, I am lost in the dream of stripping myself free of this cloak that has become my outer edifice, my inner anchor. But some days I drown from the weight of me. That is the glory of the New Year. We can (another sip of coffee) imagine ourselves in new light. In new clothes. In a new spirit that frees us from the past, from all that would make us heavy and dull.
But I don't want to change so much as evolve, transform. I look at these layers, these sedimentary layers of experience, memory, action (what I want to say is these sedimentary layers of remembrance in mind, body and spirit) and I am as whole today as I have ever been. Is desiring more for ourselves the curse of our lives, or a blessing? If, as we all know, we have all we need, we are all we are, we hold the answers always in our heart, then what is this life if not a constant journey down a river toward the sea? (coffee and a gaze at Rizzo on the back stoop. the wind is strong today and she smells the air now wants inside.)
Writing pains me because I take so long to find the words and am often stunned to realize I have only a fraction of what I need. I want to take our language into my head and heart and memorize meaning so I can recall it at a whim. Instead, I change, delete, pine for and settle on letters arranged into reflections of desire. in the end, all I have is the choice to take my time, to align myself with intention, to reflect, ponder and infuse my being with the thing, the desire, the flash of what it is my small hand reaches for in space and longing. I long for words. I long for change.
This new year comes upon me with a strength of blessing I have not felt in years. (damn, this coffee is good). The practice I have embraced, while small for now, is to settle myself each morning and be still with my breath. I feel my spine release, my hands grow warm, my eyes cast for a gentle spot and I begin the dance of intention, one breath at a time. This is new. This is change. It is welcome and celebrated. It is mine. It is a mystery. I wish i could devote more time to its -- I mean to say, I wish I could nurture it more fully by devoting more time, but my days are fields of growing flowers and weeds. I must constantly pluck and pluck and prune and water what grows around me. I feel this changing. My awareness. It seeks new clothes. And damn if we aren't shopping right now.
I bless my roommate for not being home this morning. I have the house to myself and it's so lovely I can barely stand it. I am writing without editing and this I can barely stand, too. It's freeing. Perhaps this should be my goal for every post. My challenge, my change. I over think and I get trapped. But I don't want traps. Or cages. Or rules. Or the same old same old. I am mad with desire to bring life close to my heart, to engage my body in all that is wild and free, to taste the breath of joy upon my lips and give back. Give. Serve. Be whole in the way I want. With the people I love. With the friends I don't yet know. With the vision I know I can find inside all this clutter, lost pieces of papers, string, tea bags, photos, dog hair and maple syrup.
Bluebird. Wren. Kingfisher. Merganser. Stilt. Godwit. (Help me Fred, that is a bird, right?) Raven. Tufted titmouse. Quetzal. These winged creatures have a place in all this. I know. I feel it and marvel at it and pray that I may have half the, nay a fraction, of the grace and knowledge to know where I feed, where I live, when to migrate, and how to fly through the night destined for a land wired in my brain, in my very cells, in the atmosphere that guides me back home where I have always lived. With change at my side, like a sweet dog that licks my hand as a reminder that she is here. She is pure. She is not going anywhere.
May we all find new grace in the next turn around the sun.
Much love.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Change
“Change your ways mister!” seethed Sister Isadore. The wrinkle faced elderly nun was frothing around her taut lips as she tried to comprehend the rationale of a twelve-year-old boy with his mass cassock on backwards. Altar boys were a chosen few and I was quickly losing my status for having put the sacred garment on backwards and feigning some lewd aboriginal dance. Her initial boney-fingered slap across my face caught me off guard, as she seemed to appear from out of nowhere. Now her eighty-year-old pointer finger was jabbing me like a jousting saber as she scolded me with words and spittle. It was not my character to act out and desecrate the robes I so yearned to wear. But in a moment of weakness fed by sugar cookies and holiday fervor, I lost myself to the bliss of childish elation. It was the end of school for the Christmas holidays and I had just served mass for Father Hay.
“Freddy-me-boy you’re gonna make a good priest someday,” Father would say after every mass I served. The old Irish priest with the heavy brogue and bushy eye brows was my idol, and I his favorite altar boy. Other boys were jealous when I was pulled from school to serve at funerals or made money at weddings. That old priest and I were friends. His sincere, gentle heart always spoke with kindness; he had a way of making me feel valuable. As Sister Isadore hobbled away from the sacristy I could see Fr. Hay in the other room pretending he was hiding behind the door in fear, smiling at me, pinching his lips and twisting his finger in the air mocking the old nun. I laughed through my tears at his antics and he quickly gave me the “shoosh” sign so the old curmudgeon wouldn’t return and catch both of us. Instead he came into the room put his hand on my shoulder and hugged me and said “Freddy-me-boy I just bet you’ll be the priest at her funeral.” His smile lit up the room as we both sighed like we’d just dodged a tornado. From his pocket he pulled out a brand new Kennedy half-dollar and laid it in my hand saying “Merry Christmas, now git before she comes back.”
As I walked I marveled at the shiny new coin that had only recently been minted. I tried to not think about Sister Isadore but my face was still hot where she’d slapped me and my eyes were still itchy from crying. I put the coin deep in my pocket and ran the rest of the way home.
“Change your ways mister!” Its funny how those words still burn in my ears forty-four years later. When the topic “change” was selected, for a brief moment I saw Sister Isadore’s finger in my chest. Change is such a difficult concept to accept and even more so for a youngster entering the world of reality. I surmise that in some deep, subconscious chamber I’ve harbored her words for my entire life.
I have lived many changes, some profound and others quite simple. But I seem to be able to see them coming a lot better than I did Sister Isadore. And despite my contempt for her seemingly hateful manner, I’ve heeded her words more than she probably imagined. In retrospect I see that every thing we say imprints those around us. I’m sure my own children will some day pause to reflect on me and what I was to them. I only hope and pray they see the merry, gentle-hearted prankster Father Hay more often than the grouch of Isadore. And I hope my warm hugs then will sustain them long after I’m gone.
I wonder where that coin resides today…
“Freddy-me-boy you’re gonna make a good priest someday,” Father would say after every mass I served. The old Irish priest with the heavy brogue and bushy eye brows was my idol, and I his favorite altar boy. Other boys were jealous when I was pulled from school to serve at funerals or made money at weddings. That old priest and I were friends. His sincere, gentle heart always spoke with kindness; he had a way of making me feel valuable. As Sister Isadore hobbled away from the sacristy I could see Fr. Hay in the other room pretending he was hiding behind the door in fear, smiling at me, pinching his lips and twisting his finger in the air mocking the old nun. I laughed through my tears at his antics and he quickly gave me the “shoosh” sign so the old curmudgeon wouldn’t return and catch both of us. Instead he came into the room put his hand on my shoulder and hugged me and said “Freddy-me-boy I just bet you’ll be the priest at her funeral.” His smile lit up the room as we both sighed like we’d just dodged a tornado. From his pocket he pulled out a brand new Kennedy half-dollar and laid it in my hand saying “Merry Christmas, now git before she comes back.”
As I walked I marveled at the shiny new coin that had only recently been minted. I tried to not think about Sister Isadore but my face was still hot where she’d slapped me and my eyes were still itchy from crying. I put the coin deep in my pocket and ran the rest of the way home.
“Change your ways mister!” Its funny how those words still burn in my ears forty-four years later. When the topic “change” was selected, for a brief moment I saw Sister Isadore’s finger in my chest. Change is such a difficult concept to accept and even more so for a youngster entering the world of reality. I surmise that in some deep, subconscious chamber I’ve harbored her words for my entire life.
I have lived many changes, some profound and others quite simple. But I seem to be able to see them coming a lot better than I did Sister Isadore. And despite my contempt for her seemingly hateful manner, I’ve heeded her words more than she probably imagined. In retrospect I see that every thing we say imprints those around us. I’m sure my own children will some day pause to reflect on me and what I was to them. I only hope and pray they see the merry, gentle-hearted prankster Father Hay more often than the grouch of Isadore. And I hope my warm hugs then will sustain them long after I’m gone.
I wonder where that coin resides today…
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Authenticity
What does it mean to be authentic? Yes, I know the definition of the word, but how do we (or can we?) apply the idea to ourselves? I have given this a great deal of thought over the past several months in my search for the deeper meaning of my life. In synchronous fashion I have confronted the concept several times in conversations and books as recently as yesterday, and the truth of it intrigues me. Am I genuine? Is my truth flawless?
As my life unravels and my soul expands into the cosmos I feel the literal aspects of this question taking on greater meaning. Nowhere is this more prevalent than in relationships. How we allow our spirit, our identity, to mingle in the fabric of humanity is the essence of who we are to the world. I am many things… I am a soul, a man, a father, a son, a brother. I am a friend, a lover, a writer… I am Alfred. To grasp the certainty in all of these labels is a life long evolution influenced by the people around us. And what I’ve come to know is that I dislike it when these others take the liberty of making those definitions. But is this a flaw in my presentation of self? Is my portrayal of Alfred authentic?
I have been practicing meditation for over ten years. For the past three years I have taken on the traditions and methods of the Shambhala lineage of Buddhism. The ancient ways of ascending into the consciousness-of-now has broadened my understanding of the authentic me. Yet the reflection I sometimes see is jaded. It reminds me of a quote my daughter had hanging from her desk “We do not see things as they are; we see things as we are” ~Talmud.
What am I to these people around me, to you my soulful friends, indeed to myself? I recognize the mystical gift of a brilliant vibrating soul careening through existence. I want to leap in joy as many times as I crawl through despair. And I want to accomplish this with every measure of truthfulness I can conjure, yet in so many ways I fail. This is nowhere more prevalent than in my heart, in the vestige of love. In the Talmudic sentiment, how do I see love?
We recently celebrated the winter solstice, a time when we are the farthest from the light that sustains us. It is a cold and dark time for the earth and a perfect metaphor for the soul. My soul is barren and so cold; the very frozen ground that sustains it envelops it. Yet I know that the cycle has shifted, the Great Spirit is pulling the axis in ethereal increments back to fertile times. And for my part, I must delve deeply into the dark night of soul and search for the truths; those that are OF me and those that are of the world. I love the imagery of burrowing deep into the psyche, like a cave bear slowly lumbering into the darkness for respite. The tempest and howling winds of life outside slowly fade with each submerging step. Until, deep in the caverns, silence and all its solitudes seize the soul in a womb of truthful refuge.
Meditation is the same path into that cave of self. And for me it is a way of searching for my truths, my authenticity and myself. It is a holy and sacred communion with God. But my problem is in bringing all of that back into the world of reality that screams for identity. There is a human comfort in knowing who we are, and a tremendous satisfaction in knowing that we are innately good. That “good,” I believe is the God-spark or essence of the Great Creator and the culmination of our mortal and cosmic journey.
I want to be a reflection of that Spark of Truthfulness. I want to feel that my truth is apparent and real. And as I walk into the wintery night of soul I pray for the divine instinct to know I’m on the right course; and that all of what I do, say, and most importantly write is genuine.
As my life unravels and my soul expands into the cosmos I feel the literal aspects of this question taking on greater meaning. Nowhere is this more prevalent than in relationships. How we allow our spirit, our identity, to mingle in the fabric of humanity is the essence of who we are to the world. I am many things… I am a soul, a man, a father, a son, a brother. I am a friend, a lover, a writer… I am Alfred. To grasp the certainty in all of these labels is a life long evolution influenced by the people around us. And what I’ve come to know is that I dislike it when these others take the liberty of making those definitions. But is this a flaw in my presentation of self? Is my portrayal of Alfred authentic?
I have been practicing meditation for over ten years. For the past three years I have taken on the traditions and methods of the Shambhala lineage of Buddhism. The ancient ways of ascending into the consciousness-of-now has broadened my understanding of the authentic me. Yet the reflection I sometimes see is jaded. It reminds me of a quote my daughter had hanging from her desk “We do not see things as they are; we see things as we are” ~Talmud.
What am I to these people around me, to you my soulful friends, indeed to myself? I recognize the mystical gift of a brilliant vibrating soul careening through existence. I want to leap in joy as many times as I crawl through despair. And I want to accomplish this with every measure of truthfulness I can conjure, yet in so many ways I fail. This is nowhere more prevalent than in my heart, in the vestige of love. In the Talmudic sentiment, how do I see love?
We recently celebrated the winter solstice, a time when we are the farthest from the light that sustains us. It is a cold and dark time for the earth and a perfect metaphor for the soul. My soul is barren and so cold; the very frozen ground that sustains it envelops it. Yet I know that the cycle has shifted, the Great Spirit is pulling the axis in ethereal increments back to fertile times. And for my part, I must delve deeply into the dark night of soul and search for the truths; those that are OF me and those that are of the world. I love the imagery of burrowing deep into the psyche, like a cave bear slowly lumbering into the darkness for respite. The tempest and howling winds of life outside slowly fade with each submerging step. Until, deep in the caverns, silence and all its solitudes seize the soul in a womb of truthful refuge.
Meditation is the same path into that cave of self. And for me it is a way of searching for my truths, my authenticity and myself. It is a holy and sacred communion with God. But my problem is in bringing all of that back into the world of reality that screams for identity. There is a human comfort in knowing who we are, and a tremendous satisfaction in knowing that we are innately good. That “good,” I believe is the God-spark or essence of the Great Creator and the culmination of our mortal and cosmic journey.
I want to be a reflection of that Spark of Truthfulness. I want to feel that my truth is apparent and real. And as I walk into the wintery night of soul I pray for the divine instinct to know I’m on the right course; and that all of what I do, say, and most importantly write is genuine.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Simple Joys, Infinite Bliss
Sweet comrades,
I started the post below on Thursday or Friday last week and have come back to it after a beautiful and deeply nurturing holiday. I thought I aught to finish it, but I also wanted to speak to something that has been moving me these past few weeks -- the time with family and friends engrossed in the holiday has only revealed it more clearly.
I am one who believes her work is never done, always striving for growth and knowing. Tangled in that is so much grasping at being, doing, and having that what is at my heart has often gotten lost -- as you may have gleamed from past posts. Recently, though, I feel a great shift. I thought, you of anyone else, might pay witness.
As I seek control, my mind wants to pin point it to one thing, and yet I am practiced enough at least to know that it has been every little thing, finely orchestrated, so this turn might be taken. No true decision need be made -- the answer revealed.
I have been at a cross-roads for the past year or more; a transition has beckoned within my work and my life to be more authentic, to trust myself, to risk complete and harrowing exposure of my deepest desire to be seen and be of service. Each decision I've made in the last six months has been like moving a chess piece, one by one, question and corresponding answer, the path unfolding with brilliant and growing clarity.
I have examined my heart, my talents, my desires, my joys, my efforts (true and false), my motivations, my love, my pain and I have chosen to let my guard down, to retire those steadfast warriors to the side pursuant to a true, wise life.
Being at Shambhala with you, with Susan, and on my own was a huge piece of this unfolding. I've made a decision to write and be in the world as a writer. I've made a decision to be open to criticism and charge it with the eager anticipation of growth rather than defensiveness and anger. I've decided to risk what's been working, what everyone has said "you're so good at" and light it up with rocket fuel and shoot for the moon, loop around the stars and explore infinite, uncertain and glorious space.
I feel a great shift in me. I sit now and look out my window and feel different -- something permanent and tangible. Generosity like I have never known is surfacing. I have a vision of myself sitting on a mountain top, a place between ground and heaven, legs folded on a gilded cushion, smiling, seeing my life like frames of a movie reel. Perfect wholeness. It is my journey and I am finally in awe of it, knowing the truth of it's purpose. I am giddy to feel the things I have grasped at turn into unquestionable truths. I think, yes they are on there way, but they will not make you anymore complete than you are right now. You have all you have wished for. It has always been there.
Mist surrounding my be-ing in this world, a confidant to love and embrace. I will go forward into it's shimmering beauty knowing myself better, fearless.
***
I wake up in the morning and am filled with a subtle longing.
The heavy gates of sleep recede and the weight of darkness lightens. I am not yet awake and yet not still dreaming. I wait in anticipation for my 6 year-old son to crawl in for a sweet moment of snuggling. His beautiful face close to mine, his soft delicate skin radiating warmth, his small long body a tiny copy of my own.
Hanging to sleep like a slow drip of honey, a craving surfaces. I don't move and yet there is a stirring in my body. My mind remembers - silky, oily richness. Steaming, you can taste it's deep dark answer. Coffee. Like uncovering a precious golden treasure. My copper pot awaits the slow familiar process: bubble, reduce, foam, reduce, foam, rest. Sip. Quiet.
Ten feet of eastward window calls me to the living room where the sun slides into composition. Hidden behind rooftops and the wiry bulk of winter limbs, you can see only glow. Sitting on the bank of still water, a mind more clear and open, before doing dictates and the day's task take hold, my thoughts like clay. Just a moment...please. A moment, quiet. My soul revealed, raw, exposed from that other world, cleansed by ether and mist, dark and unafraid.
I welcome the day. What part of self will remain till tomorrow?
I started the post below on Thursday or Friday last week and have come back to it after a beautiful and deeply nurturing holiday. I thought I aught to finish it, but I also wanted to speak to something that has been moving me these past few weeks -- the time with family and friends engrossed in the holiday has only revealed it more clearly.
I am one who believes her work is never done, always striving for growth and knowing. Tangled in that is so much grasping at being, doing, and having that what is at my heart has often gotten lost -- as you may have gleamed from past posts. Recently, though, I feel a great shift. I thought, you of anyone else, might pay witness.
As I seek control, my mind wants to pin point it to one thing, and yet I am practiced enough at least to know that it has been every little thing, finely orchestrated, so this turn might be taken. No true decision need be made -- the answer revealed.
I have been at a cross-roads for the past year or more; a transition has beckoned within my work and my life to be more authentic, to trust myself, to risk complete and harrowing exposure of my deepest desire to be seen and be of service. Each decision I've made in the last six months has been like moving a chess piece, one by one, question and corresponding answer, the path unfolding with brilliant and growing clarity.
I have examined my heart, my talents, my desires, my joys, my efforts (true and false), my motivations, my love, my pain and I have chosen to let my guard down, to retire those steadfast warriors to the side pursuant to a true, wise life.
Being at Shambhala with you, with Susan, and on my own was a huge piece of this unfolding. I've made a decision to write and be in the world as a writer. I've made a decision to be open to criticism and charge it with the eager anticipation of growth rather than defensiveness and anger. I've decided to risk what's been working, what everyone has said "you're so good at" and light it up with rocket fuel and shoot for the moon, loop around the stars and explore infinite, uncertain and glorious space.
I feel a great shift in me. I sit now and look out my window and feel different -- something permanent and tangible. Generosity like I have never known is surfacing. I have a vision of myself sitting on a mountain top, a place between ground and heaven, legs folded on a gilded cushion, smiling, seeing my life like frames of a movie reel. Perfect wholeness. It is my journey and I am finally in awe of it, knowing the truth of it's purpose. I am giddy to feel the things I have grasped at turn into unquestionable truths. I think, yes they are on there way, but they will not make you anymore complete than you are right now. You have all you have wished for. It has always been there.
Mist surrounding my be-ing in this world, a confidant to love and embrace. I will go forward into it's shimmering beauty knowing myself better, fearless.
***
I wake up in the morning and am filled with a subtle longing.
The heavy gates of sleep recede and the weight of darkness lightens. I am not yet awake and yet not still dreaming. I wait in anticipation for my 6 year-old son to crawl in for a sweet moment of snuggling. His beautiful face close to mine, his soft delicate skin radiating warmth, his small long body a tiny copy of my own.
Hanging to sleep like a slow drip of honey, a craving surfaces. I don't move and yet there is a stirring in my body. My mind remembers - silky, oily richness. Steaming, you can taste it's deep dark answer. Coffee. Like uncovering a precious golden treasure. My copper pot awaits the slow familiar process: bubble, reduce, foam, reduce, foam, rest. Sip. Quiet.
Ten feet of eastward window calls me to the living room where the sun slides into composition. Hidden behind rooftops and the wiry bulk of winter limbs, you can see only glow. Sitting on the bank of still water, a mind more clear and open, before doing dictates and the day's task take hold, my thoughts like clay. Just a moment...please. A moment, quiet. My soul revealed, raw, exposed from that other world, cleansed by ether and mist, dark and unafraid.
I welcome the day. What part of self will remain till tomorrow?
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Morning magic
I have a new habit. It involves a dog, a cottonwood grove, timing and the morning sky. It starts around 6:30. I don my favorite ear-flap wool hat, gloves or heavy mitts, down jacket and black winter boots. I reach for Rizzo’s leash and negotiate commands to come, sit and stay. She loves to walk, but is indifferent about leaving. Once her will is aligned with my heart, we walk out the door, down the driveway and turn north.
It goes like this: Rizzo tugs at the lime green leash for 30 yards before giving into the rhythm of our quick clip. At the end of our block we slip between wooden post and metal gate to cross a city-owned field. I navigate grass hummocks that conceal mounds of frozen dog poo. Rizzo prances, her head turning up to meet my gaze now and then. On the far side we hurdle a low fence – me over the top rung, Rizzo over the bottom – and stop at the edge of Vine Street. Rizzo sits sideways to the street, waiting for “release.” We watch cars pass then trot across the street.
It’s December and the air is cold, but not yet sharp enough to freeze my nostrils. I stay warm because I walk fast. Rizzo doesn’t care about my pace or the cold. Once I remove her leash at the edge of the dirt lane, she will come and sit, whether her puppy nose has held her back, or the chase of a flitting chickadee has carried her ahead.
By 6:45 the sun starts to creep above the silhouette of the plains. We are approaching a wide open field edged by horse and cow pasture, a junior high school, and a chain of ponds made from abandoned gravel pits carved out of the river bottom. The trail splits in two at the end of the cottonwood grove. I take the left fork, sticking to the well-traveled track that heads west, toward the foothills. The triangular face of Grey Rock embraces its namesake in the dim morning. High in the hills, among ponderosa and Douglas fir, amber house lights flicker as bright as a motorcycle head lamp. Rizzo dodges among sage and snow, looking for something that might be good to eat.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Fill me up...
I am cracked, fissured, broken -- open. And I am the answer. Diffuse, mangled, twisted -- perfect. Only I fill the space. Only I am the answer and the question.
I feel my soul weep for my soul, my breath meet my breath, of me and not of me, rise up, known and unknown. Forever. Relentless. Conquered and never beaten.
Surrender comes slow and ragged, but whole each time, completion anew, anew, anew.
The center comes closer, the fear greater, but I get bigger, wider, more supple, more willing. I think this might be courage. I think this might be me.
I feel the life of your words as if they were my words, my life, my tender sadness, my untouchable joy.
The train passes. Whistles. I am in love, in love.
Chilled air, enveloping, mean and angry underneath. It feeds me. I know it. Determined and full of pain and yet...and yet... It it is the aching heart of time. A reflection of my own heart. Cold, clear, open so wide it breaks. Shards. The bringer. I will come. I will come... Home.
* * * *
It seems I've barely noticed the season, so rigid and protected that I see and feel it only from within the distortion of my glass shelter. My work.
My senses numbed by wanting, doing, becoming -- the season-less witch -- achievement and success, demons at my heels. My tower of Babel confounded by false beauty and hollow identity. My turrets stationed by faceless, nameless guardians.
I know myself to be greedy, greedy for accomplishment, achievement, progress, knowing...NOW. My deep joy buried. But it's rising up so that I may see myself imperfect and whole. Patient, finally.
As my childhood and youth churn and bubble I see the truth of their force and I can stand and be washed clean by them, taking them into me and letting them go completely.
How long I fear that fear has quieted my laughter and "grasping" replaced it in my ruby crown. No longer, no longer.
You remind me that I am greater. Your words, like soft whispers, wake me. I am the dragon my Charlie pretends in play -- a ragging fire asleep in her cave. Waiting.
Your words show me myself, what's possible. They become a thread to my inner knowing. As in the cool reflection of a solstice pool deep in the winter wood, I know the truth of my stillness. It is me.
And out of the ashes, crumbling and charred I raise my head. I am ready to see myself -- golden eyes wide open -- fissures, cracks, broken -- open. I am ready.
Truth greets me. Cold greets me. I am fortified.
Welcome home.
Winter's outstretched arms await.
I feel my soul weep for my soul, my breath meet my breath, of me and not of me, rise up, known and unknown. Forever. Relentless. Conquered and never beaten.
Surrender comes slow and ragged, but whole each time, completion anew, anew, anew.
The center comes closer, the fear greater, but I get bigger, wider, more supple, more willing. I think this might be courage. I think this might be me.
I feel the life of your words as if they were my words, my life, my tender sadness, my untouchable joy.
The train passes. Whistles. I am in love, in love.
Chilled air, enveloping, mean and angry underneath. It feeds me. I know it. Determined and full of pain and yet...and yet... It it is the aching heart of time. A reflection of my own heart. Cold, clear, open so wide it breaks. Shards. The bringer. I will come. I will come... Home.
* * * *
It seems I've barely noticed the season, so rigid and protected that I see and feel it only from within the distortion of my glass shelter. My work.
My senses numbed by wanting, doing, becoming -- the season-less witch -- achievement and success, demons at my heels. My tower of Babel confounded by false beauty and hollow identity. My turrets stationed by faceless, nameless guardians.
I know myself to be greedy, greedy for accomplishment, achievement, progress, knowing...NOW. My deep joy buried. But it's rising up so that I may see myself imperfect and whole. Patient, finally.
As my childhood and youth churn and bubble I see the truth of their force and I can stand and be washed clean by them, taking them into me and letting them go completely.
How long I fear that fear has quieted my laughter and "grasping" replaced it in my ruby crown. No longer, no longer.
You remind me that I am greater. Your words, like soft whispers, wake me. I am the dragon my Charlie pretends in play -- a ragging fire asleep in her cave. Waiting.
Your words show me myself, what's possible. They become a thread to my inner knowing. As in the cool reflection of a solstice pool deep in the winter wood, I know the truth of my stillness. It is me.
And out of the ashes, crumbling and charred I raise my head. I am ready to see myself -- golden eyes wide open -- fissures, cracks, broken -- open. I am ready.
Truth greets me. Cold greets me. I am fortified.
Welcome home.
Winter's outstretched arms await.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Snow
I love winter. But it is never easy.
Last December, what little energy I had for the holidays kept skipping, like a scratched vinyl recording of ‘What Child Is This?” My own childhood, lost to the lambs, hummed at me from dreams so dark that work days made my brain hurt. I could not corral my thoughts into linear arrangements, nor even mystical chants. I could not concentrate on any task for longer than 10 minutes. I was sidelined and scared.
Last December, what little energy I had for the holidays kept skipping, like a scratched vinyl recording of ‘What Child Is This?” My own childhood, lost to the lambs, hummed at me from dreams so dark that work days made my brain hurt. I could not corral my thoughts into linear arrangements, nor even mystical chants. I could not concentrate on any task for longer than 10 minutes. I was sidelined and scared.
Friends, healers and a therapist recommended meditation. I was given the name of a few ADD medications. I met with a psychiatrist. I filled a prescription. I stopped taking the pills after five days. Winter darkened. I felt hopeless and confused.
One morning I sat down with my eyes closed, my legs crossed, and my hands on my knees. I focused on my breath and tried to make myself stop thinking. But the thoughts kept coming. I could not turn off the volume. It grew loud and my thoughts were jumbled and trite.
These early attempts at meditation, five minutes here, ten minutes there, were an offering to my aching head and heart. I kept up the practice for two weeks, then stopped for no apparent reason other than a lack of desire to commit, to discipline myself, to see the value in sitting still.
I move. I run, dance, bike, ski, travel. I unwind when my body is in motion. I grow giddy watching quiet snow fall past orange street light glow, remembering the glorious moments I have schussed down mountains blanketed in bottomless powder snow. The rush of memory holds me in temporary joy.
I felt that rush pulsate through me at Shambhala Mountain Center on our first morning together. The sky promised grey. I walked to my car after breakfast to retrieve my fuzzy winter boots. I was feeling unusually calm. Even satisfied. My coursemates were wonderful people. I got along with them well and felt safe. I retrieved my boots from the black oblong storage box atop my Subaru, leaned over to put them on, and stood to see a singular snowflake fall out of the sky and onto my nose.
‘SNOW!’ my heart sang. Snow from the heavens. Snow for writing. Snow for being in the mountains. Snow for my first retreat, ever. Snow for meditation. Snow for friendship. Snow for sipping tea. Snow for Buddha. Snow for sleep. Snow for the beautiful sake of snow.
My spirit soared. No one would understand my glee, and it was OK. I could do nothing but walk among flakes, taste their wet coldness on my tongue and shake their mass from my hat and coat before entering the Stupa, so overwhelmed by perfection, it was all I could do to sit still, receive, and offer.
The snow fell steady throughout the morning. I learned that it is impossible to not think. That’s what we do. I learned it is possible to attune my mind to the journey of my breath. To notice that mysterious place where inhale transitions to exhale, where my body, on its own accord, from the energy of its all-knowing grace, sustains me with such involuntary perfection that I can only wonder at the mystery and be grateful for such simple magic. From breath to breath. Moment to moment. I can slow down my thoughts. I can be still.
This winter, I am committed to meditation, to turning this practice into a discipline that is as essential as food. I feel the familiar darkness casting long shadows on the early days of December. Once again, I cannot concentrate at work. I ache to be at home, nose in a book, detached from this year winding down around me.
One morning I sat down with my eyes closed, my legs crossed, and my hands on my knees. I focused on my breath and tried to make myself stop thinking. But the thoughts kept coming. I could not turn off the volume. It grew loud and my thoughts were jumbled and trite.
These early attempts at meditation, five minutes here, ten minutes there, were an offering to my aching head and heart. I kept up the practice for two weeks, then stopped for no apparent reason other than a lack of desire to commit, to discipline myself, to see the value in sitting still.
I move. I run, dance, bike, ski, travel. I unwind when my body is in motion. I grow giddy watching quiet snow fall past orange street light glow, remembering the glorious moments I have schussed down mountains blanketed in bottomless powder snow. The rush of memory holds me in temporary joy.
I felt that rush pulsate through me at Shambhala Mountain Center on our first morning together. The sky promised grey. I walked to my car after breakfast to retrieve my fuzzy winter boots. I was feeling unusually calm. Even satisfied. My coursemates were wonderful people. I got along with them well and felt safe. I retrieved my boots from the black oblong storage box atop my Subaru, leaned over to put them on, and stood to see a singular snowflake fall out of the sky and onto my nose.
‘SNOW!’ my heart sang. Snow from the heavens. Snow for writing. Snow for being in the mountains. Snow for my first retreat, ever. Snow for meditation. Snow for friendship. Snow for sipping tea. Snow for Buddha. Snow for sleep. Snow for the beautiful sake of snow.
My spirit soared. No one would understand my glee, and it was OK. I could do nothing but walk among flakes, taste their wet coldness on my tongue and shake their mass from my hat and coat before entering the Stupa, so overwhelmed by perfection, it was all I could do to sit still, receive, and offer.
The snow fell steady throughout the morning. I learned that it is impossible to not think. That’s what we do. I learned it is possible to attune my mind to the journey of my breath. To notice that mysterious place where inhale transitions to exhale, where my body, on its own accord, from the energy of its all-knowing grace, sustains me with such involuntary perfection that I can only wonder at the mystery and be grateful for such simple magic. From breath to breath. Moment to moment. I can slow down my thoughts. I can be still.
This winter, I am committed to meditation, to turning this practice into a discipline that is as essential as food. I feel the familiar darkness casting long shadows on the early days of December. Once again, I cannot concentrate at work. I ache to be at home, nose in a book, detached from this year winding down around me.
I sit and listen. Notice the sadness and honor its presence. Sorrow is winter’s song. A low, purring ballad of unmet desire. Today, it's a memory of loss that is recovered with the breath and returned unto me with the falling, silent snow.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
One Thing
A gray languid day envelops this piece of prairie I call home. Alone. Today is no different than any other, solitude is a way of life. Its queer to label it in any certain way… some days are joyous and the loneness is a gift. Other days, like today, they are a prison with no walls. The physical immediacy to another human being is measured in many miles… the soulful proximity I measure in increments of emptiness undefined.
A withered heart, a tear-filled soul, a lost, spinning vortex undulating through time that is this day. In a cabin ten by ten, the wind howls through the cracks as if a voice is taunting my sadness. No rhyme… no clarity… only the rushing wind with its mournful sound. I struggle to hear the voice of reason that could pull me back to reality. Everything within me wants to drift out and surrender to the wind… to float high into the formation of Canadians battling head winds for a better place. Their perseverance is not my own.
What place is this I so frequently see? There, in some distant corner of my mind, is it her? Her, that illusion, that ancient love, that completion, or is it a loneliness wrought from yearning.
I knew her once. I held her too. And as quickly as she entered, she left. The void is surely her wound. Often in mindful moments of rational thought I see the beauty in it all, and then the hammer of paradox sets in… like this day. What meaning did it have in my journey this life, indeed, many other lives too. Ultimately, I know the journey is well mapped by something greater than I, and trust is its only tangible form.
Many years ago a wise teacher told me that we can see a reflection of this map in nature. God as Mother Nature will speak to us if we only listen. On that pilgrimage in the Teton forest I saw Her and spoke to Her… that Divine Being. But the teacher said it will not be words, and indeed he was right. She spoke to me in a piece of drift wood I found walking along the Snake River. Two branches of ancient root had grown around a red stone. The single stone held tightly by the two branches spoke to me in such a profound way that it altered the wound festering in my heart. It said “you are two, but you are one.” The reality of NOW was not the absence of Her, for we share the same heart! The stone of ancient love will forever roll down the river. It will tumble and hone until its dust becomes the very particles of existence. And every so often it will visit the realm-of-now and sing a litany of meaning… a song of love. I heard it that day on the Snake. I retain the stone and its two branches seen above, it is a truth... a blessing.
There is another truth that spoke to me in this way and it is along the Stupa path at the Shambhala Mountain Center. It is two Aspin trees that grew side by side, separated by time and distance. Yet something innate within their exsistence desired the other. As Mother Nature spoke their verity they grew together. And as I stood under them I heard her voice saying to me “no thing, no time, no circumstance can separate the Sacred Lovers.”
On gray sad days, when howling winds call my lonely soul, I need only look to Her for truth. And if my soulful eyes are sad enough they will see Her… the sacred elusive love that shadows me all the days of all the lives I will ever walk. And some century, some wonderful, epic and cosmic day I will hold Her… and the limbs of our mortal days will turn that ancient stone into a single molten heart. That is my journey and my quest, noble and oh so sadly certain.
A withered heart, a tear-filled soul, a lost, spinning vortex undulating through time that is this day. In a cabin ten by ten, the wind howls through the cracks as if a voice is taunting my sadness. No rhyme… no clarity… only the rushing wind with its mournful sound. I struggle to hear the voice of reason that could pull me back to reality. Everything within me wants to drift out and surrender to the wind… to float high into the formation of Canadians battling head winds for a better place. Their perseverance is not my own.
What place is this I so frequently see? There, in some distant corner of my mind, is it her? Her, that illusion, that ancient love, that completion, or is it a loneliness wrought from yearning.
I knew her once. I held her too. And as quickly as she entered, she left. The void is surely her wound. Often in mindful moments of rational thought I see the beauty in it all, and then the hammer of paradox sets in… like this day. What meaning did it have in my journey this life, indeed, many other lives too. Ultimately, I know the journey is well mapped by something greater than I, and trust is its only tangible form.
Many years ago a wise teacher told me that we can see a reflection of this map in nature. God as Mother Nature will speak to us if we only listen. On that pilgrimage in the Teton forest I saw Her and spoke to Her… that Divine Being. But the teacher said it will not be words, and indeed he was right. She spoke to me in a piece of drift wood I found walking along the Snake River. Two branches of ancient root had grown around a red stone. The single stone held tightly by the two branches spoke to me in such a profound way that it altered the wound festering in my heart. It said “you are two, but you are one.” The reality of NOW was not the absence of Her, for we share the same heart! The stone of ancient love will forever roll down the river. It will tumble and hone until its dust becomes the very particles of existence. And every so often it will visit the realm-of-now and sing a litany of meaning… a song of love. I heard it that day on the Snake. I retain the stone and its two branches seen above, it is a truth... a blessing.
There is another truth that spoke to me in this way and it is along the Stupa path at the Shambhala Mountain Center. It is two Aspin trees that grew side by side, separated by time and distance. Yet something innate within their exsistence desired the other. As Mother Nature spoke their verity they grew together. And as I stood under them I heard her voice saying to me “no thing, no time, no circumstance can separate the Sacred Lovers.” On gray sad days, when howling winds call my lonely soul, I need only look to Her for truth. And if my soulful eyes are sad enough they will see Her… the sacred elusive love that shadows me all the days of all the lives I will ever walk. And some century, some wonderful, epic and cosmic day I will hold Her… and the limbs of our mortal days will turn that ancient stone into a single molten heart. That is my journey and my quest, noble and oh so sadly certain.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
A start...
Dear ones,
I've been writing and re-writing these past 10 days in the murky and swirling confines of my head. And like my meditation practice, the tangible expression of this work has been reluctant to manifest. Yet, in this moment I know I can only do the best that I am able and that means 10 minutes of typing. It's a start...
I realized something yesterday as I pondered our coming together -- it's sweet suddenness -- the unexpected pull into oneness. When I think back on the time at Shambhala Mountain my entire body begins to tremble. I am swept back into the tender openness of being there. I feel the press of hot tears just behind my eyes, throat heavy and thick with emotion, and my heart feels like it unfolds.
And suddenly (of course I was in the shower or some such thing because where else does revelation and insight happen :) I knew a thing more about myself: when I was there, greedy for relief, deepening and quiet I was truly open to who and what I am. Everything came in; good, bad, difficult, prickly, elated, misery, pain, utter joy and freedom. I could have shed a million tears and it still wouldn't have been enough. I feel it now...still.
What I came to know is that I want to be that tender and open-swept being, the one I know I am. Yet I am afraid. I am afraid to be too open, to fully embrace my own sacredness and fragility. Here in my life, which is profoundly amazing and beautiful, filled with love and generosity, I find myself resisting and suffering.
And yet, I know I cannot turn back from all that I let in during the four days I was on the mountain with you. I am stuck here, now, with greater openness like it or not.
You, Fred, and Carol, have been bastioned to my side, with me on accident or on purpose, but stitched tight to me nonetheless. I didn't know it, nor perhaps did you at the time, but it does seem like some sneaky specter had it out for us -- a match maker to beat cupid.
I am grateful. I am grateful for these past 15 minutes, for all that has been so far and all that is to come -- the beautiful dark before us.
If we were together I imagine us toasting with goblets of champaign to the task at hand and the journey to come.
To you, my dear new friends! Slainte!
I've been writing and re-writing these past 10 days in the murky and swirling confines of my head. And like my meditation practice, the tangible expression of this work has been reluctant to manifest. Yet, in this moment I know I can only do the best that I am able and that means 10 minutes of typing. It's a start...
I realized something yesterday as I pondered our coming together -- it's sweet suddenness -- the unexpected pull into oneness. When I think back on the time at Shambhala Mountain my entire body begins to tremble. I am swept back into the tender openness of being there. I feel the press of hot tears just behind my eyes, throat heavy and thick with emotion, and my heart feels like it unfolds.
And suddenly (of course I was in the shower or some such thing because where else does revelation and insight happen :) I knew a thing more about myself: when I was there, greedy for relief, deepening and quiet I was truly open to who and what I am. Everything came in; good, bad, difficult, prickly, elated, misery, pain, utter joy and freedom. I could have shed a million tears and it still wouldn't have been enough. I feel it now...still.
What I came to know is that I want to be that tender and open-swept being, the one I know I am. Yet I am afraid. I am afraid to be too open, to fully embrace my own sacredness and fragility. Here in my life, which is profoundly amazing and beautiful, filled with love and generosity, I find myself resisting and suffering.
And yet, I know I cannot turn back from all that I let in during the four days I was on the mountain with you. I am stuck here, now, with greater openness like it or not.
You, Fred, and Carol, have been bastioned to my side, with me on accident or on purpose, but stitched tight to me nonetheless. I didn't know it, nor perhaps did you at the time, but it does seem like some sneaky specter had it out for us -- a match maker to beat cupid.
I am grateful. I am grateful for these past 15 minutes, for all that has been so far and all that is to come -- the beautiful dark before us.
If we were together I imagine us toasting with goblets of champaign to the task at hand and the journey to come.
To you, my dear new friends! Slainte!
Monday, December 5, 2011
The Beginning
Welcome.
This is how I felt when I walked the path from car to lodge at the Shambhala Mountain Center. My heart could not help but smile. The quaking aspen, the grazing cattle, the Abert’s squirrel, the prayer flags, the deliciousness of doing something I had wanted for so long: these were the welcoming pulsations of arrival. I had come on retreat to unplug, meet new people, delve into the mystery of the mind and spirit, and walk the land. All this came to pass.
Two of the people I met are here with me now, sharing their words on this blog. I didn’t foresee friendship as an outcome of my time at SMC. But here we are. Three voices, three bodies, three individuals on separate paths but united by a need to connect, create and offer. Thank you Fred and Chantill for joining me on this undefined journey. May we find grace in this practice, inspiration in each other, and the space and discipline we seek to commit ourselves to craft.
This is how I felt when I walked the path from car to lodge at the Shambhala Mountain Center. My heart could not help but smile. The quaking aspen, the grazing cattle, the Abert’s squirrel, the prayer flags, the deliciousness of doing something I had wanted for so long: these were the welcoming pulsations of arrival. I had come on retreat to unplug, meet new people, delve into the mystery of the mind and spirit, and walk the land. All this came to pass.
Two of the people I met are here with me now, sharing their words on this blog. I didn’t foresee friendship as an outcome of my time at SMC. But here we are. Three voices, three bodies, three individuals on separate paths but united by a need to connect, create and offer. Thank you Fred and Chantill for joining me on this undefined journey. May we find grace in this practice, inspiration in each other, and the space and discipline we seek to commit ourselves to craft.
* * *
It is winter in Colorado. I live at the base of the foothills, where the plains discover sandstone and undulate between hogback uplifts before disappearing into ponderosa pine and river canyon. I am rooted in this place, despite many departures and homecomings. Always the land, the shape of her stone, the mystery underfoot, the layers of mountain - it’s like a dreamscape to me.
My response to the beauty has been one of strange melancholy, as if my soul knows that somewhere inside all the rock, water, tree and snow there is a secret I buried long ago, maybe in another life. Perhaps it’s an answer to a question I haven’t asked yet.
I’m a pocket gopher in winter. I reside where earth meets snow. My small furry body burrows a channel through the ice crystals. Then I tunnel into the ground, packing the truth of my days like soil into to the excavated snow cave that will reveal my path in summer. This simple, life affirming task - adapting to winter’s rhythm despite everything - is all I can do. I turn the soil, inside out, to breathe new life for others to take root and grow.
My response to the beauty has been one of strange melancholy, as if my soul knows that somewhere inside all the rock, water, tree and snow there is a secret I buried long ago, maybe in another life. Perhaps it’s an answer to a question I haven’t asked yet.
I’m a pocket gopher in winter. I reside where earth meets snow. My small furry body burrows a channel through the ice crystals. Then I tunnel into the ground, packing the truth of my days like soil into to the excavated snow cave that will reveal my path in summer. This simple, life affirming task - adapting to winter’s rhythm despite everything - is all I can do. I turn the soil, inside out, to breathe new life for others to take root and grow.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Who Am I... they?
Fred here! My name is actually Alfred Edwin, I was named after two childhood friends of my dad that were killed in WWII. Some say Alfred means elf counselor… not sure about elves, but I seem to gravitate towards people in that way.
I grew up in rural Kansas, the son of a State Policeman. Somehow I ended up in Cincinnati for my high school years, from there to Chicago, then a three year army hitch in Germany. But through it all, Kansas was and always will be home. I am native to this beautiful prairie. I say it with such regularity it must be true: I feel like I’ve lived here a thousand lives.
But “place” only answers the logistics of who we are. For the deeper spiritual answers we have to enter a more numinous realm. And for me that involves the journey inward, to the quiet place where God is tangible. Several years ago I was fortunate to encounter two incredible souls, one a jhana-yogi the other a somatic masseuse. The yogi taught me how to meditate and the masseuse taught me to go deep into a mystical place where truth towered like a mountain. Cheyanna the masseuse, while plying her healing touch, took me to a somber, solitary place where I saw myself… not as Alfred, but as spirit on a journey. She asked me who this spirit was, and I immediately saw a warrior, a weary and aged warrior. She sensed this also and guided me into a meditation on what spiritually was happening to my soul’s identity. I don’t remember all of the details, but in the end I realized I was evolving in some epic and cosmic way. No longer did I want to fight, conquer and battle in wars large and small, but I felt an intense need to release it all in some creative and expressive way. Cheyanna helped me see that writing was my new sword, and that my weary heart and soul were filled with words and thoughts aching to take flight.
For several years I have been attending the Shambhala Mountain Centers programs for writers. I go there because the sacred atmosphere is charged with clarity. I’ve met many dear kindred souls, creative spirits, on their own similar journeys. Our teacher Susan Piver seems to personify those writers who understand that meditation and the numinous realm of creative thought have a commonality. That is… if you can allow the silence of meditation to quiet the noise of living, the song of creative verse will rise. To be sequestered with artists in an environ of sacred clarity is, for me, a wild and sustained breath of pure joy.
On my last trip to Shambhala I again met many wonderful writers. As the group first gathers, I always look around at these kindred souls and I’m amazed at the idea that I do not know any of them… yet in some ways I know them ALL. As voices begin to sound and personalities unfold, the truths of each of them slowly unravel. Most are guarded, a few will never break out, but all will play their part in the group dynamic. In meditation, the group seems to reverberate energy like an aura. Being apart of that feeds my evolving creative soul.
All good things come to an end, and as I pack up my room the night before I’m always conscious of who in the group I will miss the most… who’s personality, heart and spirit were a brief gift that I won’t want to let go of. This time there were several bright lights in the group. Nikki was the incredibly gentle spirit, whose soft words and compassionate smile always seemed to tiptoe in a wise and silent way. There was big John, domineering, boisterous and alive; He knew his direction and wore certainty like a pair of cowboy boots.
But on the day we parted two people Carol and Chantill were the most difficult to say goodbye to. Why? I do not know. There was chemistry with each that I’m sure some “ologist” could clarify in pseudo-scientific terms. But given my deep and core beliefs in the journey of souls I know in my own mind they were and are apart of something so much deeper. What? I don’t know, I simply trust in the ride. But they are my new amigos and together we seem to be TresAnimus, a three-fold soul group with an unknown frontier of adventure ahead.
Carol was the lady who sat in front of me on one of our first meetings. I was amazed at her beautiful silky blond hair. I thought to myself, this is certainly what real angel hair looked like. As I met her for the first time two things hit me, first was her piercing eyes and second was her electric smile. She was so curious, so sincere, she asked brilliant questions and I loved her self confidence. She was a woman to be admired: proud, intelligent, feminine and wholesome. I still see her smile in my minds eye one month later.
Chantill was the lady across from me at the lunch table. She too seemed to carry herself in a wise and confident way. A bright brilliant smile and, again, piercing eyes that seemed to cut right to the gateway of soul. Her laugh was so infectious. On her last day we had the good fortune to meditate together in the shrine room. There in the quiet and in the deeply spiritual realm I met the Divine Feminine. It was not words or action or even a heavenly choir, it was simply an ethereal presence that touched me deeply. My personal quest for the past ten years has been to find this elusive spirit and on this day I think I was fortunate to encounter Her. I had one other encounter, but I’ll write about it another day.
These two women seem to know me… and together we’ve decided to write together form the Inside…out. I look forward to our adventure, and I hope I can live up to their wisdom… their sacred Feminine.
I grew up in rural Kansas, the son of a State Policeman. Somehow I ended up in Cincinnati for my high school years, from there to Chicago, then a three year army hitch in Germany. But through it all, Kansas was and always will be home. I am native to this beautiful prairie. I say it with such regularity it must be true: I feel like I’ve lived here a thousand lives.
But “place” only answers the logistics of who we are. For the deeper spiritual answers we have to enter a more numinous realm. And for me that involves the journey inward, to the quiet place where God is tangible. Several years ago I was fortunate to encounter two incredible souls, one a jhana-yogi the other a somatic masseuse. The yogi taught me how to meditate and the masseuse taught me to go deep into a mystical place where truth towered like a mountain. Cheyanna the masseuse, while plying her healing touch, took me to a somber, solitary place where I saw myself… not as Alfred, but as spirit on a journey. She asked me who this spirit was, and I immediately saw a warrior, a weary and aged warrior. She sensed this also and guided me into a meditation on what spiritually was happening to my soul’s identity. I don’t remember all of the details, but in the end I realized I was evolving in some epic and cosmic way. No longer did I want to fight, conquer and battle in wars large and small, but I felt an intense need to release it all in some creative and expressive way. Cheyanna helped me see that writing was my new sword, and that my weary heart and soul were filled with words and thoughts aching to take flight.
For several years I have been attending the Shambhala Mountain Centers programs for writers. I go there because the sacred atmosphere is charged with clarity. I’ve met many dear kindred souls, creative spirits, on their own similar journeys. Our teacher Susan Piver seems to personify those writers who understand that meditation and the numinous realm of creative thought have a commonality. That is… if you can allow the silence of meditation to quiet the noise of living, the song of creative verse will rise. To be sequestered with artists in an environ of sacred clarity is, for me, a wild and sustained breath of pure joy.
On my last trip to Shambhala I again met many wonderful writers. As the group first gathers, I always look around at these kindred souls and I’m amazed at the idea that I do not know any of them… yet in some ways I know them ALL. As voices begin to sound and personalities unfold, the truths of each of them slowly unravel. Most are guarded, a few will never break out, but all will play their part in the group dynamic. In meditation, the group seems to reverberate energy like an aura. Being apart of that feeds my evolving creative soul.
All good things come to an end, and as I pack up my room the night before I’m always conscious of who in the group I will miss the most… who’s personality, heart and spirit were a brief gift that I won’t want to let go of. This time there were several bright lights in the group. Nikki was the incredibly gentle spirit, whose soft words and compassionate smile always seemed to tiptoe in a wise and silent way. There was big John, domineering, boisterous and alive; He knew his direction and wore certainty like a pair of cowboy boots.
But on the day we parted two people Carol and Chantill were the most difficult to say goodbye to. Why? I do not know. There was chemistry with each that I’m sure some “ologist” could clarify in pseudo-scientific terms. But given my deep and core beliefs in the journey of souls I know in my own mind they were and are apart of something so much deeper. What? I don’t know, I simply trust in the ride. But they are my new amigos and together we seem to be TresAnimus, a three-fold soul group with an unknown frontier of adventure ahead.
Carol was the lady who sat in front of me on one of our first meetings. I was amazed at her beautiful silky blond hair. I thought to myself, this is certainly what real angel hair looked like. As I met her for the first time two things hit me, first was her piercing eyes and second was her electric smile. She was so curious, so sincere, she asked brilliant questions and I loved her self confidence. She was a woman to be admired: proud, intelligent, feminine and wholesome. I still see her smile in my minds eye one month later.
Chantill was the lady across from me at the lunch table. She too seemed to carry herself in a wise and confident way. A bright brilliant smile and, again, piercing eyes that seemed to cut right to the gateway of soul. Her laugh was so infectious. On her last day we had the good fortune to meditate together in the shrine room. There in the quiet and in the deeply spiritual realm I met the Divine Feminine. It was not words or action or even a heavenly choir, it was simply an ethereal presence that touched me deeply. My personal quest for the past ten years has been to find this elusive spirit and on this day I think I was fortunate to encounter Her. I had one other encounter, but I’ll write about it another day.
These two women seem to know me… and together we’ve decided to write together form the Inside…out. I look forward to our adventure, and I hope I can live up to their wisdom… their sacred Feminine.
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