Do Good And Don't Worry To Whom

 As I begin this column, sunlight streams through south~facing windows while my mother's holiday tablecloth and napkins spin in the washer, soon to be hung out to dry in the westerly breeze. And though Thanksgiving has passed, its all~inclusive, non~denominational message lingers, a perfect kick~off to the end~of~the~year celebrations to come. No matter our religious belief or political persuasion, a little gratitude can go a long way to unite us. 

Thanksgiving has its origins in a 3~day feast celebrated by indigenous peoples and European settlers in 1621, after the Pilgrims had received the assistance of various native tribes to survive a harsh winter and effectively farm during the summer months. Given the importance of indigenous knowledge then, it seems fitting to share now a piece of their wisdom I recently came across. Hopi elder David Monongye shared these words with the United Nations in the middle of the 20th Century: 

"The original instructions of the Creator are universal and valid for all time. The essence of these instructions is compassion for all life and love for all creation. We must realize that we do not live in a world of dead matter, but in a universe of living spirit."

A beautiful perspective to hold, one that would create a very different experience for Earth's inhabitants were we to enact it and live by it today. Compassion for all life. Love for creation. Recognition that we are surrounded by living spirit. 

And we really are partway there. Humans have an innate capacity for love and connection, a truth that flies in the face of the concept of survival of the fittest, which was, it turns out, a distortion of Darwin's actual position.

 In The Descent of Man, Darwin identified compassion as "the almost ever~present instinct" and "one of the noblest with which man is endowed." He noted that communities with "the most sympathetic members would flourish best and rear the greatest number of offspring." Darwin also wrote that the qualities of compassion or altruism arise "from our sympathies becoming more tender and more widely diffused, until they extend to all sentient beings." 

Evidence across various fields of study, from psychology to anthropology, from economics to evolutionary biology are confirming that, though we do not always act out of this capacity, it has been key to ensuring human survival in the past. And it obviously remains key to our survival into the future as well. 

Listening to "the better angels of our nature," as Abraham Lincoln put it, does take practice though, especially when so much of modern society encourages self~interest, even greed. Yet I find it comforting to be reminded that this capacity is intrinsic to who we are as human beings. We needn't create it from scratch, but merely fan a flame that lies within us already so that it can burn brighter and more consistently.

I recently came across a Mexican proverb that points us in that direction: "Do good and don't worry to whom." Similar to practicing random kindness and senseless acts of beauty, it stresses that good done for the sake of good is an honorable pursuit. Just as sunlight streams through my window and those of my neighbors without first deciding who is deserving of it, we can shine our own light outward, indiscriminately and without measure. 

A worthy post~Thanksgiving Day practice, giving thanks for what has been given us and extending our own gifts outward to others. Just cuz. Just cuz it allows our sympathies to grow more tender and become more widely diffused.

Thanksgiving was declared a national holiday in 1863 by Abraham Lincoln, who hoped it would become an observance to "heal the wounds of the nation." Seems like something we could use ourselves right about now, doesn't it? 

Whether it's practicing random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty, doing good and not worrying to whom, enacting the Golden Rule, or practicing Christ's commandment that "as I have loved you, so must ye love one another", let's do it. And let's do it every day~~Practice! Practice! Practice!~~as we are carried toward those end~of~the~year celebrations and into the new year to come.

And in this vein, I thank you for all that you do and all that you are.

Leia

A Time For Rest, Reflection...And Dancing!

As I type these words, a time of rest and contemplation is winding down. I've taken 11 days off from work to celebrate my birthday, as well as two milestones in my relationship with my husband. Yearly observances such as these are perfect times to open to deeper meaning.

This has been a time of richness, of honoring the path that brought me to the present, tuning in to where~~and who~~I am now, and listening for the voice calling me forward. As I age, retreats seem more essential than ever, though there has never been a season of my life that hasn't benefited from quiet time. Our culture may not encourage such reflective periods, which simply makes them all the more necessary.

 

This one follows the recent death of a woman in our small town, five weeks after a massive stroke left her mostly mute, paralyzed on one side of her body, with severely limited strength and movement on the other. She had just moved to a rehab facility, and while her prognosis had always been guarded, she became more engaged and communicative in the two days prior to her death. She spoke a few words, blew air kisses, engaged with loved ones, worked in PT. 

 

And then she exited. Between nursing rounds and before visits began again with loyal family and friends, this woman who had always and ever done things her way, left her body. While my western~trained mind recognizes that this departure likely came from another stroke or one of the many mechanical events these bodies of ours are subject to, it doesn't feel that way to me. It feels like choice. 

 

It feels like she gave her loved ones time to make the decisions that would allow her a chance to heal. It feels like she waited for family and friends, including two who were on a cross~country trip and visited the day before she died. And it feels like her five weeks of enforced stillness allowed her the opportunity to clarify her own wishes and to make this most important decision of her life. And she then stepped through the veil and entered into whatever comes next. 

 

I am not ready to follow her and, barring an accident or sudden illness, I won't anytime soon. But inspired by her story, I've found myself listening with what I imagine is a similar alertness to where  spirt wants to move next in my life. Holy work, this human venture we're each in the midst of, one worthy of our loving consideration and attentiveness. There is an inner voice that seeks to guide us every step of the way, and listening for and responding to it is our spirit's calling. 

 

In a book by the superb urban fantasy novelist Charles de Lint, a character offers the following advice: "Look inside yourself for the answers~~you're the only one who knows what's best for you. Everybody else is only guessing." I laughed out loud. Truly, well~meaning others are only surmising, offering us the best they have to give. And those people "shouting their bad advice", as Mary Oliver puts it in her poem The Journey, just have a vested interest in our doing things their way. 

 

Yet what will matter when we each lie on our own death bed is whether we've been true, if we did as we felt called and to the best of our ability. The rest is embellishment. Important, but not the painting's main design or its purpose.

 

One of my birthday gifts was The Starseed Oracle, a beautifully executed deck of cards offering one avenue among many for accessing the inner voice. As I shuffled the deck on my birthday morning, I asked for guidance for the coming year. I drew a card showing a woman on a stylized mountaintop, the sky a series of interconnecting fractals, and the words Your Life Is A Canvas. The message in the small book accompanying the deck encourages a conscious creativity.

 

Isn't this a good suggestion for each and every day, year after year: Don't waste the opportunity these precious few years offer you. Grow in awareness of the choices you're making for your life, and choose wisely. Live fully and always exactly as yourself.

 

As my retreat draws to a close and I fully enter the first leg of my next year on the planet, I commit to continuing to paint that canvas in ways that are true to the promise of my birth. After all, slapping any ol' paint up there is not worthy of the gift. I am a painter~~alas, only metaphorically so!~~and I have a whole pallet of colors available to me. I intend to use them well. And though I will, of course, fall short of the mark often, it remains my intention to not miss one moment of active, conscious creation. And I send many prayers that the end result is a thing of beauty. 

 

In closing, there is one more thing...In this jingle jangle morning, dance on, sweet Rena. Dance beneath that diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea, and circled by those circus sands. Yes, dance on! Dance on!!!

Leia

And though the focus of this poem is a bit different, it's still a GREAT poem. Click here!

Like Aspen and Seed~filled Grasses

I began writing this column from my couch, but its subject matter soon urged me out into the fresh air. Knowing I ought not argue, I stashed computer and water bottle into my aged daypack, left a note for my husband, and quickly left the house.  

I sit now upon the welcoming earth surrounded by wild grasses. Blades at their base are still green, yet slender stalks stretch above my head, teeming with seedpods in hues ranging from amber to ecru. 

 

Autumn has arrived at long last. Mornings are blessedly cool and my husband no longer needs to set fans whirring in the night just to make our upstairs bearable in the heat of the day. The sun's arc across the sky has dropped toward the south and its light is softer, with none of the harsh glare of a few weeks ago. 

 

It sinks now into the west, its honeyed light stretching across fields and reflecting off the waters of the lake below. The tree closest me is a mix of still~green leaves and those flashing a cheerful yellowy~orange. Soon the mountainsides will flame with golden aspen, trees that seem to store sunlight throughout the summer only to give it back in the fall.

 

All is quiet here, but for the rustling of the grasses that encircle me, their song rising and falling with the strength of the wind. But as I quiet myself, other sounds make themselves known. The clear notes of one bird...and another...and another. A lone cricket, diligently rubbing his forewings together in hopes of attracting a mate. A host of buzzing insects. No, this place is not silent at all. It is simply devoid of the noises of human activity. 

 

With that thought, the simplicity of the poignant Wendell Berry poem comes to me. As I lay back now upon the Earth I, too, "come into the peace of wild things...(and) rest in the grace of the world." 

 

There is certainly much that is not graceful in this world. It is woefully apparent when we tune into the news or observe the incivility so often present within human discourse these days. Yet as the Earth holds me this afternoon, I am reminded of the stillness that exists under it all. The metaphor that speaks to me most soulfully is that of an underground stream flowing beneath human busyness and strife. It is that stream we touch each time we quiet in sitting meditation or prayer, whenever we remember to open to it during a heated exchange, and as we "lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds."

 

Allowing ourselves to rest in that peace is a kindness we do ourselves. And tapping into that tranquility is both a kindness and a powerful act for the greater good as well. Author Sharon McElrlane uses another metaphor: "Each time you open to and feel the radiance of the Net of Light within yourself, you bless the world. By aligning yourself with light, you give light a place to live. You call it home to you and you hold it steady." 

 

Those words are not an arrogant proclamation, but a recognition that we each play a role in creating this world. Every time we come into harmony, we give it a home from which it can move out into the world. 

 

As I lay upon the Earth now, drinking in the serenity of this place, I know the items on my to~do list back home are not checking themselves off. But I find I don't care all that much. Okay, in this moment I care not at all. They will get done or not, but for now I will lay here and absorb the lusciousness of this day. What sweet pleasure it is, this simple act of stilling and absorbing peace. 

 

And I remember a quote from a Netflix show my husband and I have fallen in love with, enchanted by its superb writing, brilliant acting, and storylines that grapple with topics of significance. At the close of an episode of Call the Midwife, Vanessa Redgrave speaks the following words in voiceover: 

"Sometimes, there's a brightness and a richness in the moment. Ripeness that simply says, "Taste this!" And calls us to partake without fear...It is the fruit of our experience, and in its heart, it bears the seed of all our hopes. Take the joy. Take all it gives. Life is sweet, and it is ours. As is our right to love and relish every moment." 

There is so much pain and heartache in the world that it seems a sacred act to balance it, to open to the joy that is also present. Yet, that is only the half of it. Once we fill with joy, we must do what we can to carry its light out into the world. Poet Dawna Markova vows "to live so that that which came to me as seed goes to the next as blossom, and that which came to me as blossom, goes on as fruit." Yes, let's do it like that.

 

Happy blossoming, dear one. Drink in the sweetness. And then like the aspen and the seed~filled grasses gamboling in the breeze, pass it on.

 

Leia

Here's a link to Wendell Berry's poem, The Peace of Wild Things

And here's a link to the Dawna Markova poem, I Will Not Die An Unlived Life

Enjoy!

 

 

The Gospel of Mary

Books often come my way through Interlibrary Loan that I've either forgotten I requested or can't remember why I requested them in the first place. I assume this is caused by the delay between ordering and arrival, but I find I enjoy the element of surprise. "Oooh, I don't remember requesting this one!" I said to myself when Mary Magdalene Revealed by Meggan Watterson arrived. It sat on my shelf for a week or so, and the truth was that I wasn't entirely sure I would ever read it. I'm so very glad I did.

Watterson has earned two master's degrees, one from Harvard Divinity School and another from Union Theological Seminary. Her particular field of study is the Gospel of Mary Magdalene. While this particular book educates, it is also a memoir detailing the transformational effect Mary's gospel has had on her life and spirituality. It also offers an historical context for understanding how the current version of the Bible came into being.

 

The early Church was no more unified than the one we have today. There were many Christianities at that time, with the Council of Nicea in the 4th Century charged with choosing which gospels would be included in the official canon. The writings that didn't make the cut were deemed heretical and banned, including the gospels of Thomas and Philip, The Apocryphon of John, The Sophia of Christ, The Pistis Sophia, The Acts of Paul and Thecla...and The Gospel of Mary.

 

Watterson tells us that three copies of this latter gospel have been found, one in an antiquities market in Cairo in 1896 written in Coptic, and two in Greek found separately in Oxyrhynchus, Egypt in the early 1900s. "Because it is unusual for several copies from such early dates to have survived," writes Harvard Divinity professor Dr. Karen King, "the attestation of the Gospel of Mary as an early Christian work is unusually strong."

 

Deemed a prostitute by Pope Gregory in his Homily 33 in 591, the Catholic Church finally corrected this error in 1969, admitting no Biblical justification for that depiction and officially endorsing Thomas of Aquinas's portrayal of Mary as "the apostle to the apostles." She was certainly one of Christ's most faithful followers. 

 

Her gospel is considered an ascent narrative, though Watterson tells us the word ascent is problematic, since the path is not one of moving upward, but inward  in order to perceive with "the eye of the heart." Mary shares Christ's teachings of the path to the soul's liberation, not in some other dimension or time, but while on Earth. Quite a different version of Christ's message than many of us have received.

 

In Mary 3:3, Christ says, "There is no such thing as sin; rather you yourselves are what produces sin." However, according to Watterson, this gospel offers a different definition of sin than we may be used to. "Sin is not a state of being that must be redeemed," writes Watterson." Sin is simply forgetting the truth and reality of the soul--and then acting from that forgetful state." And since sin comes from forgetting, it "is remedied by simply remembering."

I must say, though, that I don't find remembering very simple. Or perhaps it's remembering to remember that I find hard, as well as allowing that remembrance to drop down into my heart to be expressed in the world. The heart, with its capacity to love, is key to Christ's teachings. It is, as Watterson puts it, "our direct link to an experience of love." She tells us that to pray like Mary Magdalene is to "return to the love within us, within the heart, quietly."

After the crucifixion, Mary fled to France to escape persecution, and there preached Christ's message of what it means to be anthropos, a Greek word that, as Mary used it, means "a child of true humanity," both fully human and fully divine. In Mary's gospel, salvation comes in learning to so completely merge the human with the divine, the ego with the soul, the human with the eternal, that we are undivided. And Christ gave us an example of how to do that.

I realize this will sound foreign, even sacrilegious to some. To many of us, though, it is a breath of fresh air, one that awakens and strengthens something that lies deep within the heart. We are not sinful by nature and in need of being saved by some outside authority. We are human AND we are made in the image of God. Our lives are transitory AND a part of us is eternal. Our task is "simply" to remember. And to aim toward remembering always, and to live out of that remembrance. 

The love is already there. It is our true nature. We need only return to it, again and again. 

💖

Leia

 

Yá'át'ééh

We were awaiting the arrival of Ravis Henry, a Navajo storyteller and knowledge holder. Belonging to the Towering House Clan, born for the Coyote Pass Jemez Clan, he would be sharing with us a slice of the traditional knowledge of his people. Ravis had traveled that afternoon from his home in the Canyon de Chelly region of northeastern Arizona, and the length of his journey and the need to set up camp before darkness descended had delayed the program's start time. 

At least that's the way it looked on the clockface. However, I can think of no better introduction for a talk on the indigenous view of the interconnectedness of life than to sit still and be surrounded by and immersed within that life. I was likely not the only one who felt this. Most of the two dozen or so people in attendance waited in silence. There was no delay, it seems. Steeping in the beauty of All That Is was the start of the presentation itself. 

And yet, though it seemed impossible to top the opening the natural world had provided, Ravis chose a dazzling way to begin his talk. For the first few minutes, he spoke exclusively in the wildly beautiful and evocative language of his people. While it was, of course, important that Ravis then went back to translate his words into English, either verbatim or in a rough approximation, having those sounds flow about us in that setting provided an experiential teaching of its own.

Neuroscientists tell us that much of our communication occurs on levels beyond the rational. Perhaps that is why, unable to make literal sense of his words, I was instead pulled by them more deeply into a profoundly palpable and numinous space. I'm not sure. What I do know is that I was moved. And it didn't end there.

Thinking back on it now, what stands out most strongly for me from that point on was the way Ravis translated the first Navajo word he spoke. "Yá'át'ééh," he told us, "is usually translated as hello in English, but to our people it is so much bigger than that."

He explained that Yá refers to all that exists above the Earth. It is the air that moves with the breeze and buoys the birds that fly there, the Sun that lights our world, and the untold number of stars that draw us into deep space. One small syllable to encapsulate all that. "Yá," Ravis said, " is Father Sky." It is, though, just one half of the traditional greeting.

"The rest of the greeting," Ravis explains, "is át'ééh, which means Mother Earth and includes all the beings that live upon her." The innumerable species of flora and fauna, from the grandest to the most tiny, are all held in át'ééh. "And so every time we greet one another," Ravis concluded, "all of this we honor by saying yá'át'ééh." 

He then, though, made a gesture that again added something special to the words just spoken. Ravis held one hand, the Father Sky hand, cupped above, palm facing down, and the Mother Earth hand curved below, palm facing up. He then brought them gently together as he repeated Yá'át'ééh. "And it is in the space between Yá and át'ééh that we live," he said, "We are known as the five-fingered spiritual beings," a term he later told me referred both to the Navajo people and, by extension, to all humans.

I sit now at my keyboard visualizing the space between the cupped hands of this Navajo teacher. It is one of those strong images that are worth many words, the meeting place of Father Sky and Mother Earth. It is the space in which we live and have our being, held not apart from All That Is, but thoroughly entwined within it and held by it. And I feel myself there now. And you are with me. 

And I think how helpful it would be for us to always greet one another in such a way, a way that reminds us of our place within the beauty of the whole. And I go on a quick google expedition to see if, perhaps, our own "hello" might suffice. Unfortunately, my initial guess was in error. I had thought that hello might share the same root as the word hallow, which means "to make holy" or "to sanctify."  Alas, it is not so. But no matter. I have decided that it shall be that for me from now on. 

Similar to the Sanskrit word namasté, when I say hello to another, I will let it hallow the interactional space we both inhabit. Or rather, I will let it remind me that that space is already hallowed, the meeting place of Father Sky and Mother Earth.

You are there with me now. Yá'át'ééh, my five-fingered spiritual friend. Yá'át'ééh.

Leia

If you would like to contact Ravis for any reason, including about his work as a Park Ranger for Canyon de Chelly National Monument or for information on his traditional and quite beautiful jewelry (he is a skilled silversmith as well!), he can be reached at Ravis.Henry@gmail.com.  

 

 

 

 

 

Pause

I have been thinking about pause points. Actually, I've been living them. This past week's vacation was itself a hiatus from the usual activities of life. It was also a time to practice the art of pausing, and to do so frequently during my more leisurely days.

Vacation comes from the Latin vacare, which means unoccupied. And so, though I had things that needed and wanted doing, I also quite intentionally allowed myself moments of idleness when I disengaged from productivity and accomplishment.

While kayaking on sweet, pristine, little North Lake, I took my paddle from the water as we drifted along the shoreline, marveling at small trees seeming to grow directly out of rocks, or at least from pockets of soil that had settled into their crevices.

I dropped into stillness amid COVID tensions to seek the best path forward, one that allowed me to disagree respectfully and honor our interconnectedness as we walk this road together.

As the backyard echoed with the indignant squawks of fledging magpies, I stopped to rejoice in the survival of eggs threatened weeks earlier by a raven. I also laughed as magpie parents insisted just as raucously that their young could now feed themselves.

I stilled in the midst of creating a collage, while cooking, when zooming with friends who live far away, as the sun set and as it rose, while I lifted weights and did yoga, all in addition to periods of sitting meditation. And in pausing, my soul was fed.

Yes, pausing feeds the soul. Not only is it a venerable spiritual practice, but one could assert, quite rightly it seems to me, that pausing is the only spiritual practice, though it comes in numerous forms and with many applications.

As I wonder about that, I remember a Krista Tippett interview in which the poet Naomi Shihab Nye shared the Japanese concept of yutori, which she translated as spaciousness. Nye tells us that yutori is, "a kind of living with spaciousness...(such as) leaving early enough to get somewhere so that...when you get there, you have time to look around."

We are often so very busy, so focused on our individual concerns, that our attention collapses and we ignore the vastness of All That Is. Pausing allows us to reverse that process. In pausing, we are better able to open and to receive. When we avail ourselves of yutori's encouragement "to look around", we can access at least a smidge of that which lies beyond, or perhaps that which ever hums deep within the surface particulars of our lives.

A key to what that might be can be found in the numerous reports of Near-Death Experiences (NDEs), such as those shared by Pueblo poet Margaret Honton in her new book Dream Encounters, A Memoir Based on One Woman's Dreams over a Period of 50 Years. Not only is this book an in-depth primer on how to mine the nuggets that often pass unnoticed within our dreams, but in a chapter entitled Beyond All Boundaries, Honton briefly refers to her NDE that occurred as a result of a car accident in 1990.

"I experienced a state of vastness," she writes, "that exceeded all previous conceptualizing. Infinity was no longer a concept but a reality and it was suffused with Infinite Love...not a place but a state of being--without boundaries, yet all-embracing."

While it is rare for earthbound beings to fully experience that dimension while we are doing our work and our play in this one, there is something about that realm that is infinitely (pun intended) compelling. Therefore, we practice pausing so that we might open to it.

We meditate and we pray. We engage in artwork where the creativity at the very heart of life can more easily find us. We immerse ourselves in nature, and study sacred writings which, to paraphrase the Buddha, are not the Moon itself, but wise fingers pointing our way there. And we love. Pausing in these ways and many others, with intention and a willingness to experience what lies beyond and within our lives, is a holy act, one that provides nourishment for souls that otherwise become famished.

Buddhist psychologist Tara Brach encourages us to practice the sacred pause, and promises that blessings will arise "when we step out of our incessant mental and physical activity and reconnect with the being-qualities of presence, wisdom and love."

May blessings such as these find you this day. And may you welcome these being-qualities, delight in them, and pass them readily and lovingly on to those around you.

Blessings here and blessings there. Blessings, blessings everywhere.

Leia

Golden Purifier, Cleansing Breeze

I have been inundated by vultures. And while I bet that's the first time you've read those particular words strung together in a sentence, it remains a true statement. I have been seeing vultures everywhere. And they have been behaving strangely. 

A couple of weeks ago, while taking an early morning around~town walk due to the deep mud on my usual lakeside path, I saw two vultures standing on the ground in a small parking area behind an empty building. They were not feeding. They were not sunning themselves. They did not appear to be injured. They simply stood there. Though the birds looked fully grown, I assume they could have been fledglings, old enough to hop from the nest, but too young to get back in or to fly about freely.

They did not seem unnerved by my presence, letting me walk within a few feet of them without complaint. It was odd, but I didn't give it much thought...until two days later when, after having returned to my lakeside path, I saw an additional pair flying above. The next morning, I saw two more.

It is not, of course, unusual to see vultures around these parts. They hunt for sustenance to feed themselves and their young, riding thermals while searching for the dead to feast upon. However, the behavior of these two lake pairs was unusual as well. They were not riding thermals. They did merely arc overhead. Each one circled directly above me before winging off to the pasture to the north. And while they did not fly near enough for me to feel the wind off their wings, they flew no more than 8 feet above me, lower than I'd ever seen vultures fly in the nearly 3 decades I've walked that route. 

Yep, vultures have certainly captured my attention.

And while those who know about such things would likely have a simple explanation for the combined vulture sightings of those few days, what interested me most was their symbolic significance and the spiritual guidance they had to offer. Though the dominant culture of the industrialized world would, at the very least, doubt this perspective, indigenous peoples have generally found meaning in such phenomena. And because science and spirituality needn't clash, I chose to listen to both.

First, I gathered some vulture facts. The birds that had been making their presence known in my life were turkey vultures. They live entirely on carrion, and are the only scavengers who cannot kill their prey. Turkey vultures possess the largest olfactory system of any bird, and are able to detect rotting flesh from over a mile away. Their red face and neck are devoid of feathers to keep them tidy while poking about inside the carcasses of the dead.

The turkey vulture's species name is Cathartes Aura. Cathartes comes from the Greek kartharsis, meaning to purify or cleanse, and is key to another important word for the spiritually minded: catharsis. Aura in Greek means breeze, while aureus is Latin for golden. So the name of this bird who seems a shoe~in for the first place prize in this year's ugly bird contest translates as either golden purifier or cleansing breeze. And a bird with a name like that really oughta be respected, particularly when it appears repeatedly in one's life. 

That is the science. For the spiritual aspect, I sat with this bird in meditation one day. (Skeptics, bear with me here!) When I asked what message it brought me, this is what vulture told me:

"Attend to the cycles of death, transformation, and rebirth. Welcome each in its right time. Do not be afraid of that which you deem unpleasant, even ugly. Embrace it all. Death is a necessary aspect of the whole process. Seek out that which has served its purpose, and transform it into nourishment. Do as I do. Be as I am. Embody your role as the golden purifier of your own life. Receive the cleansing breeze."

That encouragement became my spiritual practice these past few weeks. As you can imagine, it has kept me busy. I began by noticing my urge to turn from that which I find disturbing. And I chose to aim my nose directly toward it instead. I delighted in "making like a vulture", breathing in the pranic life force energy to sniff out old habits, outdated thought patterns, and attitudes that hung on despite my no longer consciously wishing to identify with them. 

Next I stepped right into the work of transformation. Stretching my neck out, I stuck my beak down into that decay, seeking the bits of nourishment still hanging on, in hopes of using them to fuel the young and newly developing parts of myself.

Was I successful? The answer is yes, and the answer is no. Yes, my energy seems a bit less bound up in no longer viable carcasses. And no, this process is not yet complete and never will be. Vulture guidance never ends, at least not on this plane of existence.

But life goes on. Yesterday, as I passed a field just after dawn, I had another sighting. This time, though, it was not vultures that I saw. A fox stood in the center of the meadow with 5 kits frolicking and tumbling about, and occasionally running in for a quick suckle.

Death, transformation, rebirth, growth, decay. Each is an element in this dance of life. And while I am immensely grateful for my recent vulture tutoring, as spring leans toward summer I relish turning the page to a new chapter in this primer for human life.

This young family yips its guidance my way...and now yours:

"Play, enjoy, and savor. Expand with the season. Give nurturance freely to that which can grow only through you. Revel in that growth now, even while knowing that the wheel will soon turn once again. Such is life. Embrace it. Live it. Love it all."

Much love,

Leia

Yes, Yes, A Thousand Times Yes!!!

Spring has sprung, and it is time for all things to shine out and risk their own blossoming. For there is always risk in life, always unknowns that will surprise and challenge. And despite this, still we choose to grow. And on this morning in early May, here is my risk: I tell you that I am writing a book. There, I have said it and in a very public way, too. Eeeeek! Just like someone announcing she's had her last cigarette, I must now make good on the promise.

As is often the case when we're called to something new, there is excitement. There is also unease, since I cannot foresee where this path will take me. There are so many things I do not now know. I can't know what the final product will be, can't be certain it will be worthy of being read by others. I can't say if I will be able to successfully traverse the terrain to its publication. I can't even say for sure that I will complete the book itself.

And yet I am writing it. This is a seed I have planted with the spring. No, that is not quite right. It feels like a seed that was planted within me and a very long time ago, one that is simply ready now to take root and, hopefully, to bloom. Either way, this seed is one I now tend with my time, my imagination, my skill, and an unwavering commitment to love it into being, regardless of whether a particular hour's tap~tap~tapping away at my computer is satisfyingly productive or not.

In other words, I do these things despite the risk involved. Risk is inherent in life. Rising from our beds in the morning, we have no idea what the day will bring. And still we rise. We never can be sure how any conversation will go. And still we converse. And we never know what will become of the things we birth. And still we offer them passage into the world. To do otherwise, to hunker down for fear of the unknown, is to live less fully. Not risking becomes then a sort of death.

Of course, it is usually best for our risks to be wise ones, important that we discern the most likely avenue to success before we leap forward. But at some point, leap we must, knowing full well that success is never assured. Such is the way of life.

As we sat to meditate one morning last week, my husband noticed a commotion across our backyard fence. High in a box elder tree, a raven was threatening an enormous nest, eliciting much thrashing and squawking from a flock of angry magpies. Opening to this slice of life~in~action became our morning's meditation. While it was easy to find ourselves rooting for the magpies as they valiantly protected their eggs, we knew it wasn't so simple, for the raven needed nourishment to raise its own young. 

This spectacle, a holy racket indeed, stretched on a full 25 minutes, though we didn't know how long it had been underway before we tuned in. As we watched, the flock of protectors dwindled to just two, presumably the parents. While the magpies' harsh calls were accompanied by impressive hopping and wing~flapping, the raven only occasionally moved from one branch to another. Its strategy to exhaust the parents, as it already had their flock~mates, seemed certain to prevail. Then without warning, the raven lifted its wings, took flight toward the north, and was gone. Backyard peace descended again, and my husband and I went down to find our own sustenance to carry us through the day.

Yet we knew ourselves nourished already by our avian friends. They reminded us that risk comes with any new project, whether it be writing a book, raising a family, negotiating the vagaries of a pandemic, or growing into the best versions of ourselves. And still we do these things, because the only other option is to settle for being less than we can be. Shrinking life to fit our fears causes us to shrink as well, and we die a bit to the wonder of it all.

This weekend marks the ancient Celtic festival of Beltane, also known as May Day. Falling roughly halfway between the Spring Equinox and the Summer Solstice, Beltane is a celebration of the fecundity of all things. Spring has indeed sprung, with the natural world modeling the courage needed for growth of any kind. Despite the uncertainty of success, crocus rise through late season snows, spinach grows in the garden, and deer give birth to fawns who rise on spindly legs. And magpies lay their eggs and do their very best to see their babies hatched and fledged. 

The natural world does not play it safe, does not let a little thing like possible failure cause it to abandon the urge toward growth. It thus encourages us to give life our best shot as well, committing to that which calls to us, and extending a hearty assent to the entire process. And so we plant our own seeds, and we do our best to protect them from harsh winds and those who would do them harm. 

And we also reach for what we want and for what seems essential for our growth. And if, after a fair amount of effort, we get the message that our chosen avenue is not ours to travel, we defer. Like the raven, we go off then in search of another path forward. 

Succeeding or not isn't often all that important. What is most relevant in this human endeavor we have undertaken is to live it fully, and to offer to life a hearty and resounding "Yes! Yes!" and always a joyful "Yes!!!"

With a rush of love and heartfelt assent,

Leia

Spring, Glorious Spring!!!

Spring has come again...and none too soon. This winter has been harder than most, with the usual cold and too~short days serving to accentuate the continued effects of COVID isolation and worries. We have been on high alert for a year now, and that stress has taken its toll, with research finding significantly higher levels of anxiety, depression, substance abuse, suicidality, and violence both within and outside the home. 

In a recent interview with Krista Tippett, clinical psychologist and professor at UMass Medical School, Christine Runyan discusses how the body and psyche respond to this type of prolonged strain. Runyan explains that when threat is detected, our "exquisitely designed" and highly sensitive autonomic nervous system acts beneath our conscious awareness to prepare us for danger by releasing a "cascade of neurotransmitters and hormones." To provide energy, our heartrate, blood pressure, and glucose secretions rise. Digestion slows, clotting agents increase, and blood is diverted to major muscle groups to prepare us for the battle we're convinced is on its way. Runyan says this is a "predictable response...our source code as humans." 

 

When the threat is prolonged, such as in the "species-level trauma" of this pandemic, those responses become chronic, and we live in "a state of physiological high arousal." Our stress has been further accentuated by the social distancing the pandemic requires. "Our nervous systems know touch," Runyan states. "They know closeness and a hug." With those denied, we're robbed of the very tangible sort of comfort we need. 

Runyan reminds us that our reactions are normal. "Whoever you are, whatever you are feeling," she says, "of course you're feeling that...That is a normal response to incredibly unfamiliar, unusual, unpredictable, uncontrollable circumstances." 

 

Runyan also reminds us, though, that there is much we can do to mitigate these effects. She explains that "our parasympathetic nervous system...often called our rest and digest or relaxation system, is also innate within us." Its function is to return us to a state of calm, particularly important for chronic threats in which precautions need to be maintained over time. 

 

Runyan offers several suggestions for activating our parasympathetic resources. First, she explains that since our nervous system gets its information through the senses, any soothing stimuli will be helpful. Relaxing music, soft light, pleasantly scented candles, and warm baths, for example, all convey a sense of safety and ease. "Some of the self-care solutions...can sound quite trivial" she admits, though trite was the word Tippett supplied, but their effectiveness makes sense when we "package them through an understanding of this physiology."

 

Second, Runyan points to working with the body directly. Aerobic exercise has long been known to reduce tension by giving the body what that high arousal state has primed it for, while also helping to directly metabolize stress hormones in the process. Practices like yoga or tai chi work in the opposite way. By moving into quieting postures and syncing our movements with calming breaths, we convey to the body that all is well. Runyan offers another very simple option. Sitting with feet making full contact with the Earth conveys safety, as it is the opposite of the fight or flight posture which has us, literally and figuratively, on our toes and ready to move. 

 

Third, Runyan recommends various breathing practices, the simplest being to prolong the exhalation, which directly activates the parasympathetic nervous system to promote calm. 

 

Her fourth suggestion is to remind ourselves that our reactions are normal and expected. When we place them in context, we move away from harsh judgements that amplify stress, as we "quiet our nervous system by leveraging our thinking brain."

 

Runyan's fifth suggestion encapsulates all these and reflects her training as a mindfulness practitioner and teacher. She encourages us to slow down, to become aware of and curious about our experience as it is moment to moment. Soothing follows, as do wiser choices about our actions. While settling into the present is particularly difficult when we're activated, Runyan invites us "to incline the mind" this way to more easily "drop into the wonderment of whatever is here." We then activate the parasympathetic nervous system and the relaxation response that has been waiting for us there. Life becomes not just less stressful, but a more pleasant and engaging experience despite its ongoing challenges.

 

It's been a hellava year, for sure. Yet spring has come again, as it always does with its ever~fresh promise. On my walk this morning, I noticed the greening of the valley was fully underway following our recent spring snows. I also saw two pairs of heron, just returned from their winter home, wading in the shallows of the lake. As I drew near, they rose on broad, slow~beating wings, spindly legs trailing behind as they flew off.

 

Easter has just passed, with its celebration of the risen Christ a powerful symbol of life rising out of death, compassion out of disinterest and hate, hope from despair, and wisdom winning out over ignorance. As vaccines become increasingly available, large numbers of us will choose to partake, making that loving choice for ourselves, for those we hold dear, and for our community, both here and worldwide. 

Spring has already brought additional daylight our way, around 47 minutes more than on the Spring Equinox just a few weeks ago. In relishing that extra daylight, we give aid to our parasympathetic nervous system and awaken the soothing it is designed to bring us. It can also be the first step in dropping down into wonderment, as we utter a heartfelt "Yes!" to all this amazing world has to offer. 

Happy Spring!

Leia

The interview with Christine Runyan can be found by clicking here

Ubuntu

Dressed in several layers, I'm warm despite low temps and a stiff westerly wind that seems to blow always across this high place. The sky, a vast dome of deep blue just beginning to lighten in the east, holds not a single cloud to catch the colors of the soon~to~be rising sun. Fields stretch in every direction, ending at horizon or the sudden upsweep of mountainside. 

It is the spaciousness of this place that calls me and in response, I feel myself expanding out of the narrow confines that too often claim me. The felt experience of being part of something unfathomably large fills me, and I know the joys and challenges of my individual life to be embedded within that intricate and elegant whole.

Desmond Tutu, in explaining the African concept of Ubuntu, lit on these words: "We belong in a bundle of life." Ubuntu embodies the spiritual truth that there is a unifying something that lies beneath the surface appearances that so often catch us up. 

It's easy to see ourselves as discrete individuals, and while that is true on one level, it is also true that our similarities are much greater and more enduring than our differences. Our brains are primed to note the unusual. It's how our ancestors stayed alive to eventually beget us. But they stayed alive by also recognizing their shared experience and by cooperating as individuals within a community. 

Ubuntu has been translated as "I am, because you are," and comes out of a larger phrase umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu which refers to the ticklish truth that we become ourselves through other people. To become our best versions, we need not only those with whom we feel kinship, but those who challenge us by holding opposing views. 

Each person comes to us as gift. Often that gift is delightful. Yet even when it is not, the interaction offers an opportunity to open ourselves to a new perspective or, at the very least, to choose who we will become through our response. 

This pandemic year has certainly taught about interconnectedness, in both what it took away and what it brought to us. By removing our ability to easily interact, we discovered our longing for one another. And this wildfire virus also brought us irrefutable proof that we are intricately woven together in ways seen and unseen. And it teaches still. As the vaccine becomes more readily available, new choices arise.  

We're a diverse lot, and that is as it should be. Any vibrant, living system benefits from diversity. Yet the individual choices we make must be balanced always with the greater good. Our culture tends to lead with self-interest. And rugged individualism~~our penchant for doing as we want with limited regard for the welfare of others~~is what has won us the distinction of leading the world in COVID deaths.

Our spiritual sensibilities need to be part of the decisions we make about vaccination. It takes a village to contain a deadly virus, and we are all members of that village. And so, we get vaccinated. If we are uneasy about vaccinations in general or leery about their side effects, we get vaccinated. If we believe the concerns about the virus are overrated, we get vaccinated. And if we are willing to take the risk of getting sick ourselves, still we get vaccinated. To refuse for any of these reasons is to offer our bodies as incubators for a virus primed to create new, deadlier variants. And it is to refuse a chance to step fully into our role as engaged members of our human community.

Our right to do as we want usually comes with the addendum "as long as we harm none." This virus encourages us to place that addendum centerstage. A decision to not get vaccinated will offer illness and death to others. No question. While a choice to not get vaccinated may not directly lead to deaths (though it certainly may), the containment of this virus~~preventing more deaths, illness, and nastier variants, with health and economic complications down the road~~necessitates that as many of us as possible get vaccinated and soon.

We cannot all be infectious disease experts. We must trust the recommendations of those with the training to offer them. And we must take our place as responsible individuals within a larger community in crisis.

As I stand now in this high place with the sun just beginning to clear the eastern horizon, I think about our many interconnections. None of us stand alone, even though it can appear that we do. Every action we take creates ripples. May we be conscious now of the ripples we set in motion and may they radiate blessings into a world waiting to receive.

Blessings galore!

Leia

 

 

Wintering

 Though the sun is but a promise in the eastern sky, its early light dances across the lake's wind~roughened ice, leaps over rocks, twirls in crevasses, and casts shades of blue limned with silver as it goes. At the lake's far edge, I circle back toward home. Mountains arc before me on three sides, tall, regal, snow~covered. I sing their names in greeting as I do each morning, even when dense clouds or moisture hide them from view. I have walked this path for decades now, in every season and all kinds of weather, wearing capris and tank tops, layers of sweats, gortex against the wet. In today's clear, per~dawn chill, the sweats have it. 

In her new book Wintering, Katherine May explores winter as season, state of mind, and phase of life. Though coming to us unbidden, each can be accepted, even welcomed for the gifts they bring. May writes that in the natural world, "plants and animals don't fight the winter; they don't pretend it's not happening and attempt to carry on living the same lives they lived in the summer. They prepare. They adapt." It is by "carrying out acts of brutal efficiency and vanishing from sight...(that) transformation occurs. Winter is not the death of the life cycle, but it's crucible."

In an interview with Krista Tippett, May describes wintering as a metaphor for those times of life when we feel out in the cold, stuck, or without the energy needed to move forward. And yet even in this pandemic year, which Tippett describes as "one big extended communal experience of wintering," amid all the heartache and fear, limitations and isolation, an opportunity has been offered. In May's words, wintering is "a time for reflection and recuperation, for slow replenishment, for putting your house in order...letting your spare time expand, getting enough sleep, resting."

Glennon Doyle, author of Untamed, writes that in her own wintering time, she stilled herself enough to sink "beneath the noise of the pounding, swirling surf" to a place "where all is quiet and clear." It was in this underneath place that she learned to access "the Knowing (that) feels like warm liquid gold filling my veins and solidifying just enough to make me feel steady, certain." For Doyle, "God lives in this deepness inside me," though she is equally comfortable naming it intuition, deepest self, or source.

Whatever we call it, wintering episodes are ideal times to fall into stillness. When all is dark and cold, when pandemic woes impose solitude, when we can't find the energy to carry on as usual, this deep place endures. And if we turn toward it, as I do my mountains from the far edge of the lake, we will find welcome. And if we sing its name~~whatever name it gives us to sing~~we just might hear our own name sung in return.

Winters can be hard, no question. Yet if we don't fight them, if we accept the rest, stillness, and sustenance such crucibles offer, we might find ourselves made new and with a shape more fully our own when Spring arrives. 

Winters don't last forever. Days lengthen, vaccines arrive, new administrations take office, another cycle begins. For eons, humans have honored this transition from deep winter toward the greening soon to come. This past week brought us Imbolc from the Celtic calendar, and Candlemas and The Feast of the Presentation of Jesus to the Temple from the Christian. And let's not forget Groundhog Day. Whether religious, secular, or some combination of the two, each rejoices in the increased Light as we arrive at the halfway point between Winter Solstice and Spring Equinox.

Our wintering will soon draw to a close. May we use the time remaining to sink down into that which is eternal, that which remains no matter the season, outer or inner, that is upon us. And as we do so, let us also send Love to those we have lost and those who have toiled ceaselessly for us all during this, our communal wintering.

In Love,

Leia

For Tippett's interview with Katherine May, click here.

And for an essay on the seasonal celebrations of the past week, click here.

 

The Wheel Spins On

The wheel of the year spins on. Days lengthen and the Sun's path across the sky reaches noticeably higher than a few weeks ago. Though winter holds us still, across time and place humans have found various ways to celebrate the seasonal increase in Light. Three speak to me to day.

The Celtic calendar brings us Imbolc, which begins at sunset tonight and last until sundown on Febrary 2nd. Imbolc means "in the belly" and refers to new life that, while still somewhat hidden, promises to emerge fully with the Spring. Pagan psychologist Betz King suggests three questions for this time: 1) How are you nurturing that which grows inside you? 2) As this has historically been a time for spirtual initiations, to what do you commit yourself at this time in your life? 3) How are you resting in preparation for the rush of new growth that will come with the spring.

In the Christian calendar, February 2nd is marked by Candlemas, part of the Feast of the Presenation of Jesus to the Temple. While the latter stems from a Jewish tradition concerning first~born sons, symbolically this ritual speaks of our own path of evolving Love. Christ's jouney can be seen as both history and metaphor. As history, roughtly 6 weeks after his birth, Christ was presented at the Temple. As metaphor, we are encouraged to invite Christ's message of Love into the manger of our hearts at Christmastime, and we are urged now to bring that Love more fully into our communities. While it might still be in its infancy~~and we can assume it likely always will be~~we are encouraged on this Feast Day to present that Love anyway and allow this glorious and imperfect world to help us grow it larger day by day. The celebration of Candlemas simply furthers this through a ceremonial blessing of candles, to act as physical reminders of that greater Light throughout the year to come.

And finally, let us not forget Punxsutawney Phil, the cute little guy who puts the groundhog in Groundhog Day on February 2nd. This celebration marks our recognition that Spring will surely return, it's just a matter of when.

So take yer pick~~spiritual, secular or some combination of the two! There are many ways to mark the turning of winter toward Spring. Or to paraphrase Rumi, there are many ways to kneel and kiss the Sun.

Here are two links for additional information...

More on Imbolc and the rich interplay between Christianity and Earth~based traditions can be found here.

And from Betz King, more on using seasonal holidays for healing and personal growth can be found here.

Blessings of Light to you. May you feel it holding you and filling you to overflowing.

Leia

Star Stuff We Are!

 Imagine a gloved hand, fingers spread wide, palm open, a greeting shining out. You might find the glove's color and texture pleasing or not, but the glove isn't the main factor, for it is not the glove that says hello. It is the hand inside the glove. And it is not the skin covering that hand or its bone, muscle, ligament, tendon or vein that greet. It is the animating force within the hand that speaks through its gesture.

Where does that vivifying force originate? Obviously, this mystery has perplexed and intrigued since humans began on the planet, and the theories put forth have varied as humans have varied.If you're of scientific bent, you ascribe this essentially unknowable  phenomenon to evolution, a process extending from the Big Bang itself. Perhaps Carl Sagan's famous line "We're made of star stuff," speaks for you.

 

It does for me, as both fact and metaphor. As fact, I'm awed that the carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen and oxygen atoms in my body were created over 4.5 billion Earth years ago by the ancestors of the stars that now sweep across our nighttime sky.The metaphor inspires as well. In my personal theology, star stuff is the vitalizing energy from which all things arise, the essence that fuels existence everywhere, including my life and yours. Some call this God.

 

This perspective offers depth and nuance as I navigate the world, one human among so many. As with the glove image above, I may find another's presentation and gesture pleasing or repugnant, offering joy or offense. Yet if I can see through surface appearances to that energizing source, I find a fuller, richer and more accurate understanding that can inform my response.  At the very least, I can recognize the gift of witnessing star stuff in action.

 

Being human is challenging. As developing souls finding our way, we do not always live from our better natures or act in accordance with our potential. Missteps abound, some grave, others more run~of~the~mill. If this human experience is offering us a chance to grow into our best and wisest selves, such stumbling is simply part of the gig. Because of that, our false starts, foibles, and flat out failures can be seen as holy, ingredients for our continued awakening.

 

And if that is the case~~and everything inside me says it must be~~then when engaging with our fellow humans, judgment and harshness have no place, except as these impulses inform about the condition of our own soul. Compassion and, when appropriate, generous and good-hearted intervention are what is called for. Harsh, after all, does not heal harsh, and contempt does not ease the fear and separation mentality that give rise to so many of our human blunders. 

 

One of my personal prayers, often sung beneath a vast sky at dawn, has this line, "I see Your face everywhere. Good morning! Good morning! In everything everyone, everyone everything. Good morning! Good morning!" I then improvise, naming both the animate and inanimate~~birds flying above, slabs of rock protruding from the lake surface, vegetation along the path~~often with corny and bad rhyming that tickles me. I also mention human behavior that inspires or disturbs. For in my theology, all are expressions of that star stuff essence, that God energy. And all greet me, no matter how troubling the greeting might be, and remind me to recognize it all as grist for the mill of our mutual awakening.

 

The words that precede Sagan's quote above are these: "We are a way for the Universe to know itself. Some part of our being knows this is where we came from. We long to return." So let us return. In an inspiring online interview with Krista Tippett, violinist~singer~ songwriter Gaelynn Lea encourages us to share ourselves with the world "in a way that expands love." 

 

As we step into the new year, this seems the best of intentions, one that honors the star stuff at our core and returns us to openhearted engagement with the cosmos that gave us life. 

Blessings on all that you are and all that you do!

Leia