Wind Whispers

Des Moines, Iowa, May 23, 1918

It hardly seems fair that on top of the multitude of morphing body parts and systems, that as we age, our looks slide into peculiar variations on a theme.

The smell of eucalyptus trees, especially in the rain, and often mixed with burning, seeped into every cell, every day, when living in our mountain school in South India.

In 1960 my family found itself in Jerusalem, as my father was known for his negotiating skills and had been called to help with ‘something.’ 

In 1977 I lived in a cottage on the shores of a wild lake in Minnesota with my husband, our baby daughter, our husky and our collie.

The heat is coming.

The ants are on the move.

My cellular calendar tells me HARK! Family birthdays….of a grandfather that I never knew and a sister that I adored, both lighting candles and toasting in other realms.

Inhabit the garden.  Shall we follow?

Quick, said the bird, find them, find them.

There’s no place like home.

In 1991, after driving a U-Haul truck from Charleston, South Carolina to New York City with 14-yeqr-old daughter, and young golden retriever riding shotgun, we found our new mini nest, which was dark and dusty but going to work.  While daughter hooted and howled in upset, golden retriever and I took a walk around the block.

Yesterday afternoon, scurrying around the corner of Wilshire and 4th Street in Santa Monica, through a demonstration for Iranian women’s rights, I time travelled and bumped into a woman from a Dickens novel.

The summer of 1968. On the most idyllic two hundred acre farm in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, whose main house had been an inn during the Revolutionary War, I worked as a nanny to four children, four horses, and a wacky pregnant Gordon Setter named Sita.

Every single morning, at the exact same time, a little bird perches on the exact same spot on the tippy top of a bush outside my window, facing the ocean, and she seems to meditate

A word that reverberates as never before, and seems to be growing in its familiarity and power, is Grief.

Having spent the last hour efficiently, delightfully, rearranging a few thises and thats in my abode, it was time to hop into the shower

Somewhere in my meandering,  I heard the words, “I’ve known him since he was an egg” and my imagination was off and running.

Here I am, living on the coast of la mer magnifique (Mom, are you closing your eyes tightly and shaking your head?) and yet its every sunset reminds me of evenings perched on the rolling dunes of Lake Michigan.

Ten years ago, or so, Francie’s Magic Cookies were happening. They were in eleven Whole Foods, they were flying off the shelves and creating magic…yes, for real.

Once upon a time ago, as in the 50’s and 60’s, when Christmas trees were painstakingly decked with shiny balls, and homemade styrofoam or felt ornaments with sequins stuck hither and thither, TINSEL was the main event.

The transportive might of music, once again awestruck.

During the 60’s, my mother’s passion for experiencing New York’s cultural offerings exploded  during Christmastime and always began with an expedition into the city for Menotti’s ‘Amahl and the Night Visitors’. This morning, with the first voice of “Amaaaaaaahl” on my player, the red breasted bird that lives in yonder tree, that I have named ‘Jane’ for my mother, few over to my window and  listened with me.

Tenafly….”ten swamps”in Dutch…. ‘yes’, I thought. 

In the early 60’s when my mother informed me that this was the meaning of the word. ‘How perfect that we had landed here, strangers in a strange land that does not want me…swamp times ten, ’ I thought.

1962, October, the Cuban Missile Crisis was happening, the SS France was only six months old, “The Music Man” with Robert Preston was playing everywhere, and they all came together for our family in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in a magnificent storm with thirty foot waves.

Walter, Walter shining bright!

Your birthday! 

I can only imagine that you have found the perfect cloud to rally your friends around for rampant FUN.

What a blessing it is when someone prances into one’s life bringing laughter and vibrant electricity!

P-22

“What’s in a name? That whcih we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”

Sakiko, how can I thank you? You were not soft and fuzzy and your disapproval of me was visceral. You joined the family when I was 15, and as you had achieved phenomenal status in the world of opera through intense discipline and ‘no nonsense’, you had little patience for my sensitivity and non traditional inclinations. 

My music of the morning appeared out of nowhere and played itself. It clearly wanted to be heard and as yesterday’s partial eclipse illuminated some buried boxes, perfecto.

Oh WOE!!!! You did it again!

What did I do?

You dropped the baby in the wrorng family. You need to pay attention!

Somewhere in my travels these words ….’Everything that happens to you has the potential to deepen you’….and so last night I happened to watch “Elephant Whisperers” on Netflix and was transported, viscerally and sensually back in time to a place where adventure, family hooplah, wonder, beauty, wisps of fear,  passion for wildness and tangible LOVE for elephants crept into my young self.

Vermont and fall seem to be joined together…trees bursting into flaming hues in the news and advertisements…come, come….hence another rebellious episode with my rascal comrade in all things not allowed.

The recent word in Malibu and Topanga is that mountain lions are roaming about much more frequently than in days past and being spotted in driveways and yards. The creatures of the world are on the move as their habitat morphs with changing times.

My darling Oberon. There you are.

I was recently reminded of Maya Angelou’s words: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget whatyou did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Time passed and names were called, two for Paris, one for Madrid, one for Bangkok, and then mine for London. I was driven out to the plane’s stair ramp while being given my instructions. I was told that I would be checking twenty-six suitcases through customs, that there would be no problem, but that I needed to count them and make sure that all twenty-six made it through. Then I was handed three large envelopes and told to not let these out of my hands for any reason, not for a moment, and that this is why I was traveling in first class. These envelopes were accompanied by most interesting instructions.

Once upon a time ago, in the 80’s and 90’s, I was a massage therapist. I worked out of my home, always, and in this way I provided an income for myself and my daughters while being available as a mother. The gifts of this work are widespread and deep, and one surprise gift was the music.

Something suspect has been going in the squirrel world.

As we were navigating our way down the Suez Canal, adjusting to the rhythm of this particular ship and its many eccentricities and mysterious mazes, we were suddenly blasted with the announcement that there was a blockage in the canal and we would be holding steady for several days. The gleam in my father’s eye was electric. “Let’s go see the pyramids!”

A few days ago, I found my nine year old grand daughter, Luciana, buried in a crochet project that had been assigned by her third grade teacher. During this period of home schooling, incredibly beautiful skills have been introduced and passionate fires fanned, one being handwork. As Luciana navigated the intricacies of adding and decreasing stitches and rounding the corners of her creation, she commented on the fact that it was not perfect. She leaned forward and examined a specific slightly loose stitch and then held it up to me with “Is it alright?” I said “It’s perfect”. She said “It isn’t exactly like the others”, and I said “That is the beauty of handwork.

I lay down to sleep and a fever-ish heat, an intensely throbbing headache, and a firey sensitivity infiltrating every inch of my skin, took me down down down. My heavy head sunk deeply into my pillow and exhaustive asleep came.

Thirty-five years ago, on the day before Valentine’s Day, Butterfly Day was born. Its birth arrived, as all births do, with pain and the promise of new life, only in this case, the ‘new life’ was still in the cocoon.

Before the sun had risen this morning, I lay in bed listening to the first peeps of the day, and I felt my father’s laughter surrounding me. His laugh was like none other. There was a spontaneity and hooping quality to it, which could only come from genuine emotion. One had to know WHAT had sparked this, but he moved so fast in his mind that if one had not caught the moment, it was gone.

Somewhere, apres my birthday, a flower encyclopedia fell into my lap. The histories, origins, medicinal uses, mystical beliefs, folk tales, essences, properties, how to combine and for what, all luxuriously described and illustrated sit before me while my cup of tea progresses from hot to warm to undrinkable. One must stay grounded when faced with a colossal window into one’s passions.

In the upstairs hallway, perched on a bookcase, sat a small, elegantly inlaid wooden box from India. The inlay was of two men sitting and exchanging gifts with one another. This was the tithe box. My parents believed that no matter what funds one earned, being connected to a greater awareness of others was a human necessity. Ten percent of what one brought into the house was mentioned, but even the gesture of pennies in the box, kept the energy flowing.

Dragons, forever mystical beings, see everything. They watch us navigate the external world as well as our inner world, and when this energy is awakened it is as if we are traveling with a best friend inside of us. The ego drifts into a balanced place and we see beauty everywhere. The energy of the dragon lives in our naval center, which is called ‘the city of hidden gems’ and behind its gates burns the fire of our transformation.

“Men go abroad to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long course of rivers, at the vast compasses of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars, and they pass by themselves without wondering.”

Underneath, above and to the east and west of this is peace. For many years Thich Naht Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, has been one of my personal spiritual teachers. The simplicity of his walking and standing meditation takes one away from the idea of sitting at length in lotus position or carving out special time that never quite happens to ‘do’, as this seems to be the obstacle for many. I invite you, next time that you walk, even if from the parking lot to the post office, or as you stand in line to pick up supplies, with each inhale say “I breathe in”, and with every exhale,”I am at peace”.

Hope is grounded in reality. It is alive and well in every one of us even though old wounds and disappointments and low self esteem can bury it. These are phantoms that we turn ourselves over to but are no longer real. One must look each one in the eye, say ‘farewell’, and reclaim one’s birthright. And what birthright is that? Desire?

From this moment onward, clouds, every single time I spy you up there, whatever shape or size or hues you are experimenting with, I will now remember to pass beneath you quite simply, with appreciation, and trust that one day, when the earth has had its final ways with me, I will rise up and luxuriate in your perspective of being above.

A momentary ‘time out’ from distress calls coming through my phone from Inauguration Day to yesterday, but now WHAM. From my toadstool, the momentum around the changing of the guards, to supreme relief, to exhaustion, to a looking reality (to the best of one’s ability) in the eye, resulting in a profound weariness and depression. This coincides with a personal exploration of some of my father’s notes on ceremonies that he conducted as a minister.

I investigated online for a house to rent and found one, neighborhood unknown, but it sounded perfect. I have a history of finding beautiful spots to live in and didn’t need to question, though husband did, he usually did, and after googling decided that I had done well. In the Native American tradition, the woman sits in the front of the canoe, pointing the way, while the husband paddles. We were off!

Oh joy! Indra, goddess of rain, threw open the floodgates in heaven and torrential downpours ensued! Finally! And of course, as worlds constantly collide, my childhood in India, and the urge to strip off the clothes and dance with passionate abandon whenever monsoon cloudbursts arrived after months of hot winds and blistering heat, and the present of my grand-daughter, Indra’s, first birthday on this very day of drenching droplets. How wondrous is life?

You have been and will be forever a part of me. You personify ‘Leap! Even if you can’t see what lies down below!’ which, with reservations here and there, has been central to my life on earth. You lifted the veil off all that held me back through seeing me and loving me. What more is there than that between human beings? I love you.

Teddy and Tally were allowed to run free in the backyard but the front ‘out there’ was what intrigued them both, passionately, relentlessly. We humans needed to be on guard for any possible slip up in perhaps not closing the door tightly, or making sure they were back back when we came and went. It was habit for the household. We all knew and obeyed.

Feed your frantic heart with softness. Our world is in transition. Upheaval is an element of transition. Delight can buried under a mountain of upheaval, or even under a small hill. We must each find the place, in our own environment, in ourselves, where delight is alive and well and thriving.

When I look out at the ocean, this ocean, my brain cells seem to say ‘time to play!’
Significant bodies of water prior to this sparkling beauty, that this body, these eyes, have beheld and lived chapters with.

My father had not thought of including me but I insisted on going with him. Riding in our black Plymouth station wagon, through the city, watching and thinking, and then entering the church, shifted my knowing of life in America into an entirely different gear. We have moved from underground bubbling currents into explosive in your face information.

There is a vital effort to get tent dwellers off the street and ideally creating solid homes is the the answer. As a pre-home solution, an intermediate step, and one that can then move into being in addition to having a home, there needs to be a program for supplying those without homes with cars.

I am grateful, I am proud, I am in awe, at what the body is capable of, and when I open my eyes in the morning and grasp the knowing that I am not only pain free but I am also as limber as a monkey and as strong as a small tiger, I say “thank you”.

I see you sitting at your desk in the living room..facing out to the room…a sweet smelling pipe in your mouth and a bowl of licorice in a cut glass bowl on the desk in front of you, always dressed in a three piece suit with a gold watch chain looping from your vest pocket into another little pocket where the watch surely lived.

In the early 90’s, living in New York City, I attended NYU for my masters degree. One day, while settling down with a hot pretzel for lunch, outside my classroom, a psychic sat down next to me and began to speak.
I believe you have massive scars on your back.”

Every single one of us is born with an amalgamation of gifts that is absolutely our own, as in there is no one else on earth that shares this unique arrangement. This is our raison d’etre! To unearth what these gifts are and use them. Some may be obvious and others are not, but one’s mission and joy is to hunt for them, find them and live them.

Giant brains in little bodies and massive fears running around my classroom. My answer was music. We gathered in a circle on the floor, with my guitar on my lap and I would sing. Soon we had ducks flapping wings and frogs jumping off of lily pads, and tales of long ago being listened to while closing sleepy eyes. Magic happened. Miracles. My guitar and I, not stellar musically, but together a team.

My evening excursions often lead me along the edge of a narrow, steep canyon. Every single time that I stop and gaze out over it, a memory relives itself in my mind with crystal clarity, flooding my senses with smells and cellular sadness, even though  my mind has made peace what ‘what happened, my being … Read more

Standing on my rock,

on the top of my bluff,

feet planted,

arms to the sky.

The wind whips my hair into a tangled mass around me,

challenging my hold.

She reached up and a huge seagull came to her and sat on her hand. “You need to remember the distress with all of your might, and you need to let it go with every breath.”

We have a choice at every moment, in how we rise in the morning and face the day, in how we greet each other or strangers on the street, in how we treat our bodies and our minds, in how we look at others’ woundings with compassion or disdain, in how we focus on making money rather than addressing the core of our security needs.

My evening excursions often lead me along the edge of a narrow, steep canyon. Every single time that I stop and gaze out over it, a memory relives itself in my mind with crystal clarity, flooding my senses with smells and cellular sadness, even though my mind has made peace what ‘what happened, my being goes there and brings to light one more wisp of seeing.

The human condition in despair and confusion and fear, needing to communicate.

For years I have held this position of listening. What I have gleaned is that often our deepest, most articulate, honest sharing is in the lap of a faceless person. A person who has no role our life and we have no role in theirs, a person who is not going to advise, a person who does not judge, a person who is neutral, a person who is a kind stranger, a person who holds still and listens.

Rhythms, balance, ebb and flow, new rhythms, new balance, ever changing, ever present. All one needs to do is ride the wave in and paddle out, ride the wave in and paddle out but we humans get busy, forget this simplicity and we forge against. We lose our connectedness, our joy, our true north, our raison d’etre.

Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning. This being so, what does a pink blush that spreads itself across the sky like honey on a banana leaf mean?
A day of Love. A day of Play. Yes.

Someone needed to do this in order to shine a light, as a conduit between the haves and have nots, on what ‘being homeless’ in all of its obvious and subtle ways, was about. These two worlds needed to be brought together. But now I was exhausted…

The wind howled all night, whipping trees and tossing flower petals outside my window. Forever in my life I have adored the wind. As a child in a boarding school in the hills of South India, lying awake in my bed at night, the fierce wind was my passionate friend. All of the sounds of this land … Read more

The message of the year hidden in connection to nature, connection to stillness, connection to each other in new ways, connection to lives out there beyond our knowing, connection to self, connection to goodness, connection to God.

Three years and eleven months ago, my loving and supportive friend and landlord was forced to hang an eviction notice on the door of the little blue house by the sea, that my husband and golden retriever and I had inhabited for five years. In that moment, that one act, shifted the reality of our plummeting dreams and finances, into a reality that we, over these years, have had to be with, sleep with…