December 21, 2024—The Solstice—-Malibu One week and one day ago PCH was opened and those evacuated for the Franklin Fire were allowed to return home. Various degrees of trauma having been lived, today’s solstice brings cool, calm, soul knowing in
Beverly HIlls, December 20, 2024 Whilst pumping gas, a woman at the next pump whimpering to her partner, “I’m lost.” Shuttling to a crisis call from Madison Wisconsin a few days ago, the same words, ”I’m lost.” The soul crying
Malibu, December 20, 2024 Tomorrow the winter solstice. A cellular rush, apres le Franklin Fire, is just now relaxing. For one who has forever dropped off to sleep with no effort, this week a restlessness has prevented that luxury
MALIBU, December 10, 2024 Maybe one day in the grass green sky… But not today. Last night, or was it this morning? Knock Knock Knock on my door and ‘mandatory evacuation’ staring me in the face. Wait a minute. Where
Tenafly, New Jersey, Mid 1960’s Whilst acclimating to life in America after having lived years in India there was MUCH to get used to. Christmas being a big one. We would wake to my mother’s joyous reunion with her piano,
Malibu, December 2024 Fog laden, wind wild, light piercing, or roseblushed still. No matter what the world is doing, singing perches outside my window in loyal commitment to rousing and greeting. Is that the commitment? If so, why continue? “Good
Open your arms and your heart to peace. Breathe in calm. Invite angels or guides or Ganesh or whoever your supporting beings are to allow no obstacles to stand between you and your soul knowing. Let nothing darken your light,
November 2024, Malibu The creatures are misbehaving. The fires are burning north of here. I was called to ‘help’. It mystifies me that there is no word for holding space in the sacred burning ground of homes and lives and
Every single one of us is alone in the world. It takes courage to meet the full force of this. Until we learn to inhabit our solitariness, to be with it, to make friends with it, the distraction and noise
Waban, Massachusetts, 1960 We sailed for India in 1957 and returned to the States seven years later, HOWEVER right in the middle, in 1960, we flew back for 6 months…right smack at the height of political drama while Nixon and
I wonder what it is to be you. Somewhere from my ancient past, THIS: (Did I read this or hear it or know it when I came in from whatever realm preceded this one?) Every single being on earth, be
Charleston, South Carolina—1985 The Spoleto Arts Festival was spectacularly in full bloom, with Charleston throbbing and spilling over with musical, theatrical and dancing artists from around the world. The festival was Gian Carlo Menotti’s creation and SO thrilling for we
Last night I treated myself to watching ‘Ladies in Lavendar’, being reminded of this gentle, innocent, magical story with the news of Maggie Smith passing a few weeks ago. FLASH! LONDON…1984 In mid February I had received news that a
I think I’ll call Mom. Oh, that’s right, Mom….You….left 17 years ago…as in your body….not sure you actually left as I feel you all the time. I feel like calling you….oh, wait a minute…our calls were not on cell phones.
Every year on this day, phone calls and messages come through and waves of wonder, sadness, gratitude, and love blow through my heart. I was a member of ‘the grief team’ for 9/11 and was assigned twenty women to work
Oh Sacred Day! Mom. Seventeen years ago you left….you set yourself free….and I see that it was perfect…now. You ignited a chapter…you lit a fire…family connections and paths became more clear and catapulsion happened. You left, Dad plummeted and left,
“And so here we are”, said the spider to the fly. “Yes indeedy”, said the fly to the spider. “What to make of IT?” said the spider to the fly. “You tell me. “ said the fly to the spider,
February 1968, Northfield School, Northfield, Massachusetts Then: On a freezing evening in a chilly auditorium, the weekend movie had been announced but as not many in our dorm had ever heard of it, I went alone. During Christmas break, my
A spider and I have accidentally grown a relationship, and I know that my mother is smiling. Back story: Perhaps because of ‘Charlotte’s Web’, perhaps JUST BECAUSE, my mother had a fondness for spiders. For decades, my family’s summer refuge
In the midst of the froth from heaviness and confusion to joy and hope, a dragon card appeared with a message for us all in this, ITS year. Dragon eyes see beauty everywhere. It is said that if a
Clockwork Orange, poisonous toads and saving the crocodiles. Yesterday while driving up PCH I was drawn into an NPR report on crocodiles in Australia being poisoned by toads. What? And apparently it’s a disaster…and lizards and snakes are also being
The moon, pale as swan wings, watched as they moved over the blue. The swan felt the warm weight of the woman resting on his wings, followed the pathway made by the music. The sea cradled the creature as he
As I watched a miniscule bee traverse one kitchen tile back and forth, back and forth, he/she was clearly befuddled. A tiny voice tinkled out saying “In a place called lost, strange things are found”…. there was no giving up….but
HAPPY BIRTHDAY my darling MELANIE!!!! What you bring, who you are… there are no words, only music and awe and wonder that you chose ME to be your mother…. THANK YOU, SWEETIE PIE!!!! And now a joyful, gleeful, love-filled BEAUTEOUS
July 22, 1976…Excelsior, Minnesota Nine months pregnant, the weather was hot, the mosquitoes were feasting on every bit of flesh they could find, and I was determined to tend to my garden full of zinnias and black eyed susans and
Perhaps because I do not express my political opinions publicly, the supposition seems to be that I am uninformed….perhaps…because I have received at least TWO DOZEN texts from people sharing the news of Biden’s decision today, delivered with respect but
My hood is inhabited by numerous Trump supporters as well as numerous non humans. It seems that the non humans are more tuned into the humans than the other way around. One of our night-time visitors is a mountain lion,
Down by the sea, this elegant adorable spindly legged graceful creature struggled with itself over ‘Do I go into the water? Do I not go into the water? I WANT to go in, it’s calling me and looks like fun,
The coast has been invaded by boisterous partying heat escapees. The pelicans do not seem pleased, the sea lions are keeping their distance and the local humans are complaining loudly….yes, we’ve been infiltrated by foreign bodies….and the evidence is written
Yesterday evening, standing on the edge of my bluff, beholding the golden light, soft winds and rustling leaves above the ever expansive sea and feeling that all really is well with the world in spite of…..
The Santa Anas have arrived in fulll glorious might resulting in a myriad of responses.
Tiny birds, as in so small that one could sit comfortably in the palm of one’s hand…
Meandering by the sea lions after a debacle with my bank….
Recently the words ‘ If you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back at you’ crossed my path.
Sitting at a stoplight on PCH, a small creature that is not the usual four legged vagabond in this hood, scampered out into the middle of the intersection…
Three days after the three days of isolation that the atmospheric deluge commanded.
During my flu recovery this week, I began watching a mystery and withiin the first five mnutes knew everything that would happen and who had DONE IT.
This morning the word ‘apricity’ wafted through. Oh, hello! But it isn’t THAT chilly!
Is there a mouse in the house? or something bigger? or maybe under the house, trying to scramble in?
January 6, Malibu, 2024
Epiphany Day, otherwise known as Three Kings Day.
Yesterday morning a teenager in crisis. This was the beginniing:
The prediction of torrential rain exploded joyful ecstatic impishness in my core yester eve …but…I will WAIT until the heavens have really let it rip before venturing forth on my bluff, says I.
As baby teeth loosened, popped out and found their way under the pillow, a winsome, poetry laden tooth brownie found his way to our home every single time, and left wee treasures, ALWAYS with a note scratched out on a tiny slip of paper.
Sitting at a traffic light in my blue Taurus station wagon on East Bay Street, in Charleston, contemplating how on earth I was going to pull off participating in the ‘Proprioceptive Writing Course” at The Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York. I needed to do this.
May we learn to walk upon the earth
With the confidence and clear-eyed stillness of animals,
In the late 60’s, living in suburbia New York, my mother’s passion for ‘doing’ rose up with a no-turning-back vegeance and she announced that she needed to go back to India, to gather information on the famine so that she could write THE BOOK.
Once upon a time ago, when I lived in NYC, my nest was half a block from Central Park and two blocks south of the Natural History Museum.
May you have friends who can see you, may your senses be windows of wonder and your mind a prism of spirit.
‘By the skin of my teeth’ floated through my so-called mind this morning as I pondered how on earth my existential reality is managing ever snce the writers’ strike obliterated my income.
For 22 days I have been on the receiving end of calls from Israel.
Late late, too late, I finally slipped into bed, opened the window and where was I? And when?
Time out this afternoon for a barefoot sea meander.
My stunningly brilliant, queen of communicating and passionate pianist mother was stroked at the age of 83.
‘The color gold represents success, affluence and luxury, evoking a feeling of grandeur and sophistication.’
Feet in the ocean, after a few days of Maui despair and then a call from a young girl who lost her brother to opioid overdose.
Once upon a time ago in Sri Lanka, when the monsoon winds howled their way to our bungalow, my sister and I nodded to each other and headed for the beach at a breakneck speed.
There is a tribe of women in our midst that moves and grooves, inspires and solidifies future generations silently, with no recognition.
As the strike continues for this third month, we whose livlihood has depended on ‘the industry’ have been called to pull back burnered thises and thats to the forefront to handle our existential survival.
Somewhere in the recesses of my so-called mind, I can see and hear Clint Eastwood (r-e-a-l-l-y?)
Question:
How many memory triggers does one brain hold?
Oscar, my singing frog, has disappeared. I miss his rowdy presence but life does have a way of moving on in mysterious ways.
“I wonder as I wander out under the sky”…another gift from lifetimes ago when osmosis-ing hymns while sitting in pews was a Sunday happening.
This morning I was called to ‘be with’ three families that are hovering on homelessness as a result of the writers’ strike.
The re-location of a funky pet store and its bright blue-ness lured me yesterday.
Oberon. One day, while Obie and I were innocently standing on the sidewalk waiting for a red light to turn green, an animal psychic slid up next to us and said “Every dog has a soul mission. This dog’s mission is to bring gentleness to his male master.”
A few days ago, a heart stopping, soul vibing journey into the world that I grew up in, in South India, captured and carried me back into itself through Abraham Verghese’s book ‘Covenant of Water’….
Jose and Matilda, my guardian lizards, were sitting on my doorstep dreaming in their lizardy way, when wafting through the cosmos,
Shifting winds, shifitng planet and the creatures that inhabit our bluff are dancing to the shifts!
This week has been one of my phone ringing non stop with people in crisis. Crisis? Disharmony with reality. Unacceptance of what is. Pain, frustration, outrage. Each one needing to vent and be heard.
In her late 80’s, my mother, having not only survived two massive strokes but also defied all odds by negating the prediction that she would never be restored to being a recognizeable verison of herself in language or limb usage, would sit and say “I am of no use! I must be of use!” I listened and comforted her but now?
There’s more to the Julius story…there’s an ‘after’ which is also a beginning. May I?
The parrots in my trees are raucous, chatty, screechy, non stop vibrationally wild, but this morning?
Julius had been born on the third floor of our funky green house by the sea in South Carolina and had been my best friend through the trials and tribulations of mothering my girls, following my dreams, facing dragons and meeting angels in every size and shape imagineable….he was my partner.
Avec my Saturday morning haferflocken (oatmeal, thank you, Norman!), I watch a children’s odyssey program and I inhale the most wondrous collection of intriguing tidbits.
Saint Exupery, a north star for me from wee-dom, said:
Oh world, there you are, but wait a minute, Snake Medicine again?
As a girl in South India, my sister and I had the incredible good fortune to study with one of the prima bharatanatyam dancers in the country, as she was on maternity leave for two years.
Sitting, watching a giant hawk circle and glide in its magnificence while two baby hummingbirds innocently flit from blossom to branch to me.
On June 4th, 1957, my mother, father, two older brothers, younger sister, nanny, and I, climbed the gangplank of the SS Mauretania in New York City, waving good-bye to my grandpa, who thought he would never see us again, as we were heading for exotic, mysterious India, on the other side of the earth.
The cold drink display in Whole Foods is in the very front of the store and impossible to ignore if one has one’s eyes open.
As my eight year old grandson, Huck, has a passion for snakes, and knowing that I had a weakness for all tortoise related creatures, I was coerced into watching a documentary on reptiles with him.
Last week, a special friend of mine gifted me with an expedition to the Academy Museum of Motion Pictures.
This afternoon, as I stepped out of Trader Joe’s heading for my car, a robust, shining African American man came out at the same moment, flung his arms open wide and said ‘What a beautiful day!
Once upon a time ago I created and directed a children’s theater company in Charleston, South Carolina.
The runniness of my morning egg triggered a rumbling in my memory banks.
In between life…as in taking a break from brain, I watch people….and specifically zero in on one particular person at a time who catches my eye and I wonder what it would be like to be that person.
This afternoon I stopped at Santa Monica Seafood to see what was what in the way of dinner.
From John Masefield’s ‘Sea Fever’ (thank you, Mom, for imprinting my being with poetry and literature galore!). These words ran through me in broken intervals for those eight years of being a gypsy:
In 1970 I was working the night shift at a state institution in New Hampshire.
The road that leads from my bluff to civilization, swerves by a view of a canyon that opens on to the sea. Every single time I drive past this canyon, I flash back to a memory from my girlhood in India.
The term ‘swami busters’ crossed my path a few days ago and amid sparkles of internal laughter, memories of adventure and friendship flew front and center.
Yesterday a child came out to wander, caught a dragonfly inside a jar….
Mom, is that you?
The summer of ’69 found me working on a brain tumor ward in a hospital in Colunmbia, Missouri.
In the early 80’s, therapeutic massage was infiltrating communities all over the country that prior to this time had only associated massage with parlors.
Whilst visiting a particular art exhibit on Saturday, a flood of feelings for the beauty of a time long ago and laughter.
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.
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.
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.
Before there were any elephant orphanages, the uncle of a friend of mine began the very first one.
Appearances…realities….what we think and what is….all ever fascinating.
We are growing a culture of no feeling….no connection to brutality….no true understanding of what we are taking in cellularly on a regular basis through our eyes, in the media.
In ancient tribes, somewhere, the elders teach the children to feel Wind so they’ll know what to do if they’re afraid or lost.
Question of the day: Why is it, when faced with a garden full of blooming roses, do women spontaneously bend to sniff every single one, and men stand back, find a bench to sit on and pull out something to
Hello hands. How is it that you remind me of Dad’s hands, but you also look like Mom’s? You needn’t answer that. I simply want to take this moment to thank you. Who would I be without you? Thank you.
A Navajo elder sat in a circle with various lifeforms. He was asked to define healing. He closed his eyes, he opened his eyes, he looked around, and then he spoke. “To bring one into harmony with everything.” A child:
And to honor all beloved creatures who companion, hold, and nurture our deepest human selves, as only they can.
When my family returned to the US from India and Sri Lanka in the mid 60’s, my father was engaged as a mediator in the violent Sri Lankan conflicts which hadn’t formally escalated into war, but were headed in that direction.
There’s something in the way she moves…hahaha…beetles, that is…that transports me there. And I greet her loudly each time.
Brand new to the Upper West Side of NYC in the early 90’s, on my first spin around Central Park on my blades? On the southeast corner, a sturdy looking man in ‘walking gear’ called out “Looking good on those blades! Welcome to New York!” and motioned me to come over. Inner knowing chuckling ‘This is why I moved here, I want my world to be bigger and bigger’….I stopped.
Yesterday morning my hummingbirds were breakfasting and flitting about, when a giant hawk swooped in.
Squirrels are gatherers. When one crosses one’s path, gathering is the message. Yesterday this one sat next to me and together we looked out. What are we to gather? On this first day of Lent? With spring on its way and the sun rising?
For years I have sat on the receiving end of phone calls of people in crisis/distress/sadness. I do not solicit, I am found, and in these times I am found A LOT.
Once there was a girl who grew up in a distant land, in a boarding school, who longed for her parents, her family, a home. In the absence of all, she grew a relationship with nature, with creatures, with trees, with the wind and with God.
shifting spot, as one walks along the marina towards the open sea, where suddenly a waft of fishiness, mixed with salty dense sea air, mists in and I beam through time and space to Honfleur.
in a moment of birds cheeping while the rain pitter pattered, a piercing animal scream and a chorus of coyotes yipping, shocked me into full alert.
But if only a brilliant undeniably heaven sent cloud would appear with golden light blasting out sparkles spelling the message:
Flustra. Flustra. Flustra. Where oh where have you been all my life?
I discovered this note written to self, now seven more years plus a few weeks ago. Mothers. My Mother. Who would we be without the wounding and the love? The Love. The Knowing. The Lineage.
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.
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
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
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.