A Vibrant Stitch

It is a vibrant stitch - a hem between the heavens and me. 

Sometimes the cloth here is as crude as burlap. The needle pierces the skin, and the thread snags and tangles. And the more I whine and weep about it, the deeper into the misery I drop, and the further I am from the other side. 

The other side is one of surrender, light, and mystery. Always, the fabric from the blessed source of all LOVE is warm, inviting, and vibrating. The needle soars and swims and slips with ease and reverence and joy. It is a tapestry woven with lines of rainbow light. This place is spacious. It is thin, as forgiving as linen, as fine as cotton, as sheer as song and color and fog. The more I lift my attention to the Infinite and invisible, the ethereal!, the longer and wiser and more luminous my threadline, the hem within me, the hem between me and the heavenly!

I am the light.

Sunbeams slant through open sky, slip and seep through fluttering golden leaves, and peek through panes of old glass before settling upon the wide, pine-planked floorboards where I sit in meditation. 

In my soft box of light, I narrate my breathing, In...Out...In...Out... Soon, I am focusing on the breath rather than observing the breath, and before I can slow it down, it becomes like a runaway, run-on sentence, going and going until I am gasping, leaping, tumbling, and landing onto the grassy meadow of my consciousness. 

I let go. 

I become still. 

I breathe. 

Then I pray, Empty me and fill me with light. 

For several minutes, I pray this plea. Empty me and fill me with light.

Then, within me, I hear, I am the light. 

As these words pour through me, a sunbeam, sudden and bold, bursts through space to shine upon my face. The sunbeam stays with me for a little while, whispering the warm words, I am the light.  I am the light. I am the light. I smile. Yes, the light is within me. The light is me. I have everything I need. I am everything I need. 

Offering of Song

I have been guided to the dark. I have been guided to the early morning. Perhaps it is the cycle of the seasons, the turning globe returning again to the cold—the winter homecoming. It is a time of resilience and grit. It is a time of soft hiding. It is a time of being alone. It is a time of gathering light, feeling gratitude for the light, and singing to the sun in the slim slips of day. A time of candlelight, bread, soup, and fire in the stove. It is a time of deep evolution. A cocoon from the cold.  A wide, warm womb.  

Come! This dog begs me every morning. Let's go and smell and move and breathe and be! He wakes me with a language of licking. He is as black as the rocks and trees in the pre-dawn woods. A shadow with shining eyes. A void. A dream. Before the birds and squirrels wake, we walk. It is quiet. My breath, my boots, his paws, and the early morning traffic from the highway down the hill are all I hear. The animals sleep while the earth radiates her essence like a delicate, invisible glow, a song I can't quite hear but know is there. A joyful, soulful hum. 

Sometimes songs come to me there, arriving in my belly and rising up and out of me.  Simple songs. Looping ones. There is a song about slowing down and one about the ocean. There is another about my sovereignty. I record them on my phone.  Place them there. Just as I might photograph something so I won't forget it. The act of recording anything tends to imprint it (an idea, image, or tune) deep within me. I suppose these songs are to share. Share with you. Share with myself many years from now.

I place them here as an offering. 

I went out ...

freedom

I went looking in the ocean ...

slow down

Black Madonna

I can stand on my own ...

Go look into the dark. You may find yourself there. And if you go there often and for long enough, you may also find a song. 

Ten Years Ago

You were born at 7:20 in the morning while a team of silent surgeons stood in the corner of our hospital room, their scalpels sharp and their gloved hands ready to cut you free from me so that you could breathe. I willed you out with every cell of my body and being. It was labor. Then it was bliss. The moment my body carried you to air and then to breast, I felt such relief. The weight of potential sorrow lifted, flew away on the wings of all the angels who had arrived to support us, to save us. Your birth was an ending and a beginning.  

Years later, I learned that you were the invitation for my evolution. 

It's time. Your soul whispered to mine. 

Oh my. This is all so terrifyingly big. Can I do this perfectly? My soul begged. 

Your soul hooted and hollered. HA! Absolutely not! You cannot and will not do this perfectly. And yet, in striving to be exceptional, you will become the person you seek to be. You will NOT be perfect. Neither will I. But the missteps are an earthly requirement. They are the lessons we are here to learn. But don't worry, there will also be plenty of joy and peace. We will take this time to evolve. And this stretching will set us both free. Just like your belly stretched while I slept and swam within you, our souls will stretch and eventually flow and soar.  One day, you will see that motherhood first begins with you. You will learn how to mother yourself with abundant acceptance, patience, and wisdom. You will learn how to find, love, and free your inner child. And in doing so, you will learn how to find, love, and free yourself.      

One

I am the soul 

   divine and eternal

I borrow the body 

   a temporary temple
I am one story 

   within the story of stories
I am one 

   one of the One.

Bliss is the Finish Line

I have run and swam and stitched along the lines of masters, seeking to be saved. I have looked through the glass of so many glowing windows. 

I am currently listening to the book The Surrender Experiment by Michael Alan Singer. On my bedside table is Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. I have recently finished Be Here Now by Ram Dass. I place this here not as a boastful pat on the back, but as a small gift for anyone looking for one. Small gifts of mention are how I find important books.

Bliss is the finish line, the ribbon to rip so that I may rest. Oil for the flame for the wick within. Soggy thoughts smother the flame. But I am here on the blessed Earth, learning. I am here to shine. I am here to burn and to be born and re-born and re-born, again, and again. I am here to sing and sob. I am here to save and be saved. I am here to be whole and holy. I am here to be being - blessed too and bright and light. I am here to remember my power and my surrender. I am here to accept the mystery and devote it all to the Divine. 

I write to unravel the twine within, the tight wrap around my heart - so that it is free to feel, and free to reach empty, authentic purity. 

The Summer of Re-Wilding

A weed is a plant that roots and blooms in the cultivated gardens and grasses of humans. Weeds are wild, germinating in the dirt, greeting and greening the earth. Weeds are spread by bugs and birds and wind. We humans don't like weeds because they remind us of our wildness, of our wilderness within. Weeds remind us of the wilderness of the universe. And so we seek to prune and pull and plant what pleases us. This summer, I have allowed the weeds to grow near me. Just to see. I've pulled away dry old dandelion greens and cleared the tallest stems from our walking path. But the rest is spreading, stretching, seeking sun, and singing. Did you know that clovers have small flowers? They look like yellow bells. 

This summer, I have roamed and run through the woods. I have found feathers and ferns and wildflowers. I have liberated the trees, which means that I have removed fallen dead wood from their branches. I have taken trash - beer cans, plastic bags, and old glass. I have found and photographed mushrooms. I have stepped into streams and sought sunbeams. I have loved the moss, and I have kissed trees. I have tripped over rocks and roots. I have slowed down and I have soared.  I have spoken to the squirrels. I have seen bears and deer, and one skunk. 

I saw a small turtle tumble down a waterfall. As she rolled by, splashing over moss and stone, I wondered if this was an intentional leap, a search for wisdom, adventure, supper, or a nest. I wondered if it was an accident, a sudden, scary slip. Then I wondered if it was everything all at once --- seeking, tumbling, and discovering! 

Oh, the wild. The wild! 

May you, gracious, gorgeous Mother Earth, be free to be wild. 

And may you then re-wild each one of us.