Maxfield Parrish was out painting the sky this morning. The softest hues of blues and pinks and oranges emerged, bigger than life overhead - surreal and so inviting. The heavens glowing like I’ve never seen before…ever. We’d had a muscle-bound-gale blow thru last night followed by crushing rain… and the sky this morning was bunched with clouds of every shape -and the color! Slate grey infused with chalk powder pastels infused with scattered glitter.
I found myself wanting to stand on the very edge of one of those sturdy billowing vapors, my arms outstretched; the celestial breezes lifting my hair from my face and sashaying the cotton of my dress against my legs, ribbons tied at my waist, fluttering about. I could feel that space… and I longed for my feet to stand upon the soft edge of that cloud’s rim.
I had the pleasure of Maxfield Parrish’s “Ecstasy” hanging above the piano in one of my homes so many years ago. It was the first image that greeted me, coming down the hall each morning. And like all great photos of women, I imagine that I am she. All these years, I am the woman in the painting. And today I entered that great and beautiful print of his, like it had always been drawn for me…and I took my place in it.
While the sky was Parrish’s, the ground undeniably belonged to Norman Rockwell… carts and trailers and tractors parked and hunkered in driveways and down orchard roads. The orchards themselves bloomed while I was away at the coast this weekend, and I was smitten by acres upon acres of lightly adorned trees in white and luminous pink…like so many debutantes dressing for The Ball. Across the road another orchard, its petals chalked in maroon…looking more like a trillion snowflakes dipped in Merlot…
A little further on, I watched a boy about twelve, get out of a car and walk toward his waiting school bus; as he climbed the steps, he turned and waved to the woman behind the wheel of the car… and my heart skipped a beat as I watched my own boy heading down the walkway each morning, turning to wave, ‘I love you infinity pi and beyond,’ he would sing out, and I returned his wave with my own heart, loving the sound of his voice; amazed that this boy was mine.
I am forever surprised when I get pulled thru time like this, without warning, no moments to prepare, just there…coming at me…through me…time disappears, and I enter into what-has-years-now-passed... while remaining inside what is... and sometimes? standing squarely within what’s yet to come.
I slipped my hand into the hand of my favorite three-year-old last weekend and I didn’t want to let go. We were looking at the day through his eyes. His beautiful golden-brown-green eyes…and sometimes brown with a hint of blue. I cannot get enough of his face. His intellect is reminiscent of my trips to table-top-mountain… vast, innocent, stunning... he is springtime in full bloom, colorful, perfect…everything new. Each insight he shared with me, pure; and his response to my questions, rarely what I thought he might say. His eye is clear, his perception honest. I will follow him anywhere. He is my Forrest…part angel, part boy, son and brother. I know he chose to come, and he comes with purpose. As we all do.
I was pulled back to Parrish’s artwork above me and wondered if that talented man dreamed his paintings when he was a child, so beautiful, clear and unencumbered they are… and if Forrest took brush to canvas, I thought their styles could be similar. …but for now, he circles his ‘F’ and tells me “it’s an F to me.” …farther on, we saw a sign in a window and he stopped short and said with quiet confidence, “that’s a ‘B’ to you." ...for I am his grandma B.
We climbed a mountain together to throw our rocks out as far as we could -an incline that he clamored up with hands and feet; and having emptied our pockets of the collected stones and thrown them with whoops, hollars and great gusto, he leaped fearlessly from the edge of his mountain, tumbled about, and regaining his feet dashed off to see the horses we’d been approaching… I leaped too, because I haven’t leaped in a long, long while. I wondered what it would be like to leap from the edge of that cloud’s rim…I was sure in my momentary revelry that if he and I were holding hands, Forrie would leap right along with me…eyes sparkling, his beautiful smile set on ‘come on grandma B, let’s go!’
There is not an element in nature that doesn’t touch me, speak to me, move through me…like we are sisters, mothers, friends, lovers…and when I am willing to be open to it, I feel that element in people I meet, and in those I know well.
Every person I've met who seems to have this connection, this 'vibration' with others tells me stories of their dramatic connection with nature. A friend of mine told me that as a child he roamed the woods, forests, meadows and open land. He told me he once lay in a field and became so still that he could hear the pine cones opening. This endeared him to me on the spot.
...and so I find it relevant that recently I’ve read and seem to hear from unexpected encounters and surprising sources, that sound came first. Before anything else. The Universe’s first sigh. And I realized that I’ve never thought about what might have come first; I think my best guess was that it was quiet first...but because this information continues to present itself to me, I listen. Consequently, sound is becoming so clear to me, the vibration of it joining my own.
I say music speaks to me, sometimes more than I can bear...and the wind and breezes and blustery days? They. set. me. free! Tibetan bowls wrap me in their loving hymns; and the voices of children and loved ones bring me to higher awarenesses, where I feel I might burst wide open. I find I cannot live without them. Any of them.
So I know without hesitation, that standing on the brilliant rim of the clouds above me will fill me with the sounds of the sky! whose melodies... so perfect, rich and complete, will breathe ...in-rhythm, in-time, in-sync... with my own remarkable breaths… and I will want to stay, standing in the sky, for a long-long time.
Love-love,
your Wildflower
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
A Hurricane of Grace
Both December and January in NorCal are committed to rain and fog. It’s like these months take vows. Rain and fog are camped-in tight, and I don’t see them even thinking about moving on. They accompany, surround and engulf me on the road day after day. It’s not gloomy really; instead there are elements of cozy and mystery.
Alternately, when I drive at night, it’s terrifying. I lose sight. The world closes in to random, tiny, scattered pinpoints; I am alone, and the ‘way’ seems invisible. My heart races, panic scratches at my edges, and I search with eyes wide open for familiarity on this road I’ve come to know so well. But familiarity does not show itself.
This morning the fog hung close and thick, like an eternity of dull, wet silk, and it covered every nook and cranny of the earth. I could barely see past the hood of my car and my little car is only as long as I am tall. The world emerged literally in increments, white line by white line, and branch by branch, as orchards shrouded in vagueness, passed my windows. And I thought how like my life it all is.
I’ve changed so much in the past fifteen years. I use to want to help fix everyone’s misery. I ached with people. I sat and cried with them. I raged alongside their rage. I wished I had a magic wand; I knew with magic I could really make a difference. But I realized that my answers are not necessarily someone else’s solution; my magic would be the sole expression of my perceptions. When I got that simple principle, it was like I was on the inside – instead of the outside, looking in. So much became clear.
I still ache with you, cry and weep alongside you when the world is upside down. And I will draw my sword for you. Lately I have felt the utter brokenness of a sister and I am angry at the doers; I have felt the deep anguish of a precious daughter and I am furious at the monster; I walk alongside a son lending support to the unthinkable unanswered unknowns and I see my fear; and I watch and listen while a beautiful younger daughter is on an inner journey of self discovery and colossal efforts to go where the rest of us will not, while the elements of it may be possibly manifesting physically…and I am awash with… my-cup-runn’th-over-with…respect for each of their spirits and strength, for their ability move forward.
For myself, I seem to have entered into a new way to process, a phenomena of 'floating' when so much difficult information comes forward to meet me. It’s both weird and peaceful. It’s like I separate. And I can feel myself feel the feeling of floating. The grace of this floaty mind place, is that I am removed from... well, 'imagining' slapping one of the doers, not 'terrified' about life expectancies; not ‘angry’ at the monster, or needing to ‘hover, fix and soothe’ while discoveries are being sought and bodies healed.
Instead, I float.
And I thought about that going down the road seeing things emerge, ghost-like out of the fog; things I knew were there, but couldn’t see, and I was relieved and reassured as they appeared, that I was where I should be…or else realized I was nowhere where I thought I was, yet. This floaty mind space is like that. Inch by inch something will emerge and sort itself out… a conversation that sheds light, [between any of us]; and my family circles, as we do, around each other, offering love and support, tears, comfort…shared emotions and a renewed gathering of our wits to go on. A crack in the fog, a wisp of clarity, a glimpse at sanity.
Dr Hawkins talks about living on the edge of experience. Witnessing it, literally on the edge. Seeing it -while being it -while living it. Its tricky. Takes practice, focus. Then losing yourself in it. Then flying with it. Well I’m currently floating…sort of above and around the experience. Not detached, because I am definitely connected…sometimes the connection feels like a hurricane of current wildly coursing thru every vein, limb and skin cell…and I think I will explode, with sword drawn, into the faces of the evil doers. Maybe that’s why the rest of the time I’m floating, floating on a tidal wave… floating into outer space, as talented Mr. Martin so aptly sings it.
My higher self does not embrace explosions. It simply won’t engage, so I continue to mediate, start my day with intention, breathe in goodness...
I float with purpose to my work place and with barely a conscious effort, find something to love in every person I encounter and this gentle purpose seemingly gives way to a few pieces resolving themselves on the landscape of my heart… and with it, a little of the confusion/pain/fear/anger leaves me. So I think it’s good. I am mentally clear, efficient at work, happy and loving... and nothing seems strained or 'forced.' So I'm good with it.
Someone I love said, ‘And again, a big difference between us - your capacity to work on forgiveness when I ask myself WHY? I want to think about the 'why make the effort' of forgiving. Why not just forget the person who causes the pain ... and I mean total rejection kind of forgetting.’
I think I’m tired of the word forgiveness. “We must forgive this and that person…we’re told to ask for forgiveness…and to forgive ourselves.” What I do is try to understand. In understanding one another I find answers, then peace. I am inspired and nourished by spirituality, by the great thinkers and mentors and saviors. I listen to those who know more than I. I read and pray and believe in the goodness inside each of us. I believe divinity flows through every living thing. I believe in nature. It’s pure. It holds abundant beauty, freedom and answers. It flows. It’s also wild and unruly…when it kicks up its heels, it’s a force without boundaries –I love that!
And don’t we all believe that the universe…the great-big-giant-scheme-of-things…timeless wisdom… that ‘evolved knowingness’ that so far-surpasses my own,…. knows something that I don’t? Aren’t today’s lessons and pains and anguish and trouble…the miracles that are waiting to heal us?
And so I float until I can get it.
Love is always the center. I have spoken those words to my children since they were old enough to hear. I said it long before I knew what I was talking about. I said it because I felt it. Believed it. Knew it. Why is it so hard to live it now? Why is my sword drawn?
Momma came to visit last night after composing this entry. Usually she comes as a soft light off to my left, comforting, quiet, steady. Last night she flickered with intensity. Sparring, if you will. I felt her sword was drawn, too; because she knows the monster. And I liked that a lot. That I imagined her sword was drawn. Momma was a quiet, self-less warrior, we've all said that at one point or another.
Combining the two loves of my life…spiritually and nature, I must say my friends, right now I am a Wild Flower in need of a ‘hurricane of grace.’
…with hope, trust, peace and joy, I await the sunshine on my face, fragrant breezes in my hair, my hand inside your hands, and a gentle release from that which has me floating.
Namaste
Wildflower
Alternately, when I drive at night, it’s terrifying. I lose sight. The world closes in to random, tiny, scattered pinpoints; I am alone, and the ‘way’ seems invisible. My heart races, panic scratches at my edges, and I search with eyes wide open for familiarity on this road I’ve come to know so well. But familiarity does not show itself.
This morning the fog hung close and thick, like an eternity of dull, wet silk, and it covered every nook and cranny of the earth. I could barely see past the hood of my car and my little car is only as long as I am tall. The world emerged literally in increments, white line by white line, and branch by branch, as orchards shrouded in vagueness, passed my windows. And I thought how like my life it all is.
I’ve changed so much in the past fifteen years. I use to want to help fix everyone’s misery. I ached with people. I sat and cried with them. I raged alongside their rage. I wished I had a magic wand; I knew with magic I could really make a difference. But I realized that my answers are not necessarily someone else’s solution; my magic would be the sole expression of my perceptions. When I got that simple principle, it was like I was on the inside – instead of the outside, looking in. So much became clear.
I still ache with you, cry and weep alongside you when the world is upside down. And I will draw my sword for you. Lately I have felt the utter brokenness of a sister and I am angry at the doers; I have felt the deep anguish of a precious daughter and I am furious at the monster; I walk alongside a son lending support to the unthinkable unanswered unknowns and I see my fear; and I watch and listen while a beautiful younger daughter is on an inner journey of self discovery and colossal efforts to go where the rest of us will not, while the elements of it may be possibly manifesting physically…and I am awash with… my-cup-runn’th-over-with…respect for each of their spirits and strength, for their ability move forward.
For myself, I seem to have entered into a new way to process, a phenomena of 'floating' when so much difficult information comes forward to meet me. It’s both weird and peaceful. It’s like I separate. And I can feel myself feel the feeling of floating. The grace of this floaty mind place, is that I am removed from... well, 'imagining' slapping one of the doers, not 'terrified' about life expectancies; not ‘angry’ at the monster, or needing to ‘hover, fix and soothe’ while discoveries are being sought and bodies healed.
Instead, I float.
And I thought about that going down the road seeing things emerge, ghost-like out of the fog; things I knew were there, but couldn’t see, and I was relieved and reassured as they appeared, that I was where I should be…or else realized I was nowhere where I thought I was, yet. This floaty mind space is like that. Inch by inch something will emerge and sort itself out… a conversation that sheds light, [between any of us]; and my family circles, as we do, around each other, offering love and support, tears, comfort…shared emotions and a renewed gathering of our wits to go on. A crack in the fog, a wisp of clarity, a glimpse at sanity.
Dr Hawkins talks about living on the edge of experience. Witnessing it, literally on the edge. Seeing it -while being it -while living it. Its tricky. Takes practice, focus. Then losing yourself in it. Then flying with it. Well I’m currently floating…sort of above and around the experience. Not detached, because I am definitely connected…sometimes the connection feels like a hurricane of current wildly coursing thru every vein, limb and skin cell…and I think I will explode, with sword drawn, into the faces of the evil doers. Maybe that’s why the rest of the time I’m floating, floating on a tidal wave… floating into outer space, as talented Mr. Martin so aptly sings it.
My higher self does not embrace explosions. It simply won’t engage, so I continue to mediate, start my day with intention, breathe in goodness...
I float with purpose to my work place and with barely a conscious effort, find something to love in every person I encounter and this gentle purpose seemingly gives way to a few pieces resolving themselves on the landscape of my heart… and with it, a little of the confusion/pain/fear/anger leaves me. So I think it’s good. I am mentally clear, efficient at work, happy and loving... and nothing seems strained or 'forced.' So I'm good with it.
Someone I love said, ‘And again, a big difference between us - your capacity to work on forgiveness when I ask myself WHY? I want to think about the 'why make the effort' of forgiving. Why not just forget the person who causes the pain ... and I mean total rejection kind of forgetting.’
I think I’m tired of the word forgiveness. “We must forgive this and that person…we’re told to ask for forgiveness…and to forgive ourselves.” What I do is try to understand. In understanding one another I find answers, then peace. I am inspired and nourished by spirituality, by the great thinkers and mentors and saviors. I listen to those who know more than I. I read and pray and believe in the goodness inside each of us. I believe divinity flows through every living thing. I believe in nature. It’s pure. It holds abundant beauty, freedom and answers. It flows. It’s also wild and unruly…when it kicks up its heels, it’s a force without boundaries –I love that!
And don’t we all believe that the universe…the great-big-giant-scheme-of-things…timeless wisdom… that ‘evolved knowingness’ that so far-surpasses my own,…. knows something that I don’t? Aren’t today’s lessons and pains and anguish and trouble…the miracles that are waiting to heal us?
And so I float until I can get it.
Love is always the center. I have spoken those words to my children since they were old enough to hear. I said it long before I knew what I was talking about. I said it because I felt it. Believed it. Knew it. Why is it so hard to live it now? Why is my sword drawn?
Momma came to visit last night after composing this entry. Usually she comes as a soft light off to my left, comforting, quiet, steady. Last night she flickered with intensity. Sparring, if you will. I felt her sword was drawn, too; because she knows the monster. And I liked that a lot. That I imagined her sword was drawn. Momma was a quiet, self-less warrior, we've all said that at one point or another.
Combining the two loves of my life…spiritually and nature, I must say my friends, right now I am a Wild Flower in need of a ‘hurricane of grace.’
…with hope, trust, peace and joy, I await the sunshine on my face, fragrant breezes in my hair, my hand inside your hands, and a gentle release from that which has me floating.
Namaste
Wildflower
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