Thanksgiving

I am grateful for the little things that make life so meaningful:

Nourishment for body, mind and spirit

Family gatherings

Friends around the table

Conversations that draw me in

Sunshine after clouds

Earthy scents of fresh air

Flowing streams and ocean waves

Deep breaths that calm

Smiles of welcome

A full heart

 

The Wisdom of Bluebirds

                                                                ~Photo by June Schulte

My friend June took this photo of a Bluebird who was doing his best to deal with below-zero temperatures. When you live in Vermont and it is winter time, your options for keeping warm are limited. Recently, when the temperatures dipped well below freezing, this little guy perched on a branch above a heated bird bath for the duration. Puffing his feathers out, he created as much insulation from the cold as he could muster. 

I have been spending a lot of time with Florida's birds, none of whom seem to have any trouble accepting the warm and sometimes hot weather down here. Being so close to water most of the time, they can easily dip in and cool off if that is their desire. The ocean breezes help to keep things comfortable as well, for birds and for us.

This got me to thinking about how we protect ourselves from the extremes that challenge us - extremely hot or cold weather, emotional ups and downs, and more painfully, the tragedies that sometimes touch our lives. How do we insulate ourselves so that we have the protection we need? How do we ensure that we are not thrown too far off balance by the challenges that come our way?

Sometimes I wish I was like this little Bluebird and could puff up my feathers to create a soft cushion around me. Seeing him got me to thinking about what we humans can do for ourselves when the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune" whiz around our ears. What stands in the place of fluffy feathers for us?

Companionship is possibly the strongest protection we have. Family, friends, companion animals, co-workers, other folks who know something about what we are facing. Each of these offers support to us when we need it, and each offers different kinds of accompaniment, depending on their particular gifts and on our relationship with them. Some are good listeners, others offer deep wisdom, some are active and get us moving when we need that, while others are good cozy company when we need to curl up for awhile. 

For me, companionship also comes in the mysterious form of the Holy. Call this God, Spirit, All-That-Is - whatever strikes a chord with your own inner knowing. Even after years of ministering, and of praying my way through a humbling array of crises, the Holy shows up in my life, my mind and my heart in a wide variety of ways. Even now, a simple name does not manage to wrap this Presence up for me in any kind of authentic way. But I know I am held in this Holy Presence, always.

Quite some time ago when I was going through a rough patch, a dear friend guided me to imagine myself surrounded by rose colored light, she described it as an egg-shaped rose quartz. This was meant to provide protection from any outside elements that challenged me and also to be a source of strength so that I could face those challenges with courage. It helped, so I return to this practice whenever I feel the need for a little extra protection, a little extra courage. 

When I surround myself with this light, I feel the presence of all of my companions in life - the mysterious presence of God, Spirit, All-That-Is and the earthier presence of dear family and friends. In this way, I feel held in Love. As I get ready to take whatever step seems the next right thing to do, I am held in Love. If I need to curl up and sit tight for a while as the sweet Bluebird in this picture is doing, I can do that with a sense of peace. Knowing that no matter what, the love of family, friends and the Holy surrounds me now and always, gently guiding me, never judging, always holding me close.

My Seagull Friend

I was sitting on the beach yesterday, reading a book and minding my own business when this young seagull alighted on the sand a few feet away from me. I turned to look at him, smiled and said something like "I don't have anything for you, buddy," knowing that gulls are often drawn in when a person is eating, but demonstrating that I did not have any food for him or for me.  

I returned to reading my book at which point he took a few steps toward me. When I looked up from my book to take a closer look at him, he looked at me, all innocence. He was young, I could tell that because his head still had the scattering of light brown spots that gulls have for their first year or so. He was so close I could see his yellow legs and noticed the rubbery, slightly grubby texture of them, like a child's toy that had been dragged from place to place accumulating a bit of dirt along the way. 

We looked at each other for a while longer. He took breaks to poke his beak into his shoulder feathers and satisfy an itch, while I glanced back at my book now and then. My book was good, but to be honest it could not compete with the proximity of my seagull friend who persisted in standing at my shoulder, sneaking closer step by step when he thought I wasn't looking.

As he crept nearer, I got a chance to see his beak close up, and was careful to keep my hands tucked in my lap, unsure just how far our friendship would take us, not knowing what role a beak plays in seagull-human relationships. He might think he was just reaching out with a friendly gesture, while for me it could result in a painful nip. At this point, he bent his head down toward the sand and started to screech. "Gosh, his mouth is absolutely bright orange!" I noticed as he verbalized his frustration. 

He flew off and landed a little ways down the beach. I thought that was probably the end of our little encounter, but after a minute or two of poking around the sand down there, he flew back to his sentry post at my shoulder. He looked me in the eye as if to re-establish our rapport, and took a few steps toward me again. At that point he looked away. It seemed studied to me, as if he was attempting to adopt a carefree attitude about whether I was glad to see him or not.

"How are you doing, buddy?" I asked, wanting to put him at ease and reassure him of our continuing bond. I started wondering if he might have been one of those young gulls I saw just days after hatching on Monhegan Island back in June. Gary had returned to his seat next to me by then so together we wondered about gulls and migration. Would a gull born in Maine make his way to Florida for the winter? I had no idea, but I was trying to make sense of the interest this young guy was showing toward me.

For the next hour or so he continued to stand nearby watching me intently, sometimes taking breaks to fly off down the beach for an interaction with another gull, or to shake off some of the excess energy he must have been building up by standing at my shoulder for so long. But he kept coming back.

When it came time for Gary and I to leave I felt like I was abandoning a friend. I assumed he would fly off when we stood up and started packing up our chairs, but no, he stood right there watching us. Even as we walked away, offering encouragement as we left. I worried that he would stand there and watch us until we were out of sight. My heart was already feeling sad at leaving him, and I didn't think I could take it if he kept looking at me so intently. 

When we were about ten feet away, he started moving as if to follow us, but then stopped at a pile of seaweed and started picking it apart, looking for something to eat, I assume. Seeing that he had something new to hold his attention, I felt more comfortable leaving. "Maybe we will see you another day, buddy!" I called out, and who knows, maybe we will?

 

...And Every One, Unique

Gary and I arrived at one of our favorite beaches at low tide the other day. The sheer quantity of shells caught my breath. Searching for shells under normal conditions, when they are scattered sparsely across the wide sandy landscape, is one thing. It becomes something very different when you are confronted with such an abundance of riches. 

You may have noticed that when you are looking for shells on a beach, it is the rare ones that capture your attention. Shells seem to lose their cache' when surrounded by seemingly thousands of lookalikes. Ironically, and sadly to my mind, this is true even of colorful and intriguingly shaped ones. 

To counteract this, I find that I want to appreciate each shell for itself, for the beauty it offers in the pattern of color that sweeps across it, or the unique design of the material from which it is formed. This became more of a possibility for me today when we again arrived at the beach at low tide. Instead of setting up my fitness device to start measuring steps as I usually do, I made the conscious decision not to think of this as a form of exercise. 

I simply started walking. Actually, I started wandering down the shoreline where the waves were receding. As one does in meditation, I cultivated a soft gaze. I was not actively looking for anything, I was simply opening myself up to the time and place, availing myself of the opportunity to take in whatever caught my attention. 

As I walked, I felt peaceful. I didn't feel the need to rush or to arrive at some particular destination. The shells shone up at me from the sand, and I felt like I really saw each one. I noticed colors and shapes. I stopped often to pick up a shell that seemed especially interesting so that I could feel its texture. Some were brittle and paper thin, which others had what seemed to be years worth of accumulation built up on the original shell. Some were intact while others were mere fragments of their former selves, having been pounded by the relentless waves tossing them up on the shore and drawing them back into the water over and over again.

The uniqueness of each shell reminded me of the value of seeing myself and others as I was learning to see and appreciate the shells, as unique and beautiful. This is true even if we are a bit brittle or broken at times. That soft gaze I spoke of at the beginning of my walk, the one I learned in meditation, helps me look at myself and others with the eyes of the heart rather than just in physical terms. This is probably the best gift we can give each other. It is also a pretty amazing gift we can give to ourselves, to see and recognize the unique beauty we bring to the world around us.