Saturday, November 9, 2024
We Hold These Truths to be Self-Evident
Wednesday, November 6, 2024
Bluebird on a Blue Day
The news today was not good for those who believe in truth, justice or mutual respect, and so I knew I needed to tread gently. The details that make up my mornings are designed to keep me on an even keel. Sit quietly with my tea and cats, meditate, read, do some puzzles. The weather was unexpectedly warm for November so I was able to sit in my rocking chair on the porch. The breezes felt so good. The sun steadily climbing in the sky shone warmly, enticing me to venture out on an early walk.
I filled my water bottle and made my way to the small stream in the woods behind my home, stopping there to pay my respects. As I offered prayers of gratitude to each direction and to a stream that was underground for the season, I knew myself to be a part of something larger than myself. The broad expanse of sky reminded me that there are certainly perspectives larger than my own. I felt myself starting to lean into that truth. I can only see the small part of truth and reality that are revealed to my own eyes and understanding.
I offered one last prayer and then stood up to start walking up the familiar dirt road. Just up the road a bit, a flicker of blue flew from one tree to another. There have been quite a few bluejays around lately, so I assumed it was one of them at first. But almost as soon as I came to that conclusion, the bird flew across the road in front of me, and then flitted from one branch to another, until I saw enough to realize this was a bluebird. At that, it landed on a branch well within my sight and turned to look at me, showing me its rusty rose-colored breast in the process, which clinched it's identification.
"Thank you," I said, holding eye contact for a while. "Thank you."
As I continued on my walk, a smile came to me, despite my gloomy thoughts. "I think I have just witnessed a bluebird of happiness trying to get my attention. I think that's a pretty good sign."
Wednesday, July 24, 2024
Hope Is a Dangerously Good Thing
Wednesday, July 10, 2024
The Injustice of Immunity
I am not equipped to go into the long and painful history of our country's unravelling, and of the root causes of the dissociative state we find ourselves in with regard to reality. But what I will say is that we cannot stand by and just watch this play out. We need to speak up wherever and whenever we can, adding our voices to those who are willing to say we have lost our way as a country and as a people.
We need to teach our children and our politicians that there IS such a thing as "truth", and that truth is universal. Truth cannot be tamed or manipulated. We as a country need to find our way back to the honest truth - of what is just and fair, as well as the truth of what simply IS.
Jesus said "the truth will set you free". Personally, I would like to be free again, and this is my wish for all of us. The irony is, that while you and I feel less and less free, a convicted criminal is not only running free, but he is running for president. Until this great injustice is corrected, until everyone stands back on equal footing in this "land of the free and home of the brave", none of us is truly free.
Thursday, June 27, 2024
Capturing the Scent of Well-Being
I am a part of a writing group that receives prompts each month from the librarian on Monhegan Island, a place that I return to twice yearly, and find soothing to my sense of well-being. In June, Mia asked us to send scents to each other. Most of us, despite good intentions, did not manage to do this.
But the idea of the prompt took hold of me, and while I was sitting in Gull Cove, one of my favorite places on the island, I was inspired to write about a scent that pursues me, and that I, in turn, pursue. I was nestled in a crevice in the great rocks that overlook the ocean there, comfortably supported by the warm rock, cooled by the wind, and energized by the nearby crashing waves.
It is subtle here - not as pronounced as I have experienced its cousins in other places. You have to breathe deeply, and it only comes to you at the very tail end of your breath - a small tease inviting you to try again to more fully capture its essence.
But each breath can only do so much, can only bring in air until your lungs are full, then, no more. And no matter how deep, no matter how prolonged and drawn out, no matter how fast or painstakingly slow, each breath can only offer that almost imperceptible jewel - the elusively subtle sea-salt air that is particular to Monhegan.
It is so different from the scents of Cape Cod that hit as you drive over the Sagamore, or the boisterous boardwalk-infused sea air of the Jersey Shore or even of Florida’s sun-baked beaches. Monhegan’s sea air is more retiring, unwilling to flaunt itself, and in its rarity, all the more precious.
Wishing I could capture it on a cotton ball or in a paper cup, or send it to myself in an envelope marked “Special Delivery”, I take another breath, in the hopes that I might be able call this scent to mind when I return home.
Friday, April 26, 2024
Blind Justice
Thursday, March 28, 2024
Not Knowing
I should have known that the Universe would set out to solidify this learning experience.
There is work going on at the condo in which Gary and I are living at the moment. We have been dealing with obnoxious sounds of drills and the toxic fumes of paints and solvents for the past few months. But now the ante has been upped. Today, or tomorrow, the painters will start sealing and then refinishing the walkways outside our door. Once they begin, we will not be able to leave or come back to the apartment between 8:30am and 3:30pm. This will be true for the full three days that it takes to complete the process.
Did you catch that I said "today or tomorrow"? That's because the process depends on the weather, and it might rain today, so the site supervisor has to decide whether to start today or wait until tomorrow.
Those of us who live on this floor are having a hard time with the uncertainty of it. One neighbor had a delivery of sheet rock scheduled which they had to cancel, and may have to wait to have delivered after the flooring material has fully set - at least a week from now. Another neighbor has an appointment for her drapes to be cleaned at 11. She is waiting to see if they start the walkway or not before she cancels. I am waiting too. I finally found a new home for an old sofa we have, and the thrift shop folks are coming to get it at 1pm today... or not.
Gary and I plan to leave Florida for our trip back to Vermont on Wednesday, but we may not be able to roll heavy things on the new floor by then if it rains today and the workmen don't start working on the walkways until tomorrow. Oh, and there is also a new futon we are supposed to pick up and bring into the apartment on Tuesday, which may or may not be too heavy to roll over the new and still curing floors.
Suffice it to say that there is a whole lot of uncertainty in the air here. As a result, I have the golden opportunity to really work my meditation practice hard as I attempt to be present with what is rather than worrying about all of the possibilities that might be. I don't feel up to the task, but I actually don't have a choice, so here I am, waiting, and breathing as slowly and steadily as I can manage.