Lena's Gifts

hello darkness my old friend

2011-03-28T19:12:00.001-04:00

Earth Hour 2011

No lights on for an hour. Illuminating my way through my rooms with a beautiful candle made for me by the young sweet Amelia. Feeling embraced by the darkness inside and outside my home and across the world. All we needed to do is turn off our electric lights.

How much of what we have is so much more than is needed. Too much light. Too much noise. Too much tv. Too many papers and boxes and books and things.

The quiet and the darkness allow me to consider what I do have, and what are my true needs. To be with family, in spirit when not in person. To be healthy.

The tragedy at Fukushima and throughout the Sendai area, now the poisons that are seeping to harm many more. But mostly the devastation from the initial earthquake's tsunami is what has affected me so deeply. To lose everything, every piece of furniture, every part of one's home, and, most especially, to lose family members, neighbors, the entire town itself. All gone, in an instant.

And then to begin again. From one's own being, one's own life.

earthquake & tsunami in japan

2011-03-13T09:59:00.018-04:00

The Russians of Pavel Lebedev-Lastochkin in Japan, with their ships tossed inland by a tsunami, meeting Japanese in 1779.

My son is in touch with people on his Papa's street who say that now water is becoming scarce, electricity is being rationed, rolling blackouts are in place. There are food shortages in the stores. There are aftershocks every 30 minutes. And this is Tokyo, as opposed to the Sendai area where there is completely terrible devastation and now radiation leaks.
Kohei opened Skype on the first morning and reached his aunt by an old phone number, a landline that has been connected at the location, even with completely rebuilt houses, since the 1960's. She was amazed to hear his voice all the way from America, since the majority of cell phone connections in Japan were not working!
My daughter and I also reached family and friends quickly and those friends were in touch with others. We learned of family members staying overnight at their offices because of the trains immediately stopping. Others walked for many hours, 4 hours, 7 hours, to return to their homes. My son wrote on his own facebook page remembering the stories learned when he went to high school in Japan of the every-one-hundred-year tsumani.

When disaster strikes the first thing needed is to be in touch with close family and to know where everyone is, even if we can't be physically close to each other. What is amazing in the past generation or two is the amount of technology that allows us to contact so many within such a short period, minutes sometimes, or, at the most, a few hours.
I remember my Japanese exchange sister living with us when I was a senior in high school and in a whole year of living in the United States she talked with her mother once for exactly 3 minutes only, on New Year's Day. I remember that it cost $25, a huge amount at that time. She didn't talk with her again until she was back in Japan. Many letters of course, and care packages every few months of Japanese foods...but it was a very different time.

The news from Sendai is horrific, much worse than we originally heard, but Tokyo with good planning and an incredible 1 minute warning system with texts to phones allowed people to take precautions, for trains to be halted, for production lines to be stopped. NHK TV broadcast streaming was also enabled for all cellphones. In spite of the thousands who are missing and feared dead in Japan, without these systems in place, there would be many thousands more who would not be so amazingly spared. Still, there continue to be frightening aftershocks and many people were scared to fall asleep after the first day.

I know the Japanese government is mobilizing with great care, and there are international rescue teams who have arrived in Japan, including from New Zealand's own recent disaster. I am amazed and admiring of these supporting individuals who use their talents to help others far away.

For the people who walked hours to return home,the Family Mart stores (like 7-11s) opened their employee bathrooms for all the walkers and gave away free water for the people passing by. There has been no pushing, no looting even in Fukushima Prefecture, where the now homeless residents line up and wait patiently for the government water and supplies.

One family member was travelling in Asia, and he returned on Sunday, two days after the 8.9 magnitude quake. His next-door brother and nephew and downstairs neighbor had come to the house and cleaned up the initial mess (the house completely intact, well built by the earthquake standards, and this area was not affected by the raging tsunami), but glass dishes had fallen out of cabinets and broken, and many table top items were all over the floor. He wrote:

Tonight I do not feel to clean up more. Small glasses are still everywhere. So I have to put slippers. Before I came back, Otsune Ojisan and Kazutami came to the house and cleanup. However I still have to work many things. I do feel not to work today. I just watch TV and go to sleep.

He mentioned that valued Chinese medicinal liqueurs containing healing snakes had broken, so the floor smelled of liquor. His brother who cleaned up before he returned gathered up the snakes and put them in a dish at the end of his bed. He was debating whether to eat the snakes or give them a grand ceremonial burial.

So many emotions to hear of this disaster and to watch the specific and individual many tragedies. Always the solace in gathering with our closest, and of hearing of the safety of those who are across the globe.

after the earthquake

tonight

2010-12-20T18:18:00.003-05:00

Courtesy of NPR - photograph by Karim Jaafar/AFP/Getty Image

Walking home, a young man, who lives on my street, told me that Constantinople fell on a winter solstice lunar eclipse, among many other significant events.

I wonder what will happen tonight.

new technology, a little joke from my little iphone

2010-09-05T09:48:00.002-04:00

After two months enjoying!!! my new iphone, I was working at my regular desk top computer, looking at a page on the web.

The screen display font was too small, so I reached over to the screen and with the spreading fingers motion, tried to enlarge the item I was viewing. I was startled that nothing happened, then burst out laughing at the transfer of expectation to the (now old) computer technology.

sleep cycles and ancestry

2010-09-05T09:41:00.002-04:00

My sleep cycle has once again changed with a new decade of life.

When I wake in the middle of the night (usually at the 4-hour sleep cycle end), I actually enjoy my time -- either watch Jon Stewart -- recorded at 11, when I'm almost always asleep or about to fall asleep, or I read, or I get on the computer -- now my iphone -- for a half hour or so.

If I'm really sleepy, I'll warm some milk, maybe add some kahlua (yum) and take it back to bed with me. My cats are very patient with my new habits. When I go back to sleep, whether it is after a few minutes, or a half hour, or sometimes after a whole hour, I usually have another deep sleep for the (needed) period of time... I can't remember when it was last necessary to use an alarm clock -- if I need to wake up particularly early, I let my brain be aware of that (or drink a little bit extra the night before -- native american alarm clock style). It's me new older-woman schedule. I also consider it my naval schedule -- Ship's schedules had sailors sleeping 4 hours, awake 4 hours, sleep 4 hours, alternating watches. When I was little, my ambition was to go into the navy and sail around the world, before I found out women couldn't do that -- then when I turned 18 they could, but by that time.....Vietnam, and so many other callings to me.

Many sea captains, sailors' wives, lighthouse keepers, ship-makers in my ancestry. I honor them with my new sleep habits.

blueberry jam, my favorite favorite

2010-08-15T16:52:00.000-04:00

making jam at home....a delight.

summer storm

2010-07-20T01:35:00.001-04:00

The rain wakes me, I, now refreshed from my first four hours of sleep. Laying in my bed, the window wide open, listening listening loving the sound of the rain. It comes straight down; I am protected from its full force by the long overhang of my small home's roof. Yet the wind brings refreshing sprinkles onto my face. The gray cat is the one to share my excitement of this delicious weather. She remains on the inside window ledge, protected but close to the outside. I am at camp again, a child, in the woods, the sound of the heavy rain on the trees. A crack and the boom of the thunder telling me the lightening is likely close within my neighborhood.

I think of the creatures of my backyard, who do live in the outside, who find their overhangs to protect them, in the ground or among the bushes, or under some other protection, burrowed away until the storm will pass. And perhaps getting wet, but shaking off the rain with their protective coats. They know when to scurry under and then when to emerge. And they, too, perhaps, can return to sleep refreshed. It is the black & white cat, who actually spent a feral kittenhood in the wild and knows, she is the one to find her place hidden away, perhaps under the most protected bed, perhaps in another corner; I never see her during these storms.

The intense weather passes. It is quiet again, darkness all around. The water has refreshed us with its gifts of life and growth and sustenance. The electricity of the storm powerful, astounding. I am left grateful and content.

prayers for the planetary waters with the grandmothers on may 18, 2010

2010-05-23T20:44:00.003-04:00

We are Water Babies.

Do not to forget to say thank you every day for the water you drink,

the water you bathe in.

Without our Mother water we would not survive.

Grandmother Agnes Baker Pilgrim, Takelma Siletz, Oregon

reconnecting with earth 6 bringing it down to earth

2010-05-18T13:24:00.005-04:00

What are are next steps? What are my next steps? I will continue searching and implementing steps, even if small, each day.

From Genius of Nature by Janine Benyus, author of Biomimicry: Innovation Inspired by Nature:

On the spider web:
A spider makes silk (they make six kinds, and I'm talking about drag-line silk that frames the web) that is five times stronger, ounce for ounce, than steel. It's resilient and tough -- a true miracle fiber. Even more incredible, a spider uses flies and crickets as raw material and creates the fiber at body temperature (a life-friendly temperature), because the manufacturing plant is the spider's body. Furthermore, the fiber is biodegradable, so the spider can eat the web to make more web."

About the prairie:

The original pre-Columbian prairie was composed of 99.9 per cent perennial plants, hundreds of species in four categories: cool season grasses, warm season grasses, legumes, and composites. They held the soil, so not only didn't it bleed away, it was actually enriched over the years, and because the prairie was a mixture of species, it resisted pest attacks....Couldn't we redesign our agriculture in the prairie's image in this part of the world, and then look at other parts of the world and see what grows there naturally and follow that wisdom?

She cautions about our footfall. She writes, We in the United States take up about thirty acres of bioproductive land and sea per capita right now, and there are only five acres per person available globally.

It is not that the earth cannot sustain the population, it is that greed and imbalanced production geared to a small minority steals from the remaining, both human and non-human.

The Earth Charter [see http://www.earthcharterus.org/]

The Earth Charter is a declaration of fundamental ethical principles for building a just, sustainable and peaceful global society in the 21st century. It seeks to inspire in all people a new sense of global interdependence and shared responsibility for the well-being of the whole human family, the greater community of life, and future generations. It is a vision of hope and a call to action. The Earth Charter is a product of a decade-long, worldwide, cross cultural dialogue on common goals and shared values.
The Earth Charter is centrally concerned with the transition to sustainable ways of living and sustainable human development. Ecological integrity is one major theme. However, the Earth Charter recognizes that the goals of ecological protection, the eradication of poverty, equitable economic development, respect for human rights, democracy, and peace are interdependent and indivisible. It provides, therefore, a new, inclusive, integrated ethical framework to guide the transition to a sustainable future.

With appreciation to the Northwest Earth Institute for compiling the discussion course

See www.nwei.org for more information of call 503-227-2807

reconnecting with earth 5 ecopsychology

2010-05-05T07:19:00.013-04:00

canopy above us ~ a world we seldom see

In attempting to understand human foolish misbehaviour in terms of the environment, John Seed (Australian director of the Rainforest Information Center and co-creator of the Council of All Beings) explores the philosophy of deep ecology. He writes:

The fundamental problem is anthropocentrism or human centredness. We are obsessed with our self-importance...we blindly destroy the future for 10 million species so as to fill the world with humanity for a few generations more.

In deep ecology, the world is seen not as a pyramid with humans on top, but as a web. We humans are but one strand in that web and as we destroy other strands, we destroy ourselves.

Bill Plotkin (described as a wilderness guide, ecotherapist and depth psychologist) further emphasizes that children need nature, to explore freely in their own way the natural world: unsupervised play with peers in field and forest, with mud and stones and sticks, observing animals, birds, flowers, wind, snow, stars in order to grow into healthy, vibrant, creative human beings, fully belong to the world into which they were born and from which they were born. He emphasizes that this need, nature immersion, not only helps prevent modern maladies including depression, hyperactivity/attention deficit disorder, obesity, but that it is an essential dimension of human development to ensure creativity and rootedness in the earth community.

We can teach ourselves to be more aware
of our own mutual dependence.
As every living being wants happiness instead of pain,
we share a common basic feeling.
We can develop right action to help the earth and each other
based on a better motivation.
When we are motivated by wisdom and compassion,
the results of our actions benefit everyone,
not just our individual selves or some immediate convenience.
Words from the Dalai Lama

reconnecting with earth 4 the universe story

2010-05-04T15:05:00.006-04:00

Brian Swimme, founder of the Center for the Story of the Universe (what a name, yes?!), and author of The Universe is a Green Dragon, speaks of compassion as being a genetic mutation, allowing humans with a compassionate bond to better survive. First, the care or compassionate bond between mother and child evolved, then between siblings, then between kin groups.

He relates this compassion to gravitational attraction, which was essential to the beginning of the universe, the formation of the stars. This comprehensive compassion that pervades the universe is now beginning to surface within the consciousness of humanity. To extend this awareness, he recommends simply, to pay attention. He likes to use the phrase "the power of gawking," and references Chief Seattle who said, "if the animals were not here, we would die of loneliness."

Upon seeing the first deaths from the current Gulf oil tragedy, the giant turtles being tenderly inserted into small black body bags, the size of the turtles, how I ache for us all with this great loss.

reconnecting with earth 3 nature & spirit

2010-05-04T14:55:00.003-04:00

butter from cream

2010-05-02T21:06:00.002-04:00

reconnecting with earth 2 shifting paradigms

2010-04-21T09:16:00.011-04:00

When one tugs at a single thing in nature,
he finds it attached to the rest of the world.

John Muir

The titles of the articles we have been directed to read are in themselves wonderful phrases for contemplation:

Thinking Like a Mountain

The Web of Life

Deep Ecology and Lifestyle

The Gaia Hypothesis

Seeing the Whole at the Center

From the Mother Earth News article (May/June 1986):

....over the millennia the earth has somehow regulated its own temperature. When life began on our planet four billion years ago the sun was 30 percent cooler than it is today. Yet, from then until now, the temperature of the earth's surface has remained with the critical life-supporting range of 15 degrees to 30 degrees Celsius. The level of CO2 has dropped a hundred fold in those four billion years, reducing the "greenhouse" heating holding effect of the atmosphere even while the sun was radiating more heat. The result?

The earth has kept itself at a constant temperature ... just as our bodies do.

I find this astounding, and shows how the interaction of systems produces amazing results.

Another delightful reaction and example from nature: In an experiment, damaging bacteria were introduced to a limited number of trees at the far end of a forest. Almost immediately the trees at the opposite end of the forest, a significant distance from the affected trees, began producing antibodies against that threat.

building a garden (of life)

2010-04-14T09:15:00.006-04:00

lambs ear intermingling with the gifted rose from my son's wedding celebration

My backyard is my world. Now I am creating newly in my front yard. The more I embrace this wonderful space around me, the more I can learn from it and be guided and enriched by it. It provides me with animal life: the squirrels fat and brown of this town in all seasons, always busy, always aware. Coming to peek in my living room window at times. Fearless even with the crows, the cats, the bark of the dogs. The wonderful lumbering groundhogs -- there is a young one this year, scurrying fast. The old one, like the squirrels will come up to the back step and peer inside, wondering about the glass separating us. The raccoons visit, even nest, until I need to ask the animal man to come and capture him and clean out my eaves space -- the smell so strong he cannot breath well -- then needing the screen to prevent future nesting. The rabbits, usually unseen; my surprise at the baby bunny nesting on the edge of the road, next to my mailbox. The feral cats that leave their careful tracks in the snow beside the jumping tracks of the rabbit, enjoying the clear hospitality of the space under my parked car, free from the cold wet of the piled up snow from the night before. The birds, of course, bringing change and joy and song.

echinecea plants from my new daughter transplanted last fall

poking up through the grass

Now my emerging small garden, providing amazing memories from last year, with some plants intact, others expanding, others with unknown greens (weeds, they say) poking up -- my need is to clear the remaining packets of strong returning grass to make way this year for a new friend -- will it be beans or peas this year? Slowly slowly adding to this small space. I moved my carefully tended little trees last year, they seem to be thriving in the new location. I must anticipate their size and needs because they will create shade in the future that will prevent the possibility of other, especially vegetable, crops.

transplanted peonies from my grandmother (lena) & tulips from the backyard

The others in the group talk about travelling long distances - to Yellowstone, to Alaska -- or forty acres of land up north -- or a farm land of grazing cows and goats -- or the massive Matthaei Bontanical Gardens. But I am lucky with my land and my small homestead and the sun and trees that surround me and the moon that I can follow. This small space is becoming more and more my teacher.

Transcending hesitation:

Understand my intention with my heart. Build on the clarity of that intention.

Create a plan to proceed. Lists are good.

Follow that plan.

Seeing clearly, respond to the needs the garden itself presents to me.

wise words from Geri Larkin, Plant Seed, Pull Weed.

reconnecting with earth 1 wild nature

2010-04-13T13:08:00.005-04:00

The interconnectedness of everything, not just the living, but also the living parts of the past, on earth and above earth, seeing a miracle, said Loren Eiseley.

The badlands appear to be lifeless, but in fact hold all the particles of life:

carbon black on the stone, iron in the clays, phosphorus from brain, calcium from bones and teeth still intact.

The rocks are full of life, and can speak to us, not at all inanimate. They hold the history of the earth. The birds fly over the land that the humans have, for the most part, abandoned. It is all part of the whole, including the light from the moon illuminating all.

Intention:

To bring awareness of wildness into my life, more consistently and deeply.

To be aware of the secret of seeing.

To allow the discipline of clearing the mind that will give room for the possibility of illumination.

Currently participating in a six-part discussion course, with appreciation to Jim Crowfoot, to fellow students, all themselves teachers, to Michigan Friends Center.

the mark of a man

2010-03-25T20:15:00.003-04:00

As a result of a recent dream, I have been remembering the first time my son showed me his deep and true adult character.

The dream, not written down and so soon forgotten, was nonetheless felt to be of significance. The only portion that I have been able to retain was my son driving me on a fast road, he swerving in and out of traffic and various road situations with incredible driving skill, accuracy and speed. The dream itself had other implications, and many specific details which were satisfying at the time, but forgotten by the next week.

But still, the dream prompted the remembrance:

My son had turned 21 that year. I had been in a frightening car accident, had been sitting on the passenger side, sure that my life was to be over. Happily, it was in an older Volvo, and yes, my Volvo saved my life, as the advertisement used to say. A week later, I needed to drive a long distance home, maybe 10 hours of driving across national borders and high-speed roads. I was wary of the car altogether and didn't anticipate taking this trip with any pleasure. My son offered to drive me the distance, changing his plans to meet my needs. On the road, I was very squirrelly, fearful of the traffic and the speeds and, most especially, of passing any trucks at all. I needed my son to drive for me, and I needed to calm myself and re-learn how to be a passenger without startling or tensing. It was a hard trip for me. The highway speeds were difficult -- I had always been a good driver, and generally would flow with the faster traffic, managing with ease the five miles per hour (or greater) more than the standard top speed that was the normal pace of the middle and left lanes.

Now, however, the slightest increase above the speed limit kept me tense, and attempting to pass a large truck that was going the lower truck speed limit completely unhinged me.

My good and gentle son, fierce looking with his well-configured punk style and tall, strong body, certainly at 21 years of age was used to highway speeds and a young man's confidence. Yet, with his mother beside him, he drove for all those highway hours at exactly the speed limit, driving in the slower right-hand lane, letting the trucks pass us by. He did not once make fun of my jumpiness nor of my active right leg attacking a ghostly brake pedal from time to time. He comforted me, asked me about my fears, encouraged me to relax, and, above all, allowed my needs to govern the long drive home. When we became stuck behind a really slow truck, he talked me through accepting moving to the center and left lanes to make the pass around, pointing out that it was actually safer to get ahead of a large truck, rather than to be behind one if there were to be an accident ahead.

I felt moved not only by the care that this adult young man was now showing his mother, but also by the great generosity which marked his entire manner during this trip. I knew then the man that he had become, and the character that would be part of the rest of his life.

on the death of a childhood friend

2010-02-20T13:56:00.007-05:00

She was an extraordinarily accomplished academic writer and teacher, renowned internationally. We had been out of touch for a decade, and I discovered that for the last eight years she was enduring a debilitating disease, leading her to be unable to talk, although she kept her mental capacity to her death, even completing two major books during this period of time.

I remembered her most vividly from third grade on and especially in jr. high school. We danced together -- both of us tall and awkward beside the third best friend of our dancing trio, the one who was lithe and lovely on her feet and became a professional dancer. But all of us enjoyed each others' company, spending wonderful four-person sleep-overs on mattresses on the floor, jumping on and off beds, making up stories, giggling and giggling.

In jr. high, more serious, she and I shared many confidences, stories about our crushes, of course ... it was 7th grade ... Also participating in our young peoples church group, performing or singing in the church and learning about civil rights and the war protest movement from our politically active group leaders, our eyes being opened in our very white, very conservative Boston suburb town.

In adulthood, we met perhaps three times when our paths were able to cross; sharing where our lives had taken us and also sharing new perspectives on our lives as children, hidden secrets now more easily explored in our conversations. Her academic achievements were quite extraordinary, but we shared a childhood friendship that needed no intellectual parsing. From the tributes to her written by her colleagues and students, I believe she approached her academic discussions in a similar way -- honest and open, with great respect and caring for others, interested in direct exchange with great humility on her part and focused and kind interest in the other.

An impact of learning of her passing has been the sharing of this information among a group of additional childhood friends. One other of this group is missing and greatly missed. Those of us here have a renewed commitment to keep in touch, to support and nourish each other, even if from a distance.

contentment

2010-02-08T19:43:00.004-05:00

Just two days later, a very different mood and very different feelings. Contentment with my life, my day, my evening, the blessings I have been given. The loneliness dissipated, gone where? Odd to have such a change -- come about from the gift of sleep perhaps?

When I am tired, how comforting and renewing is sleep. Fresh sheets, newly made bed, fluffed pillows and quilt, a book beside me. Looking out the window to the beauty of the quiet night, the moon still beckoning and spreading soft light across the backyard. Lovely and reassuring.

Now I recall with comfort the many other gifts I have received. My cozy home, my good friends I can reach out to (including the new and enjoyable virtual friendship circles and circles), always always my children, and now their children. My nieces and their (brand new!) children, expanding (real) circles of loving relationships.

Any my enjoyments: many books, many movies, television at my convenience, music and music and changing moods that music can generate, the radio shows, the lovely surrounding wood (inside and outside my home), delectable food, planning for (possible) gardens with changes of weather. The changes of weather themselves. The blessing of living where there is rich, lasting, encompassing heat, then the beauty of impermanence as the trees change color and shed their loveliness, the many shades of white, snow, ice, sky in winter, the color of cold, and to anticipate the multiplicity of spring changes...

So then to be alive is to be content. And I embrace the gift of contentment in my life.

loneliness

2010-02-06T22:11:00.007-05:00

How do I describe my feelings. Perhaps by writing I can understand. Perhaps I think I can erase this lonesomeness, this sadness. This is not being alone, with which I am well acquainted, and normally a condition which allows me quiet and contentment. No, instead, this is missing so much: missing touch, missing companionship, missing friendship, missing intimacy physical and emotional, missing another, wanting to be outside of my self, wanting to be away from my sadness.

I walk from room to room. I know to move to work to accept to ignore to hide to cover to pretend to distract. I especially know to distract. I also know my blessings, my family, my past happinesses, my friends, my abilities, my accomplishments, my children. And yet and yet and yet, this sadness appears, feeling so apart. Knowing I could likely reach out and I would receive much more, but somehow paralyzed. What is the fear. What is the sense of lack, the inability. What impels me not to seek what I want and need.

This loneliness. It tears at me, my eyes tear. I listen as my heart is beating, wanting, waiting, but not seeking.

national day of listening 2009

2009-11-28T10:04:00.011-05:00

On Thanksgiving Day my mother gave me a platter that had been passed down from her great-grandmother, who was from Nova Scotia. It was a remaining piece from a set that was passed down from her grandmother, to her mother, to her and now to me. Other pieces of the set may have been given to her other aunts.

I decided to ask my mother more about this woman, her own great-grandmother, or her grandmother. My mother didn't know anything directly about her great-grandmother, but she knows that her grandmother lived with her in their home in Jenkintown, outside of Philadelphia, on the same train line that goes to Ambler. Her mother, the eldest daughter, had brought her down from Nova Scotia to live with them when she was probably not well. My mother was 1 or 2 at the time, and her grandmother probably died within a year of living with them, maybe 1918. She was young, Mother remembers, and her mother told her that the grandmother had violet-colored eyes. Mother remembers, from photographs, that her father and mother took her grandmother on a trip to Atlantic City. The photograph shows them in style.

The other sisters included Azul, 15 years younger than my grandmother and who lived not too far from her, in Camden, New Jersey. Mother's Aunt Jac (for Jacobine) stayed in Nova Scotia, living on the ocean, north of Yarmouth. The third sister, Gene (Imogene), died in Boston very young, soon after she married, maybe from the flu, maybe from a baby. Her sister, Irene, was away at the time, traveling with her husband.

After her grandmother died, my mother's mother brought her father, Jacob, down from Nova Scotia. My mother has a very clear memory of him lying in his casket, white hair. He was a short, stocky man, and deaf. Mother said, "He lived with us, then Daddy got mad at him and threw him out because he told my mother to get divorced from my father -- so my grandfather went to live with Aunt Azul. Daddy told me this; Mother never said anything about it. The casket was at Aunt Azul's, so I must have been 3 or 4 years old."

My grandmother also had a brother, Romeo, father of Eddie, who lives in Kalamazoo and Victor, who lived in Traverse City.

I asked my mother about the names that her grandmother gave her children. She told me that her mother told her that her grandmother loved Shakespeare, could quote all of Shakespeare's plays and all of the Bible, and so named her children with names from Shakespeare.

halo of hair

2009-11-07T17:02:00.005-05:00

My grandmother had long hair. When I stayed at her house overnight I would watch her before she retired to bed in the evening as she took down the long braid that she pinned on top of her head every morning. She had a dish full of black hair pins. She would brush her long hair with the 100 required strokes. She sat at her dressing table and did this. I would stand at the doorway to her bedroom and watch her brush her hair. Then she would braid it, perhaps with two braids, and leave the braids down for sleeping. She told me with great pride and yet a touch of shyness how much her husband (my grandfather I never knew -- he died before I was born) loved her long hair. I don't think she ever cut it, except to trim the ends. Every morning she would braid the single braid and wrap it up on top of her head again. She had combs that she would also put in her hair to catch the fly-aways. But they were all brown or black haircombs. When her hair was all white, I found some white hair combs for her to use, instead of the brown ones, and she was so delighted, she said she didn't know that they made them anything but dark combs.

ahhhhh to fly high above

2009-08-23T18:52:00.002-04:00

listening to the wind

2009-08-23T18:43:00.003-04:00

skin deep

2009-08-23T18:31:00.011-04:00

Guided by the young teen on the cusp of manhood, I marvel at his awareness, his knowledge of the birds’ calls (teakettle teakettle), the Carolina wren, the woodland hawk, the cardinal. Compared to the professional naturalist’s one hummingbird nest found in her almost 50 years (and she is one of the best naturalists I know), he has found five in his fifteen years.

He has been listening to, talking with, observing, eating, comparing the natural world around him all his life, so every plant, tree, animal, insect, and of course birds, are within him and part of his skin. He shares this wonderful knowledge with those of us who are accompanying him on the nature walk, with a deep modesty a part of his self-confidence.

We are skipping our single stones across the surface, whereas he has dived into the depths time and again.

He introduces us to the equesitum (horsetail) and its properties, a low-growing feathery and rather beautiful plant whose leaves can clean and scour pans, giving it his respect by informing us (twice) that it is one of the ancient plants.

Sitting now facing the lake, my time for quiet and observation, and, as always, feeling the healing and restorative power of this place. The strongest force for me is the wind, bringing the coolness, the smells of the air so fresh, the beautiful music of leaves, rustling, also delighting in the sight of these leaves winking swaying from the branches. The lake gives its approaching concentric ripples, beautiful in their constantly changing but consistent patterns. A little bit of bright yellow (woodland sunflower) and purple (loosestrife) appear among all the many greens surrounding and on the lake.

The music of the wind and the trees continues to be played; no silence here. It is an August morning, but there has been a change today and the fall approaches.

I am content.

mindfulness

2009-06-07T07:39:00.021-04:00

From a collection of Thich Nhat Hanh's journal entries, Fragrant Palm Leaves: Journals 1962–1966
If you tarnish your perceptions by holding on to suffering that isn't really there, you create even greater misunderstanding. Reality is neither pleasant nor unpleasant in and of itself. It is only pleasant or unpleasant as experienced by us, through our perceptions. This is not to deny that earthquakes, plagues, wars, old age, sickness, and death exist. But their nature is not suffering. We can limit the impact of these tragedies but never do away with them completely. That would be like wanting to have light without darkness, tallness without shortness, birth without death, one without many. One-sided perceptions like these create our world of suffering. We are like an artist who is frightened by his own drawing of a ghost. Our creations become real to us and even haunt us.

totem

2009-05-24T16:46:00.011-04:00

Stories in Cedar
Totem pole types include story-telling legend poles, wedding poles, history poles, poles that ridicule bad debtors and those that honor the dead.
Meanings are elusive, for the ravens, wolf crests and bear symbols now stand apart from the ceremonies that breathed life into the carvings. Mortuary poles honor the dead. Often cremation ashes are kept in a receptacle in the back. The single figure at the top represents the commemorated person's clan. Crest poles, usually part of a house, portray the ancestry of a particular family.

ocean

2009-05-24T16:43:00.006-04:00

oral tradition

2009-05-24T15:29:00.011-04:00

Here is why traditional stories passed down through families can be so compelling.

What is involved includes discipline, insistence on accuracy and confinement of the storytelling within a family group.

The Tlingit native people have numerous clans; within each clan a storyteller is entrusted with the responsibility of ensuring his or her own people's history. This responsibility is neither given nor received lightly. A storyteller must tell only the stories of his own clan, never that of a neighboring people. A new storyteller may not publicly repeat the stories until she has proven to the elder who is teaching her that she can repeat it word for word, with no changes nor elaboration.

The storyteller, young or old, sits close to his audience, seeing them and observing their reaction as he speaks.

Recently, I was privileged to hear the story from a Huna Tlingit (Xunaa Ka`awu) young man about how what we call the Grand Pacific Glacier in Alaska's Glacier National Park rapidly took over his ancestors' lands centuries ago, displacing his people to a new settlement. He spoke to his audience with the storytelling mantle that had been bestowed on him (his grandmother made him repeat the story accurately five times before her permission was granted), and exactly in the manner of respect that was prescribed.

Within my own family storytelling, we have never considered the importance of these protocols, so we expect individual memories to change aspects of what is remembered. We rely on the written word, so place less importance on oral memory or repetition. We suspect that one person's remembrance must always be different from another's. So we enjoy our family traditions and we believe our family stories to be important to us as a small group of related people, but we don't quite trust that the information is truly accurate. We want to see a diary of the period, or an official document, or another form of written history. And yet, these, too, can be distorted, as we know well by the common occurrence of immigrant names being changed by officials who could not understand foreign pronunciation or when a foreign sound could not be rendered adequately into English. We know that typographical errors are made; before our eyes and ears we hear the former vice president of the United States rewriting with his version of history the events of less than a single decade.

With the trust that stories are communicated accurately from grandparent to grandchild, then a people, a family, can ensure that what is passed down from generation to generation, from century to century, remains true to the memory of the events.

photographs: woods

2009-05-24T14:54:00.017-04:00

beauty

succulence

shelter

changes

2009-05-24T14:26:00.016-04:00

The best advice my older sister gave me as a young mother was:

the minute that you get used to your children doing something a certain way,
they will change

Remembering this held me in good stead as my two grew and changed and daily discovered new activities, new ways of thinking, new aspects to the world around them. I could never become complacent with who they were and what they could do. I was also taught by my children to adapt and to look for changes and to appreciate and embrace for myself what was new and what might be unfamiliar.

I was reminded of this the other day when my grandson, now 5 1/2 (and currently he always adds the additional 1/2 when asked his age) seemingly changed before my eyes. It had only been a week, possibly two, since I had seen him last and all of a sudden he had grown from a toddler to a little young man. His manner was different, he moved differently, he had more patience, he took care of his little sister differently, his concentration, which was always great, now seemed to become even more focused. I kept seeing in his face the changes that had taken place, seemingly so quickly, and which now anticipates the older young man who is yet to develop.

day of birth september 2003

photographs: water

2009-05-24T08:19:00.027-04:00

rapids

transition

reflection

The beauty of impermanence

2009-04-26T17:57:00.017-04:00

The Navajo and the Tibetan fine and exquisitely beautiful sand paintings have multiple aspects in common. The act of creating the painting, emphasizing great patience, is one. The use of rich and traditionally meaningful symbols is another. The variety of strong colors, produced from the riches of the earth surrounding the artist is a third. Yet perhaps the most important shared element is that the focus of the paintings is not on art per se, but is found within the spiritual understanding embedded deep within the philosophies of these cultures.

Both emphasize the oneness of all creatures, living and inanimate, of the earth. And both cultures understand that change is the only constant. There is no permanence. Impermanence is found in our bodies, in the sky, in the seasons, in everything. To abandon the desire to control that which surrounds us, to merge with impermanence, is to become one with each other and with all.

The sand painting's particular spiritual lesson is that, upon completion, it is transformed and returned to the nothingness with which it was begun. There is no need to hold on to its image; it provides a message or a truth at one time and in one single place within a continuum. The ego of the artist is submerged to the message.

I look at the many items in my home and my history with which I surround myself, some with wonderful memories, some for current use, or for enjoyment, or for knowledge. I have no wish to give up what I consider the best of these items (and unfortunately I don't seem to have the energy to give up the worst of them). But I worry about having the false assumption that by holding onto these items I therefore do not lose that which I cherish. Perhaps more accurately, it may be that what I allow myself is the pretense that I can maintain control of all parts of my life, when, in fact, these assumptions produce exactly the opposite results.

I love computers and electronic gadgets, and find them delightful companions and useful tools. In spite of that, it was with much hesitation that I finally allowed myself to become part of the great Facebook stream, with its interconnectedness and the delightful way in which we can peek into others' lives and share pieces of our own with large groups of people we both know and don't know, all of whom called "friends," and all at the same time. But the Facebook attempt to connect the whole world, literally, with a 6-degree site where one can sign up, is also based in the false assumption that we can in this rather impersonal way truly share with others. The most troublesome aspect of this new form of communication (and I still have many additional concerns) is that once something is written, it presumes permanence; the thought cannot be wisked away with the wind to be transformed into a different form of energy. What is communicated sits on its site, with the ability to be seen by the entire world, for all time (or at least, for all computer internet time).

What made me think of the beauty behind sand paintings was a series of little frustrations that appeared in my life recently. Nothing of any importance, nothing life shattering nor even anything particularly hurtful. Just an annoyance here and there that sat with me. There wasn't a companion nearby to whom I could speak my frustrations and who might gently prod me with both a sympathetic and yet tolerantly and slightly amusing reaction, pricking my own balloon and letting out my air of annoyance. And so, the frustrations grew to an uncomfortable sensation and needed to be dispersed. How lovely to allow the wind to carry our voices, both our happinesses and our angers as well as our smaller annoyances. The old tradition of writing something down and then disposing rather than sharing it inappropriately, is also a way to throw it to the wind. It concerns me that too many of these frustrations can so easily be formulated on a communication tablet such as Facebook, without the ability to be dispersed with the energy the earth. Instead, they can be seen and recreated and remembered and perhaps inaccurately reinterpreted with each re-reading.

I want to learn to express my deepest beliefs using the wisdom of the sand paintings, patiently creating a message for each moment and for each very specific period of time, and then allowing that message to return to nothingness, to an integrative universal knowledge.

making the impermanent permanent
A Sacred Art by the Tibetan Lamas of Drepung Loseling

Wallace Ben sand painting, the place where gods come and go

The beauty in the drawings

2009-04-18T06:05:00.009-04:00

Three ferns, an acorn, an oak leaf, come to life with multiple delicate strokes of the black pen. How skillfully and how lovingly the pen takes to the paper and allows the life of the vegetation to emerge from the drawings.

It is a marvelous skill that my daughter has. She referred to one of her drawings as being created by “just copying.” I suppose there is truth to that. But because it is so much more, one must look at what really happens with that act of copying. It begins with clarity of observation. She really sees what is in front of her. She has great respect for what she is seeing. She respects the essence of the form itself, and transmits that observation. She has a remarkable connection between the observation and her mind’s awareness and the coordination of her hand with the brush and pen, so that it manifests itself as talent. But mostly I think she approaches what she does with love. It reminds me of the understanding of the creation of food for others in Like Water for Chocolate. It is the fullness of the feelings that are transmitted into creation. And when those feelings are inspired by love, it affects all of us who partake.

The Past, the Future, but really, the Present

2009-02-22T12:17:00.004-05:00

In my thirties, I trained myself to observe and disregard the many shoulds.

As I’ve grown older, I find myself more and more within the present. Children know instinctively the importance of living each second in the present.

Ahhh, to be the author of oneself.

The Miracle of the Ordinary Soul

2009-02-22T12:01:00.006-05:00

I must never forget that in my moment of deepest travail she crossed the room and put her hand on my shoulder, an utterly simple gesture perhaps, but more graceful and helpful to me than the gift of a kingdom. By such a gesture she sought to heal me, supposedly the healer. As I do not seem able much to heal, then maybe I can simply be a responsible witness to the miracle of the ordinary soul.

…. My main thought is, let her be.

from The Secret Scripture, by Sebastian Barry

I would like to be a responsible witness. And to my own miraculous ordinary soul, as to the souls of others.

the delicious enchantment of gran'ma's pocketbook

2009-02-22T11:31:00.010-05:00

I walked around the corner into the living room just as my 2nd daughter was saying, "no, no those are BapaMama's important things." Which allowed me to see what my little grand-daughter was doing without having to interfere or be part of stopping her at all.

In this brief moment, I saw my 2 1/2 year old grand-baby sitting in front of the coffee table, where she had found my soft pocketbook on the floor just beside my usual chair. She had had time, while her mama and her papa and I were still finishing our dinner in the kitchen, to open up each one of the many zippered pockets, and had laid out all the goodies in front of her, a wealth of grown up treasures.

There was sheer enjoyment on her face, produced by each discovery as she unearthed it, and also with, I am sure, the delightful consciousness that there was probably something a little bit forbidden in what she was doing.

It was a precious moment, to be savored, and an image I am happy to retain. How many times as children we experience enchantment with the simplest of events. I was truly appreciative by how kindly and calmly my daughter-in-law had stopped this play (after all, these were Gran'ma's toys, it was true!), while not putting any onus on the delight of the act itself.

day of birth - July 2006

2008-12-21T10:25:00.005-05:00

Clutter Part 3

2008-09-07T09:44:00.005-04:00

An "expert" on clutter, who hires out to people to clean out their living spaces and who has written books about it, says his clients have told him that when they have begun and made headway in the process of decluttering their living spaces, they have found, to their amazement, that their physical body weight has dropped, often considerably, seemingly as a side effect.

This does not surprise me at all. Our belongings, same as our weight, and our inability to shed them, often can be protections against real threats or current losses or old fears.

Time Travel

2008-09-07T09:30:00.005-04:00

We are fascinated by the concept of travelling to different times other than the one in which we ostensibly are currently living. Shamans are said to have the ability to move in and out of time and also present space.

But perhaps we overlook that all of us also have this ability in very specific ways. Are our dreams and our thoughts and our imaginations really so very different from our present realities?

Several days ago, a slat broke on my antique (inherited from my Grandmother) bed frame, amazingly when my small cat jumped up on my bed while I was asleep in the middle of the night. Too tired to get up to fix it that night or to move to another location, I returned to sleeping for the remainder of the night at a slight angle.

The next day, after one attempt to temporarily fix it, I called on my son, who was able to come a day or two later and repair it properly, with his always amazing skills; and so I could return to my normal bed (at a level angle!) after several nights of camping out in the living room.

The second night back, I dreamed I was sleeping in my old childhood bedroom. A vivid dream, not unusual in its vividness, with all the remembrances of the surroundings: the wallpaper, the size of the room, the bedside lamps, stuffed animals. During the dream, I woke - inside my dream, inside my childhood room - and it appeared that the bed – my childhood bed now, still in my dream – had fallen victim to the same problem, and the mattress was at an angle. I thought to myself, in my dream, “Oh, I need to call my son to fix the slat again.”

When I actually woke up, in my present bedroom and the 'present' time, it didn’t at all seem contradictory that when I was in my childhood surroundings yet I was thinking about what my adult son would do. It was seamless. I realized that this is one actuality of how we can move from one time period to another – there need not be contradictory assertions or any sense of incongruity. There is such a richness of remembrances and experiences in my head, that my thoughts easily flow from one to another, from one time period in my life to another. Especially in my dreams, I experience the same with visual images. It is a slight step to imagine that possibility of doing so, not just in thoughts, not just in visual images, but with a physical presence, even if simply a sense of physical presence. The knowledge is the same.

The Power of Stories

2008-08-17T08:02:00.018-04:00

After reading a series of books that, while enjoyable to begin and finish, were perhaps mainly to fill time, perhaps to avoid, again, my clutter.

But now, I have begun a book written beautifully, by an author who knows words, and who knows the human condition: The Secret Scripture by Sebastian Barry. And already I am entranced by an opening passage:

The terror and hurt in my story happened because when I was young I thought others were the authors of my fortune or misfortune; I did not know that a person could hold up a wall made of imaginary bricks and mortar against the horrors and cruel, dark tricks of time that assail us, and be the author therefore of themselves.

Ahhh, to be the author of oneself. To imagine that gift and to believe in the truth of that gift.

This is such a difficult lesson to learn, even with the marvelous examples of those outstanding who accomplish their dreams and give us shining proof of this through their accomplishments. But this passage reflects the truth not of world-shattering accomplishments, but rather, the understanding and satisfaction of an old woman reflecting on her quiet, own condition, by herself, in isolation.

Blame of others is always debilitating, even when meant with the purpose of discovery. And this wall of imaginary bricks and mortar is the internal, is the personal strength.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Later on, this marvelous Mr. Barry, writes, with the thoughts of his character, a 100-year-old woman living most of her life in an asylum, for, as yet, unknown reasons:

[The doctor’s] talk had locked me in silence, I know not why. It was not opening, easy, happy talk like my father’s, after all. I wanted to listen to him, but I did not want to answer now. That strange responsibility we feel towards others when they speak, to offer them the solace of any answer. Poor humans! And anyway he had not asked a question. He was merely floating there in the room, insubstantial, a living man in the midst of life, dying imperceptibly on his feet, like all of us.

I wish always to be aware of the amazing power of unspoken communication. Those words that are not heard but can be understood. I wish to listen with my heart, not just my ears, and to take the time to appreciate the silence and what the silence might be saying.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Earlier, the author had written through the thoughts of the old woman recalling her father:

My father’s happiness. It was a precious gift in itself….it strikes me that a person without anecdotes that they nurse while they live, and that survive them, are more likely to be utterly lost not only to history but the family following them. Of course this is the fate of most souls…

My father’s happiness not only redeemed him, but drove him to stories, and keeps him even now alive in me, like a second more patient and more pleasing soul within my poor soul.

My daughter has asked me time and again to write down my stories. Perhaps she knows better than I the truth of this. Finally, I, too, am impelled to find, is it redemption?, is it happiness in my own life?, to share these tidbits of my life. And certainly, tidbits themselves are powerful. My father, who seldom talked about his past, told to me three or four stories about his youth, short paragraphs, and for a couple of the anecdotes, only upon my asking him question after question. Then, when he was dying, one sentence expressing his beliefs and his love for me. I recall those few short stories and that one sentence over and over, and they fill me with his presence, his voice, his goodness, and, I believe, I even can smell his scent with this recall.

Clutter Part 2

2008-07-16T21:37:00.006-04:00

I cried when my daughter threw out 20 old (unused but all different types) paper napkins that I had stashed on the lower shelf of the little table that was next to my “tv chair.”

Well, it really wasn’t because of the paper napkins. It was because of the things she was saying about me and my life (she was rather harsh) (but then, again, who else but a daughter can say these things so directly to her mother) (and they were true, sigh).

And yet, and yet. There were 20 old (unused) paper napkins on this shelf next to this chair. In my living room. Where, theoretically, I entertain guests, including my daughter.

(More about that, later. The implications are too great to take in all in one writing session.)

I did obtain from the library the book I referenced in the previous blog, and found a new book, which is as important, if not for me, then for the world to read and to know about:

Material World: A Global Family Portrait by Peter Menzel, Sierra Club Books, 1994. His dedication reads: This book is dedicated to my parents, and to my sons and their future children.

and

Hungry Planet: What the World Eats by Peter Menzel and Faith D’Aluisio, Material World Books & Ten Speed Press, 2005, published in China.

Looking at both of these books, reading them, learning from the individuals of one country after another, cultures different from my own, learning from family to family, different and yet with the same cares and dreams, meditating on the beautiful and extraordinary photographs. This is a path for me to incorporate that which I want to know: what is it that is truly necessary to me, for my daily life and for my spirit.

Clutter Part 1

2008-07-10T10:37:00.005-04:00

(Since it's about clutter, there will definitely be more than one part)

The need to surround myself with goods. Understanding this need and exploring it is itself a whole subject.

The unwillingness to take the time to rid. Appreciating not just the time but the process of organizing, cleaning, putting away, throwing away. The lovely work of my friend who became a Buddhist priest: moving progressively from larger home to apartment and then to smaller apartment, and the ease with which she, “sold it, gave it away, threw it away,” talking about the process of stripping her goods from her surroundings and from the need to “own.” And this even while one of her two children was still at home with her.

Watching my daughter “clean” her room, ridding herself of those belongings of childhood, or simply of last month, last year, that which she no longer needs, no longer finds to be a necessary part of her life. And my visceral difficulty even seeing her throw away her own possessions, things that theoretically had nothing to do with me.

If one is, in fact, at whole with the universe, then individual and perhaps selfish ownership is unnecessary.

This understanding, hard to truly believe and harder to incorporate, still needs to be balanced against the experience of those who live through extreme poverty, extreme need, when food is not available, let alone other needs of comfort and warmth.

What is the basic need for each person, for me, for my life?

The astounding, moving book of photographs showing home possessions by families from across the world. The extraordinary massiveness of the American family’s home possessions compared to every other family portrayed.

I know that if I were to be photographed with my multiple and duplicating and unnecessary possessions, I would be shamed, it is so much more than I either need or am capable of utilizing. I keep an object even when I am not using it, for what reasons?

? Possible use in the future.
? In case another one breaks.
? Because it meant something to me at one time, and I recall that meaning.
? Because it might be too expensive to replace.
? Because I have not taken the time to organize and cull.

These are all past or future reasons; they take me out of the present, out of enjoying what I presently have and do, and, in a large way, are indications of my not trusting the future, not trusting the wonderful concept of when I have a need, the world and my surroundings will help me provide for that need. Perhaps if I concentrate on keeping the object only for the following reason: I know I currently enjoy using it or looking at it. I would also allow leeway for a reasonable period of time, if I know that I will be using it or enjoying it in the (relatively) near future. So “storage” would be for definite future activities or definite future use or giving away.

From a different perspective, I enjoy beauty and being surrounded by beauty. The clutter takes those items which I do love and in which I find solace from their loveliness, and dissipates their beauty, their chi. As with the concept of Japanese painting, or o-shodo, character painting, it is as important to recognize the importance of the space, the emptiness surrounding an object, as it is to create or recognize the intrinsic shape itself. It is the placement and the negative area that allows an object to exert its influence.

When clutter is eliminated, in an orderly and regular manner, then one can attend to the next task or activity with an enjoyment that is unfettered. Otherwise, the mind is distracted from the new task by the interference of the old, and with annoying thoughts of “I need to finish up...” or “I should have ...” These thoughts, again, take the focus away from the present.

So, maybe the important phrase above is “orderly and regular.” I will attend to some of that now and perhaps examine it more closely in this blog again soon.

Bad Dreams about Daughters (not Sons)

2008-07-03T10:39:00.008-04:00

I smiled when my 91-year-old mother called me at 7:30 am (she doesn’t usually get up that early any more), and only said, in a sleepy voice,

“Are you all right? I had a bad dream.”

“Yes, I’m fine. What was the dream?”

“Oh, good, alright then. I’m going back to sleep. I’ll tell you later.”

When I’m upset or concerned about something, usually in my own life, I, too, will have a bad dream that involves my daughter. She’s so used to my calling to check in on her after one of these dreams that she tolerantly simply listens and then asks me what I think the dream means.

Of course, usually it is about myself, or whatever worries I might have. But the precious daughter, whom I adore and love and want the best for and have always wanted to protect, epitomizes the fears that emerge in the nighttime iteration of a home invasion or a snatch off the street or the bad guys running down the streets, shooting wildly, or some other such vivid enactment.

It is hard, and yet so important, to recognize the separateness of the daughter, to allow her her own responsibility for her life and the resulting consequences, especially the ones none of us can control. My son, kicking and screaming when he was sixteen, brought me to the realization of his own independence, his own responsibility early on. Most especially, he brought me to my belief in his ability to handle life, or perhaps more importantly, to acknowledge the possibility of his death, which, in fact, means he holds his life in his own hands. To be responsible for his life, other’s lives, including, later, my knowing that he would support me and his family in any crisis at any moment, fully and completely.

My daughter took responsibility for herself in a way that usually did not conflict with what I considered my responsibilities, and she didn’t quite need to kick and scream as did my son. And yet, and yet. After the first ten years or so of my children’s life, I finally didn’t have to quickly skip over any headlines that indicated an article might be about child abuse of one sort or another. When my daughter turned twenty-one, I let myself be absolved, in an odd emotional way, of the responsibility to always protect and to ward dangers away from her that I had felt uppermost for both my children being the primary caretaker in their lives as they were growing up. What helped, certainly, was to know that by the time she was six years old, she had a crystal clear understanding of herself, the person, that she knew the world and her place in it in a way that I could only envy. My son, too, had given me the lovely clue, when he was a year and a half old and decided exactly the point to jump down from a sloping wall, that he could judge the physical world and his own ability within it, better than any other.

With gratitude, to accept the bad dreams that emerge in any case, and to revel in the good ones.

After the Rainstorm

2008-07-03T07:49:00.001-04:00

How beautiful after the rainstorm. A gorgeous fulfilling rain last night. Not so much lightening as would have been expected – perhaps in other areas, but a lot of distant thunder rolling through. The initial front, the line of severest storms, taking down branches, leaves, swaying trees. Fast fast moving, they said 60 miles/hour with heavy winds. Beautiful sound. My cats with different personalities. B&W Patience knowing immediately upon the arrival of the storm and searching for under a bed or the basement for protection and for hiding until it had fully passed. My grey Jasmine excited, as was I, coming to the open screened window, enjoying the sounds and sights as much as I did, perching on the window sill to take it in and watch. This is one of the joys of having my bed next to the open window – hearing and smelling and feeling the energy of the world outside, and yet still staying in the comfort and protection of my home, my bed. The wind became too strong, and I did need to partly shut the window because the rain was blowing in on me, but opening it again, for the latter part of the storm. After the initial twenty minutes of fierce wind and rain, the slow constant, continuing rainfall for the next several hours, giving me lovely sleep and comfort.

This morning waking up to a soft continuing patter of very gentle raindrops still making their impressions on the puddles outside. Both cats excited to go out. The fresh smells of the trees and grass after the rain. A continued slight greyness as the sun rises behind the clouds and the birds re-emerge.

My awareness of what happens in my miniature backyard is so limited compared to what Patience and Jasmine know and hear and smell, and yet, I am grateful for how increased is my own awareness as a result of the wonderful Tracking classes and my own ears and eyes being opened to the gifts the plants and animals and weather give us all the time, with or without our acknowledgment. During this wonderful and powerful storm (our electricity only went out twice, and then not for long), where do each of the many creatures in my backyard burrow? How do they stay dry if not warm? Where exactly do they find shelter? I know so little. Even the watermelon plant that I received from the Community Farm: It amazes me that with the battering of the severe rain and wind, this morning, the strong stems of the little plants will reassert themselves and stand upright again, waiting with great patience for the sun, when it does reappear, to nourish them along with the gorgeous and soaking rain.