Spiritual connection for an old friend

I don't know about you, but in 3rd grade, we discovered pussy willows. It was love at first sight. When we spied them on our way to school everyone got one. best friend, teacher, maybe last year's teacher, and of course Mom. We recited a poem about them in spring parent-teacher conferences, each of us holding rabbit-ear soft puff balls on a stick. To this day, the sight of them makes me a little giddy. This year they have new meaning for me--a new reason to hold their little softness in the light. 

As it turns out, in Ukraine and Russia and other predominantly Eastern Catholic countries (including Austria and Finland), pussy willows replace palms in Palm Sunday celebrations because the northern climates simply won't grow palm trees. Because not many pussy willows are likely to be used for any kind of celebration while people are running and hiding or fighting for their lives, I picked some for my dining room table to hold in the light the for the people of Ukraine. To hold in the light for nearby others also in harms way. I keep in mind what they know in Ukraine; pussy willows in this part of the world bring "new life." New life from my table carried on hope across the world, along with the fuzzy fluff I will blow to the wind.

The magic of impermanence

The young mother fretted when she had to say no to her landlord. As a single parent she enjoyed an unthinkably sweet arrangement where she and her toddler daughter lived free in the garage upstairs apartment in exchange for watching over the plucky old woman that lived in the adjacent house. Their relationship was new, transforming on a dial from tentative to comfortable with each interaction. The young mother turned out to be much more of an ally than the old woman imagined, made evident when she started calling on her with requests. “Will you take me here?” “Will you pick me up there?” “Can you help with my new phone?”

Receiving as spiritual practice

Lamyra Lyon taught me to drive in her chocolate brown 1966 Pontiac Lemans. While a key life skill, it didn't compare to what else she passed on. Lamyra was a poet and a teacher. The lesson I recall most often is her claim--"If someone hands you a gift (or compliment) it's like handing you a cream pie. If you don't receive that gift graciously, you're pushing that cream pie back in their face."

I was sure it was my neighbor's problem. She's fed my cats, all 7 of them, over the years, with me on trips longer than a month. She's the kind that will actually sit with them and let them scold her. She has shared the fruits of her gardens, brought little gifts on holidays, picked up mail, put the garbage out on the street.  If the power is out, she is the first to make a bed by her fireplace. She has my extra key. I figure I must have done something really good in a former life to have moved in two doors down from this lovely woman. But there is one thing that nags me about this relationship. This neighbor will not let me do anything in return. Can't take/cook her a meal. Can't do anything reciprocal. So of course I do, but it always feels awkward. I've been bothered by her reluctance to receive anything from me. And why it bugs me. It feels like being held at a distance, which encourages me withhold.

Come sit

Come sit in a flute,

near my root, 

catch your breath

then be still.

Don't be shocked 

by the sound of a heartbeat, 

or worried by laughter in the air.

Remnants of visitors hang everywhere.

 Refresh, take a nap,

sit in silence.

No shoulds allowed

anywhere near here.

 But if you love magic,

hang around with eyes wide, 

behold, the spirits will dance tonight.

Turning love of ritual into daily prayer

My only serious practice of religion was at a lovely Episcopal Church in Eugene, Oregon in the 1970s. My husband at the time decided he would study religion and become a priest. I embraced his career move, became a parishioner, studied and was baptized and confirmed, and joined church life. It was an easy transition mostly because the conduct of the church matched my penchant for ritual and ceremony. I could be found at every Sunday evening service because I was enthralled with the sound of the plainsong choir in their brown, hooded, floor-length robes, the shiny sanctus bells that added exclamation points to the text, and the intoxicating smell of frankincense belched from the thurible waved among parishioners seated in the nave. I can still hear the clanking of the chain against the metal housing, and remember how alive and connected I felt afterward.

You never know what you might find in the woods

"Would it be okay if I set up my alter on my deck?" I ask our Peruvian shaman. I hurry to explain that my deck, which is 30 feet up from the ground, is easier to get to for ritual offerings to Pachamama. He frowns, then considers for a moment.

"I will say yes on one condition. You can't have a relationship with Pachamama without getting dirty, so promise me you will get your hands in the dirt."

Live in peace with dukkha

Because they can thrive in drought or moist, poor or rich soil and are equally at home in shade or full sun, Bergenia might be the perfect symbol for living in peace with dukkha.

If you hang around a meditation group or attend a meditation retreat you will hear about dukkha. Dukkha is a term that comes from the Buddha, has no direct translation in English and was the first of his Noble Truths. Many think dukkha means suffering; life brings suffering. This culture has produced bumper stickers that use slightly different words with the same connotation, "life's a bitch and then you die," "shit happens." Dukkha doesn't actually mean suffering. What it means is that because all things are constantly changing and therefore impermanent, we live with discontent; unhappy because life regularly fails to meet our expectations. In other words, dukkha is our reluctance to go with the natural flow. Peter Russell describes dukkha as our resistance to experiencing the moment, wishing things were different, hanging on to notions of the way things should be. There are two things we need to learn about dukkha.

Lessons from nature

Cytisus Scoparius, Scotch Broom, like other non-native species, teaches us about the unintended consequences of disturbing the natural order.

Buy local

Fresher.

Friendlier.

When you make your mark . . .

. . . try not to do so at Mother Nature's expense.

Worship the bees

Due to habitat destruction, pesticides, non-native plantings and climate change honey bees are in danger. As a result fruits, nuts and vegetables that rely on pollination from bees are in peril--either of disappearing altogether or being priced beyond our budgets. One-third of our food supply relies on healthy working bees. If you love fresh fruits and vegetables, worship bees by making a positive contribution with like-minded people at The Honeybee Conservancy. 

Stop and look at the trees

Research shows gazing out the window at nature can help heal the sick, boost the self-esteem of the insecure, calm the stressed and restore the exhausted. Double coupons when you get out of your seat and go for a walk.

What if . . .

we were only willing to accept water the color and clarity it is at its source?

It's there for the taking each day

Mother Nature teaches us to add an exclamation point to our morning with a magic moment to set a positive intention for the day . . . 

. . . and in the evening an electric moment to be grateful for the blessings we received.

Law of the land

There's a sign on the way out of the Molokai airport that warns tourists to slow down. Indeed the only place I see people move fast is in one of the grocery stores where customers and employees crowd the isles, half of them filling their carts, the other half filling the shelves behind them. The chatter among them reveals relationships are monumentally more important than the transactions going on. Outside you find only moseying. No one is in a hurry here, and it doesn't matter how much of a hurry you want to impose, the law of he land says you go Molokai speed.

Presence on the prairie, act II

How long has it been since you dragged yourself from your warm bed before daybreak, pulled on boots and hiked along a rocky ridge to a perch on top of your world, just to witness the Sun’s optimistic rise . . .

felt the curve of the Earth beneath your sit bones, sat quiet and still on the dirt, savored the evening’s perfect light . . .

stumbled over a mound of bunch grass, flushed a sparrow from its nest and investigated, just for the joy of laying eyes on the hand-crafted basket and two tawny bundles inside . . .

spent a week sleeping on the ground, in the company of coyotes singing to the moon, nestled in the cradle of your Mother’s arms?

What Pachamama knew all along

Suzanne Simard is professor of forest ecology at the University of British Columbia where she has studied the forests for the past 30 years. Her work reveals complex, symbiotic networks under our forests that mimic our own neural and social networks. Dispelling the idea that nature competes for survival, she discovered that trees use underground fungi networks to communicate and share resources. Not to be missed is her TED Talk urging a revolution in forest practices.

Listening to healing sirens from Mother Earth

I was the only aging suburbanite in the group of six urban dwellers, sitting on a pillow on the floor of the 2nd story, the woody smell of coffee infusing the space from the shop below. The rest were 20-somethings, engaged in banter with our teacher like they were old friends. I was the rookie in a collective who had come to study song and singing, how to lead others in song, and how to connect song to the Earth.

Following the call

I cannot resist a call on the wind from Camp Creek Canyon, urging me to bring my gear.

I squish along on curious boots, tripod balanced on my right shoulder, Nikon and extra lenses strapped in a pack on my back. The hot dusty smell I remember from my visit a year earlier is replaced with a damp perfume of penstemon and lupine, lush with unseasonable rain on this sacred ground once home to the Nez Pearce. Out here on the Zumwalt Prairie, where scientists count and plant and monitor, there are mysteries that cannot be explained.

Why coyote sings

We are created by the song of the Universe, we are created by sound--

words to a lovely Singing Alive song, and an alternative way to consider why coyote sings to the moon.

If coyote was born to sing to the Universe, 
a message about Prairie's reach

It's easy to value each yip and yap 
all background howls,
each bark and witchy screech.

Each voice of course tells the story beyond 
what constrains a science lens.

A canine-perfect cacophony of sorts 

so the Universe understands.

First verse over, it's time to pause

so coyote keeps quite still.

Dialogue with one's maker requires

a polite reciprocal trill.

It takes time to receive the messages, 

found in purposeful songs without words . . .

more time to receive spirit wisdom 
on frequencies meant to be heard.