Right Timing and Following Those Breadcrumbs

Right Timing: There's those breadcrumbs, again. Breadcrums are those 'sparkles in the dust, the fireflies threading through the orchard of our lives,' that raise up our energy, our intrigue, our curiosity--that set our hearts to thumping, to tapping our toes, humming, feeling juicy and glad to be alive, and it may, or may not, coordinate with what we think should be on the menu at this particular time. 

I dared refusal--real, sacred trust, that I could be authentic, up to and including saying “No” to what I had just poured time, energy, focus, and money. I was free to say “I don't want to do this.” Mean it, and allow it. And, not be guilty about it. 

This allowed me opening to something from another direction, not directly related, that let in a breath of fresh air, that enlivened me, lit me up, turned the juice back on again.

Through this alternate venue energies from 23 years ago, forgotten in the dust of my history, started to swirl, reconnect, threading into the present and weaving together into a fusion of new energy—an infusion of Magic rising up out of this blend.

What “I'm supposed to be doing” is a living, vibrant, being—alive, not static. It is an entity of its own—an anima, an animal-- picture a giant bobcat . . . that fills the entire room. It puts its chin over my shoulder and asks: “Ready to dance?”

Tama Kieves shared on her Life Tribe Zoom meeting last night:  "Impatience is a form of anger [and, I would add, a form of danger ]" - the assumption that the timing is wrong. And, I reworded her second half of that, "Creativity comes from love," to: Creativity comes from welcome--instead of yelling at it for being late!

Merry Christmas, Joyous Solstice, Everyone -

All blessings. I hope this posting finds you well, and blessed with the callings of your hearts. I am so graced by each of you.

Usually I share a holiday blog or poetic essay at this time of year. This holiday season I'm inviting you to explore with me a book investigating one of humanity's greatest inventions: writing--and our imperiled alphabets and scripts, and the cultures from which they spring. This would be an amazing Christmas/Solstice gift for yourself or others—a deep dive invitation into what is human and humane:

Writing Beyond Writing - Lessons from Endangered Alphabets — Tim Brookes

At rallies for human rights, in church congregations, at meet-ups over coffee, human rights are touched upon as each person having enough to live in dignity and well-being--with food, shelter, warmth/cooling, safety and medical resources—or, often in prayer, as “the three”: wealth, health, and relationships.

In a church congregation where I felt safe to express myself, I shouted out, in response to the identified “three”: wealth, health, and relationships, “ . . . and, Creativity!” What I was hollering out is that freedom of creative expression, in mediums with which one is engaged and/or drawn to, is an oft overlooked, oft discounted human need and right, life-blood of the spirit, for which much human blood has been shed.

Tim Brookes, in his newly published book, Writing Beyond Writing—Lessons from Endangered Alphabets, – reveals that through colonization and language imperialism, we have repeatedly squelched, suffocated, tortured and killed creative expression—trashing unique views, and rich lenses, connections, interpretations, and curiosities in lieu of the aggressors/conquerors self-aggrandizement-- driven by a sense of greed and buried self-doubt. And, he demonstrates an alternative, through honoring and making visible the world's endangered alphabets.
Yes, our physical needs must be met—and, so, too, the callings of our hearts:

“If, of thy mortal goods, thou art bereft,
And from thy slender store two loaves alone to thee are left,
Sell one & from the dole,
Buy Hyacinths to feed the soul”

– Muslihuddin Sadi, 13th Century Persian Poet

Tim Brookes, on a carrier-wave of his passion for beautiful wood, and a distinctive set of circumstances calling upon his carving skills, found himself drawn deeply into the world's endangered scripts, with their unique garden-bed of each script's culture.

Unlike our strictly bound linear Latin alphabet, representing only sounds strung together to replicate words and their meanings into coherent thought patterns and concepts, or to narrate moods and sensations, Tim found in the world's endangered non-Latin alphabets articulated cultural norms, values, traditions and practices, inviting those able to read them into a vibrant living connection with their alphabets and panorama of their shared inner and outer landscapes.

When we haven't known about something, haven't felt it, been in connection with it, or its loss, later learning of the loss, it's easy to slip into feeling it is not important, that it doesn't particularly matter, it isn't tangible to us. . . “So it slipped away; what does it matter” . . . “If it was so valuable, it would have staying power.”

Thing is . . . vibrant, beautiful, rich alphabets don't just fade. They have purposely, been banished by, as Tim points out, “the winning team” in intentional diminishment, or well-meaning sharing/”gifting” of the perceived values of our Latin alphabet, which it does have, but done so in disregard, often incomprehension of the value of the alphabets being pushed aside.

So---what has estranged us to the curiosity, wonder; the magic of eye-contact, touch, and connection, the serpentine wafts of insight, cleverness, wisdom, and compassion; of Something Else, other than our own? Why have the alphabets of “not us” been trashed, tracked, and murdered? – ongoing: See Mongolian subjugated to Chinese, Tifinagh to Arabic and French. What is it, about 'other' –and all its riches, that terrifies us so, makes us immune to the sunset of an alphabet, and its people, from our self-styled Latin alphabet ivory towers?

The answer? Often inner colonization—initially by our families, communities, cultural-norms, someone who was a strong influencer in our lives—then carried on by us, as sovereign, yet often not fully informed, adults--long beyond our 'formative' years. Tim's deep noticing, and artistic interaction with the endangered alphabets, and the retrieval generated out of that . . . has created a living bridge of honor, respect, and support of artistic/creative expression, the right of voice, of speaking one's truth and vision, via writing in one's mother tongue and script—generating life-support rescue for the peoples of endangered alphabets, ourselves, and our creative fire.

Breathe it in, feel it, taste it, touch it—and feel the oxygen, the renewal, the arriving to the crossroads of dust, wood, water, air, sunlight--and that which leans back into the night and wonders at the stars; the patterns in the heavens, our minds, and the pens and paintbrushes at our finger tips—fully present and engaged in the livingness, the illumination of scripts—their sounds and visual movement, and the answering echoes in our minds and bodies that comes from reading and writing in those scripts.
They alter what we remember, how we perceive ourselves and those around us, how we feel, the insights and understandings we have, how we connect-the-dots—and the decisions we make and the actions we take based on our synthesis of that.
​
Allow Tim's connection with wood and script to take you to some place new with an unimagined view. It will alter your inner and outer landscapes, your interior dialogue about how we are made, and where we are going. Read this book!

https://www.endangeredalphabets.com/

Our mission is to play an active role in preserving endangered cultures by using their writing systems to create artwork and educational materials.
. . . and join Tim and the Endangered Alphabets Project this January 23, 2024 for the first World Endangered Writing Day--”A day of talks, discussions, activities, awards and games in support of the world’s minority and indigenous scripts and their communities.”

https://www.endangeredalphabets.com/world-endangered.../

Warmly,
Indigo

DEEP WINTERING

WINTERING:

Luscious. I titled it in all caps. There is solace in the stilling of winter. Back behind the Salvation Army bells at store entrances and “sir-rishhhh” of tires in snow slush, there is organic permission to quiet, to go deep into moon-satined rivers deep within us, to curl up in the “tree-trunk” of our bodies, to touch ourselves, hold ourselves, to be animal, to be connected to the deeper rhythms, to relax into it . . .

Wintering: To “hear” what we see; to see what we taste . . . some kind of deep level synesthesia. Back to being "animal": alive, really, fully, with it--instead of just skimming it. I'm saying yes. I am giving myself permission to wallow in a year of soft gray and ivory, tawny tans, and deep shadow blues. 

. . . a year of cozy, of comfort, of nurture, of restoration and recovery from "too long, too much". I am going to literally soak in other people's words. What a vacation to take long drinks of other peoples' thoughts, contemplations, and flights of watercolor art delivering the spell-bound images of the word magic scrawled on the pages and the wonder of reading out loud again, the magic of voicing what is written. I'm going to read myself bedtime stories. Seed my dreams, stretch in the cozy warmth of my own body heat, peeking at the soft-footed arrival of the gray day, over the rumple of my bed covers, with a milky sun peering back at me through my window.

Wintering: having time to pause, to contemplate, to gaze, to mull over, consider . . . has become such a luxury in our time. I'm claiming a year of it. I'll be working, still, but only 36 hrs, instead of 40 per week, starting the day after Christmas—16 hours more per month that is mine.

I have several journal-format magazines, one of them that I'm working with now, Field Guide to Everyday Magic by Stampington, and stacks of books, such as Wintering by Katherine May, gorgeous books—images and words by Jackie Morris about Snow Leopard; another about a Gypsy-woman who rides a polar bear pulling a vardo wagon full of books who comes by in the night and leaves a book for you . . . Jackie's book about unwinding. 

This is the time of star boats that sail away into the rivers of stars. Then, there is the soothing of dark branches scratching the soft gray underbellies of the lowering clouds, pregnant with snow fluff, waiting to come down in soft flurries. I'm always amazed that our sensitive faces relish the nip of snowflakes, looking out from a ruff of fur. There is a quality to the voice in snow country that is a timbre like no other, held in a silence that you can hear. There is snowfall inside me, a stilling quiet, as those animal-self seeds slumber beneath the surface of winter white.  

Silence, an Open Canvas

WABI SABI IMPERFECT PERFECT, in my right brain

What will it be like?

when I frequently arrive to a

hushed flight of pauses—dipping and soaring the welkin of constant cerebral activity, cracked

open with parting curtains of quiet, skeins of  quietude—gratitude for skin-tingles either side of a bell

spilling into pools of silence,  soothings of sooty gray sky quivered by Victorian lacings echoing an

exquiste mend: veins of gold-dusted laquer, lacing porcelain Quan Yin, Wabi-Sabi imperfect,

tracing her mercy of silences into a canvas of sound.

A Different Lens: covid-19

Our world is in a cocoon--an unscheduled retreat, at great cost to many, yet  meta- morphosing us into a new form of inner and outer community we've not seen before. The enforced shift in social distance and varying degrees of self-quarantine has also been bringing about self-arrival, a chance for us to catch up with that which we never slowed enough to meet before.

In this pause, more inner changes--and the maverick actions that will come of that, breakaways from stuck thinking—have arrived than many formal attempts on my part to create change. Spiritual and literal oxygen has arrived, refreshing my intuitive web-link to the Universe, and refreshing left-brain and right-brain to each other, and the creative fostering that comes from their chat.

Years of entrenched views, that have held me back, self and life interpretations, that have hobbled my self-confidence, made me hesitate, pause in unnamed anxieties have gotten enough fresh air let in for me to be arriving a new me, to  how can  look at things differently.

I am feeling most grateful this morning, that being able to air out all of this in a safe environment, and some overnight incubation, creates a bridge for me start a shift out of this stuck place, this old view, old fear--and open up to a new way of looking,
interpreting it. I think just the idea that I can look at it differently is a shift.

And I look forward to the new view/interpretation coming in, even though it's still fuzzy right now--like adjusting the lens on binoculars and something coming into clarity.

Everyone of our tribe brings something to the THRIVE table. Grateful to share the journey. We can't heal what is hidden in mistaken think'n, until it is revealed. We Just stay stuck when its concealed.

I feel like a wild horse that has just cleared the fence!

The Doggie In My Heart

I'm grateful the pause of this covid-19, regarding my rescued doggie, Curry, who, last night, had an unhappy encounter with a baby gate that came unexpectedly crashing down on him . . . has me home today to help him recover from his assumption that the crashing gate was his fault and that I'm mad at him, which I am not—and worse, that it was a 'live trap' to then drag him away back to the pound.  I heard the gate, and I went to right it, and he was nowhere to be seen. He had gone to hide under my roommate's bed, out of reach, cowering.

This morning, when I heard his prancing-toes out on the deck, I went to go see him, and he backed out the sliding glass door and went to cower on the far side of the deck, hanging his head in shame, walking stiffly, as if he was broken—his eyes sadder than I've ever seen.

I got down on all fours, hands and knees, then went to lie beside him, stroking him and speaking to him in soothing “good boy” tones, and crooning other endearments. He allowed himself to partake in a loving belly rub, but then shortly walked away, tail down, and stashed himself under her bed again. I can only imagine what abuse and terror conditioned him to respond like this, what unbidden cruelties of “Your're not wanted.”

He is a most beautiful Basenji-Chi (blend of African Basenji, once a gift to kings, and loveable Mexican Chihuahua). He is the light of my life. When we brought him home last June, it took several months to build up trust, and play, and a sense of family with him, his being an adopted brother to my housemate's Chiweenie, Mookie, (blend of Chihuahua and Dachshund). It shreds my heart to see his sense of trust, confidence and play shaken out of him like this.

And, this can maybe be a rewrite of that story for him. Something happened that he assumes was his fault, or that he is the fault—and, this time, this Mom is NOT mad at him, and we are not sending him away to a kennel or turning him out into the streets because of, he supposes, his transgression. Oh my God.

Were our world normal, no covid-19, I would have had to go to work, would have had to leave him, with no time clearance to work this out with him, except in broken intervals, with more time for his old negative assumptions to reset and solidify. I am so grateful to be available to him, as we recover him, together. What grace this covid-19 brings to this, while I continue to recognize the distress, grief and financial impact that it has also brought.

And, in spite of this grievous setback, this morning, while a little dented, we started with each other from NOT ONLY the original trauma, but also from our shared history since that. He let me touch him, let me bond, even while he still warily engaged from a shadow of shame . . .

And now, a few days later, shared joy arrives this morning: Curry greeted me with a pounce, a wet cold nose, bright eyes shining. Here's the Curry that  I know and love -- squeaks of happy greeting coming from my beloved Basenji-Chi, tweets of joy emitting from my heart.

Arriving and Continuing

Ailment: I'm afraid of not being what I'm not for fear of $ financial disaster.

Antidote: Spirit finds the Soulution.

I am making a choice to TRUST my HP (Higher Power), that I call Mariko-san/MaiLing (Truth Worth) + All-That-Is, + Other and Company (the support and companions we always have, even in Anime)—and . . . in spite of the jitters, anxiety, fear, sadness, rejection disappointments, frustration, worry . . . on and on . . . to find the Solution that is work I can engage with deep motivation, and not put my writing and art passions at risk of prostitution. This is a rich and complex path to come up with the combination key-lock that will allow me to move forward.

One of the things I see here is that my engagement with the animal world—pet, feral, wild—is very directly connective = animals and those who love them. On the other hand, writing and art, though they can be inspired, and even amped by others, is a very self-engaged “retreat” energy for me, in which I get to dive beyond sight into both Treasured and completely unexplored realms, and the deep need for protected boundaries in that.

To many, I am sensed as an extrovert: Public speaking, blogging, make-it-so/happen, arrive the 3D, engage, take action . . . and while I do very much carry those energies within rich intuitive nuances, actually, it comes from being a contemplative, exploring, turns-within, introvert.

I grew up with a blessing of animal presence: Horse, dogs, cats, goats, chickens, baby barn owl, raccoon, baby fox—and—as I moved into later adulthood as a Cultural and Natural History Tour Guide,I found a renewed connection with fox, bobcats, coyote, eagles, hawks, jays, squirrels—and one very special Peregrine falcon whom I was blessed to rescue--(after a WEEK, I so found out, later, of others noting and not acting!!! This falcon now resides in the Sierra Vista area as a part of a licensed educational program, as injuries disallowed return to the wild, and a very worthy lifestyle alternative!)

Animals are magic to me, as are the stars/galaxies and the Fine and Performing Arts, and the grace of those who embrace these arenas. We are also blessed by paper-pushers, accountants/number crunchers, retail sales personnel, IT specialists . . . and it's time for me to find both my work and creative niche, which, while connected, are not necessarily the same. Arriving.

What I've arrived to is that I want to switch careers into animal grooming/care as work—visible and connected to my shared world with them and humans, and continue to explore my writing and art in a non-work environment. Anybody out there? Would love to hear from you!!!

Blessings, on your path and all your endeavors!

SURPRISE! When What You Hunt Finds You

Sometimes, those rare instances show up when something catches our attention from the corner of our eye--suspends us out of time--soaks us with a profound sense of recognition, connection, our only then knowing that sense of something lost--found. What has been unseen, disregarded, dismissed or gone torpid in unuse thrusts up and breaks surface--something that you didn't even notice was gone until that instant, until it stands there before you.

Under the glaring fluorescent lights at Walmart, surrounded by gaggles of noisy kid families about their shopping, out of place, at eye level, I flashed on the arresting image of a Blu-ray/DVD cover: a red-haired elfin teenage girl lifted in the arms of a svelte, boneheaded man--long elegant horns atop a canine skull. Reminiscent of Beauty and the Beast--it was something more. I stood transfixed--every hair on my body rising in a mysterious sense of joyful, other-worldly recognition. I was looking at a copy of Kore Yamazaki's anime, volume one, of The Ancient Magus' Bride.

On the spot, entranced by the image, I laid down my long-standing psyche pattern--the huntress with her "bow and arrows." As the "archery equipment" fell to the floor at my feet, my immediate takeaway was that I felt "filled." The acquisitive hungry ghost that haunted behind my fires of creative fervor and lurked in the luscious binges of engrossing conversations with friends, the want factor receded from me; shadow chased by sunlight. . . . I felt myself scooped up, on the spot, and held close, like the red-haired girl in the picture before me.

I felt found, seen, visible--wide awake, wide open--filled with a sense of possibility, mystery, intrigue--reclaimed by something--guarded and protected by a fierce, present, dragon energy--this, even while respectfully regarded and inquired--and mysteriously beckoned. To my sense of wonder, I stepped from inner shackles into an inner clearing.

All of this from a glimpse of an anime cover? What I had unknowingly sought stood magnificent before me--the anime image capturing an ancient archetypal story of a lonely mage and homeless young woman now become apprentice to this powerful, reclusive magus; and in turn about, sometimes she the teacher, his having lessons of his own to learn.

I stood looking at a star constellation in the night sky, recognizing it as my own. Why? Where from? Don't know. Don't care. Doesn't matter. Restored something in me--a sense of depth value, an inner confidence that had been definitely on walk-about--recall of connecting with a being not unintelligent by any means, but at the same time not acculturated to the status quo of our embedded social and cultural structures with all its attendant restrictions: Whoosh: breathing space--kind, if sometimes baffled, inquiry into Other, plumbing internal depths that had faded from sense and sight.

This is the story of Chise Hatori and Elias Ainsworth, and a full cast of characters spanning numerous realms; a story about the cultivation of empathy and self-introspection--seeing through to a person's quivering vibrant core and the ownership of emotions, choices and consequences; inquiring into integrity and ethics—not about the ownership or suppression of another person; rather, ownership of relationships and a deep regard for sovereignty, even as we are the challengers that trigger growth and change that sometimes takes us on separate paths.

I'm still receiving this new sense of being filled up, from within. Meeting moments of peace and equanimity before this, in the rich complexities of encounters with self and in exchanges with others, they've been fleeting. This brings a base shift; new glasses and new eyes.

Barnes and Noble, https://www.barnesandnoble.com, features an anonymous quote:

We lose ourselves in books. We find ourselves there too.

Kore Yamazaki has captured, in her magical manga and anime, a story etched within the very hollows of my bones, where the marrow lives: an Archetypal Presencing that has threaded my entire life--so often relegated, dismissed, as chimerical fantasy. Enter the ancient thorn mage and the courage of a young girl as they together leap into their own depths and darkness to find the light within both of them.

From want of use, since my late husband's passing, this archetypal pattern within me had slipped into torpidity. Blessed with rich, close friendships, and surged with cyclic creative fire manifested in a passion for writing, and in a wider arc, enamored with drawing/sketching, this part of me, a very active, vibrant and interactive part of me, had languished--a psycho-spiritual vitamin deficiency, costing me significant portions of my native verve, sauce and juice. A marathon session of watching season one and two of The Ancient Magus' Bride anime brought the lights back on! I felt alive as I had not in many years. Who knew!!!

Ms. Yamazaki! Self-described in the September 2017 Forbes Magazine interview as only knowing "how to draw manga" -- for me, you are a magician scribe revealed in this Ancient Magus' Bride story that spun out of you, renewing me to a deep sense of magic, of re-trusting the Universe, and myself, in my native ways of sensing and egaging my world--ways that over the years had gone bone dry in me--bones left to bleach and brittle, slivering in the sun--now moist again with quicksilver in my marrow, my psychic flesh sewn back onto them--my huntress' "bow and arrows" now a rubble of dust on Walmart's floor.

ありがとうございましたArigatōgozaimashita, Ms. Yamazaki

天の恵み Ten'nomegumi (Heaven's Blessings)

If I had Orange Hair

If I had orange hair . . .


Cfalaicos Short Red Orange Cosplay Wig

Several times these past weeks I've sported orange hair: a swingy, multi-layered, wig, alternate to the 1920's chin-length black bob of my real hair. I like the "otherness" the subtly different responses to people and things it brings; allowing a peek into other replys to the world, to myself. With the exception of one person, everyone I know liked it. One person I've known for years noticed I had freckles.

Incognito. The word brings to mind mood Bossa Nova: big black sunglasses, slouchy straw hat, white dress with red poppies-- eyes peering over the top of the dark shades; mellow, a little cheeky, a mischievous confidence. Think René Russo opposite Pierce Brosnan in the Thomas Crown Affair.

In orange hair I take off my blinders and let myself see, notice, explore what isn't usually on my menu; say hello to what looses me from my inner corsets into breezy chiffon and naked daring, skinny-dipping in the surf--fully engaging what undoes me into a flight of birds.

I've tried on many me's along the trail. One time a sales person recommended my trying on something I would never have selected myself. I had a lot of fun "trying out" the alternate persona looking back at me from the dressing room mirror. Some of her is still with me.

At a business dinner, surveying the room, I knew no one there. How freeing!--cut loose from others pre conceptions, and my own. I walked off the map into the undiscovered country. I didn't betray myself, just found more of me.

Another time, during an intimidating phone call with law-wielding attorney's, I stood atop a chair, unseen, none-the-less, changing the balance of power in that  conversation. It worked; I was bigger than they were; at least taller!

Next time you go shopping, don't just try on different clothes, try on different postures, gestures, facial expressions, 'tudes. On the way to your favorite clothier, take a new route, pop a Bossa Nova disc in the car player! Try on orange hair; you might meet a you you'd like to know.

The Heart's Story

My heart?

She's overjoyed that she hasn't got everything figured out yet.

She still has so much love, verve, and curiosity to express. She's definitely not done yet.

She whispers to me: "You know, there's a Korean film called: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter . . . and

Spring."

So, this is our new Spring. "No shelf for me, she says!" she announces.

"This time, I'm being found, rather than the huntress. Oh, I still will indulge in treasure hunts, but

instead of tracking with my bow and arrow, I'm making myself available--in some deep, rich, fecund

way, letting the Universe claim me--discover me, and in the process, uncover me, unearth me."

I feel the quickening of being seen, sensed, recognized, appreciated--allowing me, in turn, to extend

that to others, also learning to let the selves be found:

Found by—Found to–Lost and found—Profound.

Resounded by the choir of the Universe--found to what wasn't honored, cherished; found to what

was blown off, dismissed, diminished, disinherited; found to the nest of my own heart, a heart of kind

inquiry. Found to the easy dust of summer, dandelions and the buzzy song of insects, grasshoppers

and once green grasses gone straw-colored, crunching underfoot.

Found. Found to the magic of a cool puddle under the shade tree. Found to me! -- and the magic

awareness of truly taking in the Presence and Grace of Other. And graced we are that we are not the

only--and, that, Thank God, it isn't just all about me; that there is Other to discover, discern, by

making me available to its revealing; by listening to it, sensing it, viewing it with open and eyes and

heart--sometimes even licking it.

I saw a sign in a TV series: "Do not lick the walls." I remember licking wood fences to get a better

sense of that delicious wood smell. It made me feel a kinship with trees. I even licked barnacles

once--sharp, tangy, bland--all at once: a part of my sense-based repertoire. Hope they have barnacles

in Heaven, in our lives beyond the veil.

A Swatch of Satin Silk -- Magic Carpet Ride

My age 8, A swatch of dark royal blue satin silk "took me" to exotic lands -- places of rolling sands, diamond bright stars, cycle moons, campfires flickering the night with pungent smells of bubbling savory stews, and cardamom pastries, unfurled below me as I gently, invisibly, sailed a magic carpet over the scenes below, just close enough to catch snatches of laughter punctuated conversation.

This patch of twilight fabric took me to floating shrines, tiny barges with a wise monk where I

apprenticed in the ways of mystic cooking, on bound logs, floating islands in the quiet of mist--objects

appearing and disappearing through the veils of fog.

It took me into velvet black where the emanation of body heat and the velvet of his voice were the only textures, the gentle rush of phosphoresced surf the only sense of dimension, the only stage prop in the depths of the dark.

It took me to places the adults in my life served only as fantasy. I could never figure out why they

always wanted to return to what was not working for them--trading in adventure for their disappointed

bitterness and forlornness. I could never figure out why they didn't want to bring this magical land back

with them, into our world.

Don't get me wrong--I love bitter: bitter coffee, and the depth a little of it brings to to a ladle of gravy. I

love shadows, that bring cooling relief to the eyes from the desert sun, cooling nuances, and

dimension that isn't present in sun-bleached landscapes, that harbor mysteries -- but not the

shadows, the bitterness, in their eyes and hearts.

It's time for a swatch of royal blue silk, again, or a silk pouch--holding mysteries, reigniting the

magic of stories yet to be lived.

Shorelines, Horses and Self-Compassion

There's a point when we arrive the new shore--we're not still out on the ocean of change. We're not in transit anymore. We've arrived--for now. We through anchor. We step from the sway of the boat to dock, to the new land, our sense of who we were no longer the defining element. Someone hands us the reins to the horse that stands ready. Ah--free at last! Or are we? Do we dare to now get on the horse of each new day, in this unfamiliar landscape, inner and outer, free from the inner corralling and self-critiquing of the old life? By not only accepting our past, but actually affirming it as what formed and informed us, thus far--arriving us to this new place, sitting astride the edge of our past and our possible selves?

It is the strong sense of a Possible Self, in the Present, that quickens our ability to to rally from a trauma, to bounce back from a falter, to co-creatively respond rather than react, to what presents in each moment of our now, held in deep compassion and regard for the trails and sails that it took us to get here.

Years ago, I hit a moment of black despair: bitter, ashamed, cold, tired, I groused that no one knew where I was, and that no one cared. An inner voice gently cut through my shivering and self-disgust. "I know where you are. Let's get you home, and to bed."Something wise, deep and caring bucked the tide,  cut through my crap, with immovable conviction that I was worthy of grace and love.

I just finished reading a book called The Horse Boy, by Rupert Isaacson--there's also a documentary of that same title that you can watch on Amazon Prime. It's a book of wonder and desperation, of edges pushed, risks taken, of setbacks, doubt, fear--and breakthroughs, leaps of joy, and a deep steadfastness to inner and outer promises--not only surface promises, but the deeper promises--a story of a father's quest to heal his autistic son--that took them across an ocean and into outer Mongolia and beyond to the taiga of Siberia.

This book was a template to me in how we can show up for ourselves, make that same kind of deep commitment of staunch love and sacred witness to our own temerity, our new beginnings--then through trial and error, intuition and instinct, focus, attention, and practice, become strong and sure-footed when held in our own deep, positive regard. Held by a love that doesn't give up, makes it safe to bumble, to stumble, to scratch and yawn, let fly both curses and peals of laughter, to yearn and be fulfilled. Where it's OK--to encounter the unknown, the unfamiliar, nose-to-nose, to not already be all-informed, to encounter newness, within us and outside of us. To reach out and touch it, meet it, greet it.

Artist Caroline Caldwell, Artist. Bad girl. Co-curator of Art in Ad Places: http://artinadplaces.com 
captures this in her quote/picture below (by permission):

IN A SOCIETY THAT PROFITS FROM YOUR SELF DOUBT, LIKING YOURSELF IS A REBELLIOUS ACT

https://twitter.com/dirt_worship/status/897335952477007872?lang=en

Though I like my comforts, and the ease, contentment and security that comes from the familiar, I have to say that there is no more "bat-shit" feeling than withholding an adventure from myself, the road not taken--out of laziness, fear or self-doubt, sometimes exhaustion. What heals self-doubt is self-compassion. This is not egoic license to do whatever, without care. This is, instead, accountable, deep self regard. When joined with an invitation to be partnered by the Universe--grace, power and connections, constellations of support and clarity, form out of the mist. And the horse you're riding, of each new day, is warm and steady underneath you, as you rebel--defiantly liking who you are/are becoming, right now.

The Flavor of Bird Song

The flavor of a bird's song has blessedly been a part of my daily life menu since I was a girl. There is a sweet groundedness as well as vicarious joy in their flight that I've known that has a unique flavor all its own.

Sometimes sharp or shrill, equals too much vinegar. Raven's caw is like dark gray stones with layers of cloud, chuckings and warblings the punctuation.

The sounds, out there, the trillings, squawks and chips are vibrational recognition in me. So grateful for ears that hear these variances.

I once had a 10 minute conversation with a raven, until he/she go bored--and flew off, to my benefit as I had a jeep tour to shortly take out.

I've been wanting to renew my deeper conversation and connection to the winged beings. And, speaking of winged beings, dragonflies this year have been huge, and looping like Red Baron acrobats. Today I'm meeting with someone who loves dragonflies, someone who always renews magic in me.

I love the flavor of light in a person's eyes--the effervescence of their sparkle, the deep notes of their depths: notes, tastes, shivers, visions--the senses are always sending messages to each other, chatting, even as I tune in to one particular sense at a given moment.

I love to take pen in hand and follow the pheromones of their chatter, like stardust, sea spray--a gull's cry that pierces through the soft roar of ocean surf anticipating storm.

Oh, how I love a good storm, rich in sloshing deep sea-weed smells, chunks of herring dropped from a gull's mouth because his brother's morsel looked better, more juicy. One bird, like one word, leads to another.

Appreciation is the magic in us that allows us to taste these myriad flavors or birdsong; the waterfall trill of a Canyon Wren, the piercing cry of a hawk, and the haunting, eerie wail of a loon--calling us into the deep of our own mystery.

Magic, Mystery, Mayhem

I am intrigued, captivated, by the inner arc between our deep draw to spiritual and meditative practices . . . AND, reconciling that with humanity’s delight and fascination with murder mysteries—TV series, mystery-driven movies and books: Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries (Essie Davis/Nathan Page), BBC Sherlock (Benedict Cumberbatch/Martin Freeman), Sherlock (Big Screen—Robert Downey, Jr/Jude Law), Elementary (Jonny Lee Miller/Lucy Liu).

We are always “killing ourselves off,” – gagging and blindfolding historic selves that don’t fit what we need/want now; releasing what no longer works, smoking out what does even if undefined!

We’re rescuing what is valid, valuable—what is compelling within us, and within the structure of our lives. In our fascination with “Whodunits” we’re vicariously, through the storyline, sleuthing out what strangles us, undermines us, and liberating what’s been being held hostage within us by fears, anxiety and unreleased traumas, big and small.

Consider writing a murder mystery in your mind that kills off what brings you down, drains you, sucks you dry, sabotages your best interests, messes with you—and rescues the truly valid, valuable and compelling within you, that lights you up, and on that note, be careful to spare the inner bitch who holds your juice and power.

For in truth, we don't want to get rid of any part of us, rather, instead, get rid of the stifled, sideways, ineffective ways of expressing the range of what we are.

A Flight of Words

I wanted to start this blog, within a prolonged, extra-long exhale, gasp, gap in-between, since my last post, and this one, with the title: Tack vs. Tact. I'm no longer so sure that it’s vs. -- rather, that it is, truly: Tack and Tact, for both are about navigation:

Tack (in terms of sailing)

·       a change in the direction of movement of a sailboat made in order to maximize the benefit from the wind

·       a stage or series of stages in the zigzag movement of a sailboat that is changing direction in order to maximize the benefit from the wind

·       the direction of movement of a sailboat in relation to the side from which the wind is blowing, effected by the position of its sails.”

AND

Tact (as in diplomacy)

·       a style of address or approach used in spoken or written word to avoid giving offense—a skill in situations in which other peoples' feelings are want to be considered.

·       an intuitive sense of what is right or appropriate to say or share, both in delivery and content.

Words can be touchy, delicious, difficult, vague, poignant, rich, and flat— all over the map!

I love Joel Osteen’s spiritual concepts of “. . . upgrading our prayers; getting a Bigger God ". . . however, his referring to God as (only) "He" is difficult for my language filters. It does NOT preclude resonance with the message, but creates a hiccup in the reception.

In my take on things, not only is the Bible the “Living Word,” but, as I see it, Words are living, breathing utterances of energies, attitudes, concepts, beliefs, perceptions—that we house and express to others, in spoken or written form (or not—maybe just to ourselves), that take on form; become Living Essences.  

And such rich nuances: I’m thinking about the variances between the words timidity, trepidation, temerity, and . . .tremorous (adj.) or tremulous (adj.) re: persons, and emotional and/or physical states ranging from mild caution and hesitancy, and wariness to internal or external trembling from fear or weakness—vibrating, shaking, quivering. Where is Shakespeare? He introduced a lot of nouns, as verbs, into our language. While I may be hesitant, questioning, equals temerity—it doesn’t mean an unwillingness to try on what is new, or to explore new territory. Temerity is not full-on trepidation. Rather, it’s hesitancy to get a sense of bearings, so I know which tack to take, what approach—or know, for time-being, that ‘no’ is the answer.

I have, many times, been very willing to make a "fool" of myself, to invite others, in group settings, into "warm waters," -- often serving, by example, to “get them into the water.” Of recent, the acronym FOMO (fear of missing out) has been used as a pressure sales tactic. Interestingly, I’ve more often experienced FOMOFO—the fear of missing out for others, as I rarely miss out on what really appeals to me, and give little thought or energy to what doesn’t.

Well, so, in spite of owning a degree of Indiana Jones boldness, I’ve only recently really Bolded myself into, letting, allowing, permitting me to do what I MOST LOVE TO DO: WRITE--EVERYDAY! Wow! What took me so long! While the quality or intensity may cycle, or vary, I’m starting to look at as breathing: necessary, whether shallow or deep.

What the hay?” Go’n in:

·       Part of this shift is that I no longer feel immortal. I’ve lived just long enough on this planet to sense that I’m at about 50%, give or take a few years, through this lifetime.

·       The other part of it is that I’ve been reading and saying enough words (to myself and others) about both my right, and my joy, to live my own juice; to be in my groove, that I’m bolding into it, with the support of caring others—full-time--and, number three,

·       These previous two factors have kicked the stuffing’s out of my Inner Critic: FIRED, except for on-call consulting detective, at my discretion—filtered through the heart and self-honor, which generates healthy boundaries—which aren’t just about protecting ourselves from other’s encroachments, but also from ourselves and our cultivated fears encroaching upon what nourishes us.

This ‘good boundaries’ theme recalls to me the numerous nights after getting off night-shift that I drove the Lee’s Summit byways in icy chill or stifling humidity listening to Eric Clapton’s tribute to J.J. Cale, particularly these lines from Rock and Roll Music:

I make my live’n, feed my children

On         your        good       time.

I’m going to hammer out this rhythm

Until I get right next to you.

Taking this into new context:

 I make my (Life-Juice) live’n, feed my (Creative) children

On    your   good   time (stirring something playful and/or deep in you)

I’m going to hammer out this rhythm (that which Breathes and Pulses into Life Within Me)

Until I get right next to you (touch those trigger points within you that make you glad you are alive)

For my job is to mirror the depth of what you are, and what you are becoming, by touching and releasing that same within me--in a flight of Words.

Tiantana de Zhufu (Heaven’s Blessings!)

Navigating the Identity Sea

The stories we tell to ourselves; to others -- are the charts by which we navigate the waters of our lives, storms or calms, bays or open seas. They are what define us and give meaning to the events, people, situations and circumstances in our lives -- not the experiences, in and of themselves.

Aboriginal trackers are the best in the world, able to follow a man even years after he has walked through a dry desert terrain. An anthropologist asked one of these expert trackers how he did it. The tracker explained, “Oh, it’s easy. We walk with him.” He does not look for clues; he enters the time and space where the journey occurred. He knows how to walk in the same world as the event he seeks. – Mikela & Philip Tarlow

Not many of us outside the Australian Aboriginal culture have ever considered that we might be able to track anybody across a barren, dry terrain, years after they passed through, by entering into the time and space of the event. It hasn’t bteen a part of our collective or individual, stories. But -- it could be!

This is the gift of story: from the utterance of another's mouth, scrawl of their pen, tapping of their keyboard, production of a film -- if we're open to it, we can see ourselves, interpret our lives, in new, richly seasoned, deeply meaningful ways -- in contrast to the oft dry, stale, wearied stories we cycle within the loop of our private thoughts -- about who we are and what our lives mean.

Our initial interpretations and the evolving stories we tell about ourselves, as we repeat them, can be stultifying -- that is: numbing, dulling, boring and deadening -- damning us to the slow death of only half-breathing our lives; stealing our sense of self-esteem and effectiveness in living lives peppered with intrigue, curiosity, wonder and adventure. 

Or . . .  with new interpretations and unprecedented considerations, we can revision and rewrite the the stories that loop through our days and nights. Instead of just recycling the non-stop narrative running in our heads, and all the attendant "voices, fastening us to a bone-wearying sameness -- the stories of no hope of change, we can form and evolve stories that, instead, set us free--embolden and empower us, filling us with the hope of new visions and the confidence to act on them, allowing us to live lives free of historical debris, that accurately mirror what matters to us, way down deep in our souls. 

In Patrick O'Brian's novel, Master and Commander, one of the characters, addressing the art of battle, states that he never seeks to fight a person directly, but rather to undermine their confidence -- that is, the story they tell about themselves; their sense of themselves and their capabilities. 

The reason we so often get attached to our old stories, tenaciously cling to them and defend them, often with great vehemences -- is that we don't really believe that there are any new ones for us. Think again:

Have you ever tried out for a play, or a part in a film—or watched someone else give a reading? During a tryout, you can present a character in a myriad of ways: shaky bravado or powerful humility; waspish flippancy or attentive respect; sincere trust or scathing suspicion; despairing frustration or deep determination; raging disgust or ocean-vast compassion . . . just a sampling. You get to choose: you can have a different response, based on a different interpretation. Not only of the event, but of who you think you are within that.

We are NOT our stories. WE ARE the story-tellers; the choice-makers that TELL the stories and give them meaning -- infuse them with Voice. We are the interpreters of events, the ones who blow the breath of meaning into them.

And, we're the actors: we reenact our stories on a daily basis: who am I? What does it all mean? Who are the other players? What is our relationship? Where are we? Where are we going? Why?

We literally spend billions of dollars for others to create stories for us: In 2012, worldwide consumers spent $62.4 billion on movies alone, let alone TV and books!

We are all, wittingly or unwittingly, acting from scripts. What we often miss is that not only are we the writers of our life-scripts -- but that we are also the actors -- and the directors. While we may be the product of our past, we are the authors of our future. If we give ourselves PERMISSION, we can write different scripts, select or toss scripts as the director, and try out different personas and attitudes for our roles as the actors! 

It's always story-time -- from what we'll have for dinner to where we will live and how we will make our money, who the other players will be, and the nature of those relationships. 

For eons we’ve gathered at campfires and water coolers, in bars, and at afternoon teas, to share our stories -- chat them out over the phone, shout them to the Universe, whisper them into the darking of winter. 

Even now we gather at the pale blue fire in our living rooms—TV; fidget in the black velvet of a theater in exquisite anticipation of a good flick—placing our money down to be enchanted, thrilled—teased, lifted, scared or shattered into new awareness—our reticent, hopeful, mysterious spirits smoked out of hiding into something bolder and freer.

Through narrative power we can change ourselves, and our world. "In the beginning was the Word," -- and every step along the way. What will your story be?

Living By the Tides, Patterns, Rhythms, Present Tense

Living by the Tides . . . Patterns, Rhythms, Present Tense 

Each chapter of our lives has a rhythmic formula underlying out of which longer passages are developed. Finding peace and pace with these natural rhythms, the tides, within and without, is where we grow our edges into a sense of confident efficacy ,within the sea and seasons of our lives. 

On the flanks of the Olympic Mountains and bordering the saltwater are the Grandmother and Grandfather Trees, millions of them, infusing the oxygen-rich air with their exhale. Elders in their own right, their toes are in the soil of mountains that are teenagers: the Red Rocks of Sedona, AZ --buttes, pillars and mesas--the erosional remains of the southern edge of the Colorado Plateau range in age from 300 to 340 million years ago--the plateau itself, out of which the Grand Canyon is carved, 6 million years old, then this compared to Mingus Mountain,  across the Verde Valley, erupting under the sea, when  what we now know as Sedona, was at the "South Pole, 1.8 billion years ago. So, on that scale, the Olympic Mountains are teenagers, the oldest rock material ranging between 55 to 65 million years ago--which compares to Sedona' youngest rock. These 'young' Olympic Mountains have their  feet in the Straight of Juan de Fuca.  

“Despite the sea being wild and the waves rolling away from the shore, the tide always returns.” 
― Katherine McIntyre, By the Sea

Anne Morrow-Lindbergh [Wikipedia] was an acclaimed author whose books and articles spanned the genres of poetry to nonfiction, touching upon topics as diverse as youth and age, love and marriage, peace, solitude and contentment, and the role of women in the 20th century.^[ Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea is an essay-style work, taking shells on the beach for inspiration , reflecting on the lives of American women.

She writes: 

“This is what one thirsts for, I realize, after the smallness of the day, of work, of details, of intimacy - even of communication, one thirsts for the magnitude and universality of a night full of stars, pouring into one like a fresh tide.” 

and:

“When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide and resist in terror its ebb. We are afraid it will never return. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity - in freedom, in the sense that the dancers are free, barely touching as they pass, but partners in the same pattern.

The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation, but living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now. Relationships must be like islands, one must accept them for what they are here and now, within their limits - islands, surrounded and interrupted by the sea, and continually visited and abandoned by the tides.”