A Circle Begins Where It Ends

So I seem to have this, um, talent?, for hearing a phrase which sinks into my heart, then pilfering it and using it as the cornerstone for a song or poem or writing . . .

And so it happens again:

A Circle Begins Where It Ends

A circle begins where it ends
A lifetime of love so begins
Journey's short, Journey's long
You really can't get this wrong
A circle begins where it ends.

I'm not sure what this is, perhaps a round (like Row Row Row Your Boat, but NOT to that tune!)?

Anyway, I like it.

The Ripening Season

Gently plucked,
yielding to lips.

Pinnacle reached,
softness realized.

Surrendering in this
ripening season.

Taj Mahal

It did not begin as my dream,
it was yours.

The land of the dragonflies,
desire, not for me,
but for a life
of open-hearted village.

I nearly passed by,
piles of brick visible,
a trowel soon found its way
into my hands.

And so I began to build,
for you.

Love so deep and wide,
absolute and infinite,
because of your weaknesses
and not in spite of them.

Your dream became mine.

I will not stop until
your heart's wish is filled.

I will not stop until
you have
your Taj Mahal.

Ancient Happiness

The well is not far,
you are not lost.

Still.

Feel your thirst,
inhabit it,
and do not look away.

Time has passed,
distance inspires
parched hearts
to seek liquid diamonds.

As fire tames fire,
water tames water,
with one sip
of ancient happiness.

God in Every One

I again find something inspiring in the words of my India-journeying friend.

He said in a recent writing, that the resort town on the Arabian Sea in which he's currently staying seems rather bereft of places to meet people in their hearts. That is isn't a spiritual center, there isn't an ashram, et cetera.

Hmmm.

A little story: I've been traveling back and forth between a smallish midwestern city and Boston, for almost a year now, at least once a month, sometimes more often. I used to endure my time in the aiports, either O'Hare or St. Louis, for the same reason my friend seemed a little put off by his Indian beach playground town. The airports seemed to collect the most unsmiling, unlaughing, grumpy, superficial group of people . . .what a lack of Spirit there . . .or so I thought.

One day, sitting at O'Hare, sipping my iced latte, somewhat impatiently waiting a few hours for my plane to Boston, I suddenly realized each person here, in this airport, was a child of God. This wasn't new information to me, intellectually, but in my heart, I'm a little sad to say, it was.

I sat for a few minutes, really focusing on emptying the clogged channel through which Love pours, and then I began walking though the airport, feeling God within me and reaching out with Source energy to people as I passed, especially to the grouchiest-looking ones . . . I smiled, and shined love to them, and they smiled a little Love back, or at least softened.

It was an amazing experience.

If nothing else, that day someone smiled at each of these Beings with love, straight from the tap through me, to them, and I realized I'd been judging these people somehow, and limiting my experience of them and of myself.

Even those of us who supposedly live in awareness much of the time, often fall down on the job. No matter, just time to get up and begin again, which is the name of the game, really.

And I've Been With You

My friend, who is in India, sent an email today, which said that he has had us all (this group of friends) with him on his journey there. This was my reply to him, which went unsent, but not unfelt:

"And I have been with you, in many different ways, and in many places. On Arunanchala, and in Matrimandir, especially. In the Tibetan Settlements, in the sari shop in Mysore, of course, and at the beach just now--your beach in India and mine here . ..our oceans merging, water poured into water.

I just came back from an hour or so at delicious Plum Island--at my Ocean, my birthplace and my love. . .it is a moonless and densely foggy late-autumn night, the vastness of the ocean obscured but its power abundantly clear, a cacophany of waves crashing again and again on the sand . . .blissfully alone in the chilly dampness and drizzle, I sat down on a huge black rock, perplexingly placed a great distance from any neighboring boulders, the perfect meditation seat.

The ocean's usually hushed shhh shhh shhh was this night a deafening score to my Ceremony. I dipped my fingers in the Holy Water and pressed fingers to lips, to my bindi-place, to my breast. I inhaled her sweet/briney scent. She roared again as the wind painted my face with the seaspray and rain.

I sat in silence . . .I chanted several rounds . . .Devi, Devi, Maha Devi, Ananda Devi, Namo, Namah . . .I laughed at the power of the waves and the dance of the foam on the sand . . .my Being, my body awash in Spirit--so clearly felt in the body. And in the heart. I threw my head back and raised my hands to the sky, smiling and laughing at the love swelling in my heart like the swell of the waves before me. I whispered, knowing I could still be heard above the din "thank you."

I sat in silence a while longer, eyes closed, and listened. And I heard quite clearly, no, I felt quite clearly "you're welcome," or maybe it was more like "YES!" or maybe it was the Sound of Light playing in my heart. But I heard it, I heard the Sun.

My Sacrement complete, the passageway felt cleaned, clear, blessed and ready to receive again.

My hair is all mermaid corkscrew curls and damp now --- I just caught myself in the mirror here at home as I sat down to write, eyes clear with ocean water reflecting in them . . .and a certain smile on my face only Sun, Ocean and a few other presences in my life have brought.

Welcome home, Mermaid."

Some Kiss We Want

Sometimes we are lucky enough to discover a poem at a time it speaks for us. This is one of those times. . .I found a poem written by Rumi -- it inspired me and partially spoke my feelings, but not precisely. I borrowed some of his words, added some, and deleted some. This is the result.

Some Kiss We Want

There is some kiss we want
with our whole lives

The touch of spirit on the body

The pearl begs seawater
to break its shell

And the orchid, how passionately
it needs light and air

At night I open the window

And ask the moon to press
her face against mine

Breathe into me

I breathe in spirit
breathe out love

in an endless shimmering, magical circle

Close the language door

And open the love window

The moon won't use the door

Spirit won't either

Only the window.



yes.

My Work

This morning in the rotunda of a turn-of-the-century, rural courthouse, I held my client in my arms. She is the mother of a teenage boy/man who is currently missing, a runaway from a youth facility, where he was placed for explosive anger and violence. While she wept and shook with sorrow, I held her tightly, and closed my eyes, water pooling in them. She wept for the loss of her son, in fear because he is out there, with winter approaching. He is reported to be accompanied by others who are unlikely to create a favorable outcome.

She wept that she could not save him. She certainly didn't save him when he was a small child, from brutal beating at the hands of his father, a beating so severe that it made the papers. Did I mention this boy still carries the newspaper article with him? It's folded up very, very small, tucked into his wallet, like a miniature trophy awarded for survival. He shows it to people from time to time. He showed it to his Department of Human Services worker once.

I am not a lawyer. I am a Boddhisatva. I don't go around saying this, because I work in the semi-rural Midwest, and would be known as the Cray-zee Lawyer if I did. But that's what I am (a Boddhisatva, not a Cray-zee Lawyer), and I've known it for a long time.

The work of a Boddhisatva is difficult. The main qualifications for such work seem to be an open heart and the ability to heal people. Lately, this is a challenge for me. The terrain of my spiritual path has been treacherous in recent times, and I've watched with sorrow as my heart closed.

My client gave me a gift this morning, although she will never know it. Her pain called my heart to open, and it did.

I will do my best to give her the gift of her son. So now I have to find him. I won't stop until I do.

Monsoon

Delicate drizzling mist
then liquid sheets,
flooding Divine earth
to ankle deep.

Penetrating every glistening, trembling leaf,
soaking every still piece of baked chocolate ground.

Watery blessing on sacred terra,
anointed with holiest water,
sprinkled from God's hands
onto bodies of gods and goddesses manifest.

For one god and one goddess,
sacred waters came down,
and came through,
and came in,
forever washing us together
in the monsoon of our creation.

Lost In India

A beloved friend recently took off for India for a month (lucky man.) Before he left I asked if he might carry a piece of me with him, and leave it there. "I need to leave this behind so I can heal" I told him, as I placed the piece of my past, the piece of my heart, in the palm of his hand. I don't have the words to describe the truth, symbolism and weight of that gesture, me placing this piece of my past along with my heart in his palm. You see, this man holds a piece of my heart in his hands, and always will.

But, *ahem* . . .clearing my throat and wiping the tears . . .

The point of this entry is this: I am beginning to sense that more people, more Westerners at least, make the journey to India to lose something rather than to gain something. We have so much . . .too much. What could we gain? Likely little. It's in the lightening, (Yes, it's in the lightening and the lightning!) that we become who we really are . . .when we lose enough, we can be filled.

This Thing I placed in his hand was a steel i.d. bracelet. You know, the kind you ordered in elementary school, with your name, address, phone number, and any medical conditions engraved on it. I bought it when I was about 8 years old, and wore it for a long, long time. Jesus is on the front, accompanied by a few words of the Lord's Prayer . . .

As I rummaged though my old jewelry, looking for something which could be left in India, a loud "No!" echoed within as I picked up the bracelet. "I've had that forever." "It's one of the only things I have from when my parents were still together."

I stood there clutching it. Tears running down my face, stilling myself to listen intently.

Holding that bracelet brought me right back to 8 years old, when my father was still in our house, before the divorce and his flight from the house and us. It reminds me of him in many ways, and reminds me that for much of my life, I've felt a knowing that I'm really not worth much. My dad left and didn't return . . .so perhaps I'm not worth any man staying.

I went quiet inside again and listened, eyes closed.

"yes, this is The Thing which needs to be left in India."

"ok, ok OK--yeesh" I admit I still wasn't sure when I packed it that I would really give it to my friend. . .I was still mentally reserving my right to back out of the deal, message from Source, or no message from Source.

I realized after I packed the bracelet, that some actions taken, some things acquired, have been a reaction to the feelings of worthlessness and unlove. The Things I gathered as insulation against the worthlessness have been varied and beautiful and I can actually now find gratitude for them: education I sought (proving something by being the only one in my extended family to get a college degree, let alone a law degree) . . .world travel and life abroad, languages learned to become someone else, clothes and other beautiful or things, many delicious meals in great restaurants around the world, the position as a "professional" I now use to earn a living, and the piece de resistance, the collection of lovers I thought could make me feel valuable and cherished How awful to discover this and how BEAUTIFUL to discover this!

So starting a couple of years ago, as I realized how much healing still needed to happen, I began in earnest on this path of lightening . . .and lightning.

I have sought loss, seeking to lose what doesn't serve the light in me, to lose the woundedness, or at least be healing from the hurts of the past. Hurt is heavy on the soul. Mine has been weighting me and waiting for me.

So a letter was finished last night, to my father. In it, I told him I love him and forgive him, if he feels he needs that, and that I would like to have some sort of relationship with him if he wishes. I said "all children need their parents, no matter the age of the parent or the child." What I didn't say, and know as well, is that all parents need their children.

Today, with letter finished but not yet mailed (but it will be), I spied an opal ring on my armoire, which was given to me by my father on a rare visit after the divorce. It used to be his ring. I've never been able to wear it, although it's beautiful and seems to suit me, because it reminded me of the deep crack in my heart left by the loud smack of the slamming of the door as he walked away. There is even a crack in the green/aqua luminescent stone, that you can see if you hold the ring just so.

I picked up the ring and put it on. I smiled. It feels like forgiveness and strength now, not brokenness. It also feels like love. For all my father's brokenness, I know he loves his children. What parent would not? Perhaps there are some, but my father is not one of them. This, I know.

Back in India . . .my dear friend will leave my bracelet someplace, and will return to tell me the story of the where and the why of the Leaving Place.

My deepest prayer for my beloved friend is that he will find India a Leaving Place, too. That he will leave his pains and fears behind. . .that wounds from a distant father, and wounds from a partner who couldn't see him as safety and sanctuary, will heal. Our wounds, his and mine, have conspired to keep us from one another at times, if we can leave our pains in India, perhaps we can find our most beautiful, Truest Selves, and each other. Amen.

India is a Leaving Place, and someday, I will go, following my bracelet and my heart, and seeking to lose ever more on the Path of Lightening.

What do I see?

When I look inside, what do I see?

The light that won't dim. Energy that people tell me is warming and welcoming. But the light isn't me. It's not my selfishness, or my fears, or my frustrations, or my disapproval of myself.

What is the undimmable light?

Every time I hold my son close to me, and see the eyes I've looked into for 7 years now, the light is there.

Every embrace of my clients (how many lawyers hug their clients? Too few, to be sure) tells me the light is there, in my work and in my heart. A lover once said I had "smart + heart".

Every meditation causes the light to well up and grow brighter and warmer in the stillness. The focus increases the luminesence.

The light is reflected in the eyes of my lover. Love given transforms via magical alchemy into love received. The circle whirls, the light shines.

And laying down in the night, smiling before falling into that beautiful blackness, I count blessings and give thanks for all the light and all the darkness.

Even in the darkness, I see.

I am here and I have a path, however late I've come to the trail-head and however heart-broken.

My heart breaks each day in a stunning display of independence from my mind. It's impossible for me to walk in this world oblivious to its pains.

How much more comfortable it would be to turn off my empathy for just a little while. But no. And gratitude exists for the knowledge that one of my jobs here on earth is to see and feel others' pain and to acknowledge it. Then to help end it if possible, to heal people with love and light. Thankfully, the chance arrives every now and then.

When eyes close, the heart opens. (Tantric lovemaking skills notwithstanding.)

When I close my eyes, I see god.

And as importantly, god sees me.

When I pray, god hears me.

But when I still and open, in the silence, I hear god.

I'll Create My Own Tribe

As mentioned in a prior entry here, I grew up in disconnected Orange County, California suburbia. Almost no one knew their neighbors, but no one seemed to mind. A few of the kids met other kids on our cul-de-sac, but other than that, one mostly recognized neighbors fleetingly as their cars stealthily moved in and out of garages, all with automatic garage door openers. (God forbid someone get out of the car to open or close the garage. After all, you might be spied and spoken to.)

My parents didn't belong to clubs or churches. So we two (my brother and I) didn't either. Oh, there were brief forays into Camp Fire Girls and Cub Scouts, but all of that came to a halt when my parents divorced and we were spun into the world of a smaller family, one with financial hardships and a mother trying her best but unable to be home as much as she (or we) would have liked. There was no time to run us to activities or groups or clubs. No time for belonging.

I gravitated toward some groups in high school . . .I loved acting and singing, (a surprise to no one who knows me), performed in a few plays, and was in the choir. I felt a small sense of tribe in the theater. We were teenaged, artsy, nerdy types, bound together by our somewhat precocious love of theater and song. I liked hanging out in the theater building, which, after a few years, felt like a dark, mysterious secret clubhouse of sorts. And lucky me, I belonged.

That was the only time I felt I truly belonged to anything, until quite recently. I've begun to work with an amazing group of people to create and build Odonata, an ecovillage in Massachusetts. In this group, I've found spiritual companions, interested and interesting folks who want to live more lightly on the earth, and with each other. Without so much as a secret handshake, I have been welcomed into this tribe, and I feel a belonging, even though we are still wading in the shallow end of this pool of community.

So . . .I didn't have much of a tribe growing up, and didn't have one as an adult, until now. I was always in awe of Native Americans, having been told I was part Sioux. As a grade-school girl I read book after book about the Sioux, and how they lived in harmony with each other and the earth. I often wished I was a Native American girl on the plains, in my soft buttery leathers in summer and my warm, furry buffalo robes in winter. I would belong to the tribe, and they to me, performing our ceremonies, weaving our stories together and turning our hearts to the Great Spirit.

So now, I get my chance. I will have ceremonies, weave my stories with others, and turn my heart to the Great Spirit. I can create my own tribe, and I think I will.

Where is home?

What makes a place feel like home? Is it somehow just that we decide it is? Or is there something more to the equation of heart + place = home?

For most of my life, home has been near or at the ocean. Born in, and I'm not making this up, Oceanside, California, my parents claim they took me to the sea a few days after birth and dipped my tiny toes in the Pacific, who would watch over me, or would I watch over her, for years afterward.

Much later, I moved to Stockholm, Sweden, another ocean home, only this time, it was the Baltic. Briney, deep and green, the Baltic cradled my bare 19 year old body on more than one moonlight swim with my lover. As Swedish became a familiar and fairly fluent second language, I grew closer to the people whose language I was speaking, and felt quite at home at the Swedish shore. I wanted to live in Stockholm forever. But Things have a way of happening . . .

After the Baltic was through with me, I returned to Southern California, and lived for many years on an island. Nestled in Newport Harbor, Balboa Island became home in a way no place had ever been. I took walks around the island nearly every night, with my dog-like cat, Magic, walking along beside me, no leash! I knew many folks in my neighborhood, and found a small taste of community there for the first time. No trip to the small corner grocery was complete without greeting at least a few people by name, and that felt incredibly good to a kid who grew up in disconnected Orange County suburbia. I wanted to live on Balboa Island forever.

But, life being Life, I found myself leaving the island. I'll give you the short version and say I moved to the midwest for love, about as in-the-middle of this country as one can get, literally. Des Moines, Iowa. To be sure, there are great beauties in Iowa, but there is no ocean, and ocean is my home. Try as I did for 12 years to call it home and mean it, and even though my son was born there, I finally had to admit I couldn't stay forever.

So THEN, through a series of fairly amusing and interesting events, and for love, again . . .I landed in Newburyport, Massachusetts, which has, the last time I looked around, an OCEAN nearby. Ahhhh. YES. Finally, I am home again, though having taken the looooong way home, circumnavigating the country to arrive where I started, at the Source.

This time, the Source has lead me to an amazing community of like-minded and like-hearted people with whom I've begun to share something of myself. For a woman who has taken some comfort in making herself invulnerable in many ways, it's a giant step toward a new way of being. Clear to me is that I've lived in isolation for far too long and the time has come to correct course. Most telling is the happiness I feel when I'm around this beautiful group of souls, who have decided to come together to create an intentional community. I love these people.

One thing's for certain as I look back at my trajectory around this globe and around my heart: I'm not afraid to let love move me.

I left home for love, and love brought me home.

That sounds about right.

Flotsam and Jetsam

I'm leaving many things behind me lately, some flotsam and some jetsam.

I didn't know the difference between the two, so of course, I had to look it up. So here it is:

"Traditionally, flotsam and jetsam are words that describe goods of potential value that have been thrown into the ocean. There is a technical difference between the two: jetsam has been voluntarily cast into the sea (jettisoned) by the crew of a ship, usually in order to lighten it in an emergency; while flotsam describes goods that are floating on the water without having been thrown in deliberately, often after a shipwreck.

In modern usage, flotsam also includes driftwood, logs and other natural debris in oceans and waterways." from Wikipedia

I've jettisoned some jetsam, and that feels great. Afterall, it was my decision to throw it overboard, right?

The flotsam, weeellll, that's another story . . .shipwrecks are rough, baby. Real rough. If you're lucky enough to survive, you're left gasping and choking, with saltwater stinging your eyes. If you're a mermaid, like me, at least you won't drown for lack of swimmability, but still, shipwrecks are hard on the heart and body.

I've had a few recent shipwrecks, and they've been doozies. The flotsam which is now lost in the sea . . .well, it needed to go, and I know that. Surrendering to it is another thing, though, and there's the work.

So I'm getting quite skilled at surrendering lately. Wanna see my white flag?

A Letter Is a Heart Unfolded (a song)

A letter is a heart unfolded,
and so my love for you,
but I'll fold it up tight,
put it in an envelope white,
until I can send it to you.

We had some stops and starts,
and we had wounded hearts,
what was I supposed to do?
I'll put it in an envelope white,
and I'll kiss the outside,
just like I used to do.

Can you tell me when
this place will open again?
Can you open that mailbox?
I think it's got too many locks.

A letter is a heart unfolded,
and have you written one for me?
No reason to before,
when I stood right at your door,
now maybe distance holds the key?

A letter is a heart unfolded,
now mine sits in its envelope,
crowned with red seals of kings,
and other beautiful things,
stamped with one small gentle hope.

Sealed with one small gentle hope.

Love Waits (a song)

Love has come to the edge of your bed
and waits patiently
for your fear to grow tired.
that's the thing about love,
that's the thing about love,
Love waits.

So, so many fears
whispered in the night.
So, so many tears
enough that we lost sight.
Two too many wounded hearts
and not enough healing.
Too, too many stops and starts
and not enough Being.

Now love has come to the edge of my bed
and sits there waiting
for my fear to grow tired
That's the thing about love,
That's the thing about love,
Love waits.

Now don't think I'm only talkin' about you
fear grows tired in my heart too
and when she finally falls fast asleep
tears of joy are the only ones I'll weep

Because love has come to edge of our sweet bed
and waits there patiently
for our fears to grow tired
That's the thing about love
That's the thing about love
Love waits.

Yeah, that's the thing about love,
She waits.

You're Always Free To Go and You Always Were

I heard this song last night at a music party, and immediately loved it. I didn't write it, but wanted to post the lyrics here anyway. It's written by Christine Kane and Steve Seskin.

The thing about this song that imprinted on me is how the hook dug into my heart. "And all you need to know, is that you're free to go."

It struck me as I listened to the words last night, that once a lover said to me, in the course of a conversation about us, "I apologize. You see my freedom, while I do not."

It was so true. He was always free to do what he would and be who he Is. If only he could have seen his freedom. He once, however briefly, recognized this Truth, but doesn't now.

He was always free to go . . .

Right Outta Nowhere

(Christine Kane/Steve Seskin)

A Midwest morning
October snowfall
She packed her Chevrolet
And she brushed the fear away
She's got a great big dream
And a history of playing small
And everybody seems to think
She'll be back before Christmas day
She hit that highway
With every ounce of faith she could summon
When courage finally comes
You never see it coming

Right outta nowhere
You open your heart
And that changes everything
You're going somewhere
And all you need to know
Is that you're free to go

A summer night
The soft smell of seashore
All the deadheads dancing
Out on the beach
He's got a ten-year tan
And his own little junk store
He says, some people got a lot to prove
And that's the way I used to be
Now I'm just an old hippie
With a half a dozen PhDs
Some choices hold you down
Some chances set you free

Right outta nowhere
You open your heart
And let go of everything
You're going somewhere
And all you need to know
Is that you're free to go

Dream and the way will be clear
Pray and the angels will hear
Leap and the net will appear

Right outta nowhere
You open your heart
And believe in everything
You're going somewhere
And all you need to know
Is that you're free
Right outta nowhere
You open your heart
And have faith in everything
You're going somewhere
And all you need to know
Is that you're free to go

If I Could Kiss

If I could kiss the moon,
I would.

Red Wing (a poem)

What was she thinking?

The inner self knew from the start,
could see the beacon
piercing her darkness.

Perhaps best to run,
far and fast
while there is light of day.

Once night comes
and blackness overtakes her
there will be no salvation there.

Or is there?

The Source knows better.
Perhaps a phoenix
is what you were meant to be.

All that passed between us,
all that passed within us,
learning lessons unsought
but necessary.

After all the warmth of bodies,
after the unwrapped hearts,
like two beautiful Christmas presents,
tasted the stars
and sipped the winter sky.

After the waters came down,
baptizing us with yes,
after the passions
broke free from their corrals
and galloped fiercely into the spring that followed.

After the birds began to sing in Boston,
scoring the sweetest film,
while the fears came back
with their insomnia.

After all,
I still believe in the love that took flight
with Red Wings
and danced on the moon.

The Light (a song)

We dance together and we
dance apart.
'Cause too much light can be
blinding to the heart.
All I know for now is, I don't want to lose the light.

Yes, I know
that the light comes from within.
But it also comes from
the dance of your skin on my skin.
All I know for now is, I don't want to lose the light.

The light that shines
through your blue eyes to me,
is the same light that shines
from every leaf on every tree.
And all I know for now is, I don't want to lose the light.

And yes, I do know well that the light comes from within,
but it also comes from the dance of your skin on my skin.
All I know for now is
I don't want to lose the light.

All I know for now is . . .
I don't want to lose the light.