Author: spiritflower

Writer, author, lightworker

Heroes Among Us

When people think of heroes, they often picture those who risk their lives to save lives, such as first-responders. Indeed, these individuals are definitely courageous heroes. Yet, there are others in our communities who are also heroic and touch our lives in many different ways. For instance: teachers, who with dedication and purpose hold the door open to our education and growth as human beings. From teachers, we learn to think, to explore ideas, and to expand our minds to include all kinds of views of the world. One of the greatest gifts that teachers can give is support for being ourselves.

My grandmother, uncle, and aunt were teachers. My wife has been a teacher all her adult life, first teaching history to potential high school dropouts (using Howard Zinn’s People’s History of the United States), then graphic design to college students and adults, and eventually web design to people of all ages. One of her fondest memories is of a student who told her how kind she was and how much she had helped him learn. Often kindness and compassion are what we remember most about our teachers.

My fourth-grade teacher was one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. She treated her nine-year-old students with gentleness, humor, and respect for each of us as individuals. My favorite part of the day was a reading hour in which we could read the many varied books she had collected at the back of the room (or any we had brought ourselves). She honored our independent directions and choices in learning and in life. Not all teachers are encouraged to do this, however, especially now.

Today, many local and state laws are dictating what can and can’t be taught, as well as what books are available in libraries. The history of slavery, systemic racism, gender identity, and climate change are prohibited from mention in increasing numbers of educational institutions. The lists of “banned” books grow nationwide (classics such as The Diary of Anne Frank and The Color Purple). Belief systems constrict how we are “taught” and what we read. Teachers are currently facing a particularly heroic path in this country. And they persevere, in spite of the challenges.

I feel such gratitude for the teachers in my life, past and present, wherever I may encounter them. For not all teachers are in classrooms or education venues. In daily life, I learn from friends, as well as strangers, who speak and live their truth in the world. Wisdom can be passed on in so many ways: a shared poem or song; a calming insight; an expansive, inclusive idea. I learn from activists who speak out for freedom and justice (Bernice Johnson Reagon, Howard Zinn), as well as from spiritual teachers whose lives are centered in loving-kindness and peace (Thich Nhat Hanh, Sharon Salzberg). To live love by being love is deeply heroic and inspiring.

Sometimes people become heroes in the simple act of being themselves and in doing so teach others how essential freedom of expression is. The transgender community especially embodies this kind of heroism. When we listen openly to those who have been silenced or outcast, we learn to become more compassionate human beings. The courageous voices of everyday heroes who speak and act from their hearts and souls inspire us to do the same. Together we all step into living heroic lives committed to kindness, freedom, peace, and unconditional love.

Rewriting the Lyrics of Our Lives

Songwriters sometimes rewrite their lyrics to expand or change perspective. Today, we are all called to rewrite how we see ourselves and our lives in the 21st century, to be more truthful, more inclusive, more expansive, more heart-centered. Not only in the U.S. but everywhere in the world. We think we belong to countries, to nationalities, to races, to religions, to belief systems. In truth, we are none of those. We are immigrants on this planet, traveling here from somewhere in the cosmos to sing our human songs. We think we have identities as we move from place to place. Those identities arrive at birth and depart at death. What is left is a soul, traveling light. In a rewrite of the lyrics of our lives, the words will fall way and there will be nothing but that light.

The longer I live, the less I hang onto. Even the language I use to describe my own feelings and thoughts flows through me but doesn’t really stick. It is spirit speaking in the mother tongue of my soul, and I am just a vessel through which it pours. Each of us is. We are souls passing through. We speak and listen, but it is our hearts that discover the deepest wisdom, in silence, in love. Human/soul connection beyond lifetimes.

When those we love pass from this dimension to another, life can take on a limitless, ethereal quality. Memories are both close and distant, bright and dim. Everything merges into one somehow. I miss my parents and friends who have died, but they are also with me. Life on Earth is what we shared, but there is something larger than those lives that holds us together in ways that are outside of language or description. Infinite consciousness.

In recent years, I find myself floating in the intangible: something as fleetingly beautiful as a morning sky or a summer’s sunset. And it is not just one thing. It is everything. I walk but really I am carried. Music carries me. Birdsong carries me. Poetry carries me. Love carries me. I speak but I am speechless. The lyrics of my life rewrite themselves without any effort on my part. They are both vivid and neutral. They shift with the changes in light and sound and being.

In the end, it is grace that carries us. We are part of something we can only sense but not fully articulate. Early in life, we are immersed in the wonders of living. Death is distant. Then it comes closer, perhaps touches us in a sudden unexpected way. It is then that we begin to see a wider view. The lyrics we have written to describe our lives no longer entirely fit. We realize that at the deepest level, all of us, no matter our background, race, or beliefs, share a common destiny and are woven from common threads. The tapestry of life on Earth enfolds us in its wondrous complexity. When we finally see that fully, “lyrics” fall away, and there is nothing left but the grace of being and interbeing.


The Most Beautiful Place on Earth

I’ve been visiting it regularly for more than 40 years: Mt. Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Founded in 1831 as the nation’s first garden cemetery, it remains a place of natural beauty and peace for those mourning loved ones as well as those who come to walk quietly and appreciate the diverse landscape. Old oaks and maples, flowering trees and bushes, butterfly garden and wildflower meadow, ponds, dells, and hills all combine to create a vibrant habitat and nature sanctuary. To me, in every season, it truly is the most beautiful place on Earth: the deep greens of summer, the red/gold/orange leaves of fall, the sparkling snows of winter—but especially the rainbow colors in springtime.

Spring! The word carries within it the feeling and the movement of the season. My heart literally springs with joy when I walk through Mt. Auburn’s gates and see the new yellow-green leaves on the trees and the daffodils and narcissus springing into bloom. These are special days of excitement and joy for me, too, because of the annual spring bird migration: a vast diversity of birds flying marathon miles from Central and South America to North America. Many of them I see only once a year as they stop on their flights north to nest and raise their young. Each sighting is a cause for celebration. Yay—you made it, sweet little being!

At the end of April this year, I made my first spring trip across town to Mt. Auburn, and as I walked along Indian Ridge to Auburn Lake (also known as Spectacle Pond), tears filled my eyes at the beauty of the azaleas bursting with red and white blossoms and the magnolias covered with huge pink blooms. And then the birdsong! Warblers, tanagers, thrushes, catbirds, and the whistling notes of the orioles, all of them virtuosos of song. No human symphony orchestra could be more varied and beautiful. Every year I feel this way. Every year I know I have walked into paradise on Earth, a gift of a lifetime.

Machu Picchu and the Napali Coast are spectacularly stunning, as are the Southwest’s red-rock deserts and the Caribbean’s turquoise seas. So many wonders in the world, all extraordinary—and yet, it is a small, quiet nature cemetery in Massachusetts that moves me most, heart and soul. I feel Spirit everywhere there. My parents are with me, as is every friend I’ve ever shared a walk there with. And every migrating bird I’ve seen in every year since the 1980s, each special and unrepeatable.

The memories are countless, all of them interwoven with the course of my life—and continuing into the future. One of the reasons that Anne and I moved back to Massachusetts after two years in Florida was for those longtime memories of people and places here. Including our wedding at Auburn Lake with friends and family present exactly ten years ago this June! The saying goes that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” True, but for me it’s in the heart of the beholder. There is no beautiful place on Earth that touches my heart more than Mt. Auburn Cemetery.

What’s the Rush?

Why are we often hurrying from one place to another, from one experience to another? Where are we going, really? Your life span and the ultimate finish line (what we think of as death) will remain exactly the same no matter how fast you go. There is so much more at play here, like an entire universe. You and I perceive ourselves moving through time, but time is only a human-created concept. It’s as if we are on a treadmill at the gym watching a TV screen that shows scene after scene of unfolding events, some mesmerizing, some boring, some happy, some sad. We think we are moving with the events, but we are actually running in place. We believe we are participants with choice and control, but we are observers at the soul level. And we have a larger destiny within Spirit.

This is life, and there is no hurry about any of it. Our souls came to Earth for the experience. God experiences human life through us, and we experience God through human life. We are colorful pieces of glass in a giant divine kaleidoscope of light and sound. Magical, beautiful, fathomless. No reason to speed up or slow down. It’s all unfolding with absolute synchronicity, beyond your ability to make adjustments to what is occurring…or to pinpoint a destination. If you relax and let go, you experience each moment without any need to either rush it or make it last. It is perfect just as is.

Labyrinths, which wind circularly from a beginning point towards a center and then back out again to the start, have been viewed historically as life paths that people symbolically walk for insight and awareness. From one’s Source back again to one’s Source. Or Spirit taking form, journeying through life, and then returning to Spirit once more. I have walked several labyrinths in different locations, and there is definitely a deeper sense of moving and yet remaining in one place. The beginning is the same as the end. That is, birth is the same as death. We travel in time while remaining timeless. We are both finite and infinite. Mortal yet eternal.

Difficult to describe what is essentially beyond description. This is the landscape within which I continually find myself these days. I am moving while standing still. And trying to find language for the indescribable motionless motion of my life, of all of our lives. Poets and songwriters come the closest to capturing the feeling. In the musical flow of poetry and song, listeners often experience moments of touching the intangible, inhaling the transcendent.

It is also possible in the simplicity of daily life, through slow, conscious breathing. With each breath, you and I encounter God in all we see as well as in each other. If we are in no hurry, we can meet within the timeless. Rushing, we miss each other…and everything else. In one single moment is life, death, and eternity. Pause, breathe, and that awareness opens up inside you and all around you.

Signs

It has been my experience that the universe often sends us signs to light our way or guide us on our life journeys. If one unexpectedly appears, I pay attention, often with shivers of synchronicity and a bit of awe. When Anne and I were searching for a new place to live, we went to countless open houses throughout areas north, west, and south of Boston. It was interesting but also frustrating because we didn’t see anything that was exactly right—and we lost the bid on one we really liked. As the end of our apartment lease drew closer (and we knew our rent was going up significantly), the pressure we felt increased.

We continued to look, and then there was one new open house at a condo community we had previously looked at but thought was a bit far away. Since this new condo seemed perfect for us, we decided to visit again. The night before the open house, just as I was going to sleep, I heard an eastern screech owl calling outside the window. I had not heard one for several years, and never near that particular location. I listened to its haunting call for several minutes before it stopped. Hearing it in the deep silent darkness felt almost sacred. The next day, we drove to the open house, and as we walked through the rooms, my eye was caught by a small painting on the wall: it was an eastern screech owl. Immediately, I had a profound inner sense that we were meant to live there. And, indeed, that is exactly what happened. Our bid was accepted, and we moved in several months ago.

Anne and I believed the owl was a sign for us, a signal pointing the way. That has helped us as we acclimated to a completely new town and very different surroundings. It has been difficult at times to let go of the familiar and jump into the unknown, even if it seems right. Interestingly, it’s the birds and the trees that continue to reassure us that we have made the right choice. The woods around the condo community are filled with birds, which in turn fill my heart with joy because I had been concerned that there wouldn’t be birds nearby when we moved. Especially robins, one of my most beloved birds.

I need not have worried. In fact, robins became the symbolic welcoming committee in the months after our move. Entire flocks of them flew overhead and landed in the nearby trees and on the ground, even in January. They ate juniper berries from the evergreens and foraged around through the leaves for insects. On any given day, I would encounter a dozen or more, which of course made me feel happy and also more “at home.”

As winter turned gradually to spring, house finches and song sparrows began their spring songs. The loud cheery call of the bright red male cardinal filled the air each morning from the very top of trees I passed on my walks. Deep in the woods I heard titmice, blue jays, goldfinches, and canyon wrens calling. Red-winged blackbirds arrived, heralding the beginning of spring migration, and their musical trills added to the orchestral mix. The presence of this large wooded area was a magnet for so many kinds of birds, and as the weeks passed, more and more spring migrants arrived (including Baltimore orioles!).

All of this was immensely reassuring to me, and once again I felt, as I had with the eastern screech owl, that the birds were giving us repeated, unmistakable “signs” that this was truly our home, as it was theirs. When a robin flies to a small tree next to where I’m standing and looks me in the eye with that friendly, intelligent robin gaze, I trust the perfect unfolding of my life here among the birds.