Category: Soul journey

Remember

I have just finished rereading the ending of Ann Patchett’s new novel Tom Lake. I am crying—at the poignancy, at the beauty, at the soul wisdom. Last night I watched a 1988 PBS production of the play Our Town, which figures so prominently in Tom Lake, though always in the background (Tom Lake is a summer theater). I wept at that too. There are such deep life lessons in both of them, ones that few remember in their lifetimes. The characters Lara and Emily open to these lessons over the course of events in the novel and play. As does George in the film It’s a Wonderful Life. As are so many of us now at this time on Earth. We are awakening to how extraordinary human life really is.

Don’t miss a second of your life on this remarkable planet. The sadness and suffering as well as the joy and celebration. It’s all such a tremendous unrepeatable experience, like no other in the universe. Each morning, when you wake up, remember. The poet Rumi said it: “The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don’t go back to sleep,” This is the greatest wisdom of each of our lifetimes, throughout time, and especially now. Don’t go back to sleep. See the living spark of divine light in your partner’s or child’s eyes. Love your friends and family with all your heart. Appreciate them. Love yourself. You are a miracle.

Look around at the beauty of Mother Earth, the birds and trees and flowers. Everywhere there is beauty, even in the smallest detail of the most insignificant blade of grass. Even in a cemetery. A cemetery is a central figure in both Tom Lake and Our Town (and It’s a Wonderful Life). It stands as a coming together point of all life and eventually all the wisdom that arises from living. Spirit lives there. Spirit, which continues throughout time and space.

There is a cemetery that is a central figure in my life as well: Mt. Auburn. It is also a nature sanctuary, and for more than 40 years, I have walked there in the sweet silence and sounds of the natural world. I greet the birds each spring as they migrate and sing their lilting songs. Anne and I were married at Mt. Auburn, under the trees by Auburn Lake, the most beautiful day of our lives. I heard about the death of a friend there, tears streaming down my face as a bright red cardinal appeared on the path before me. I felt my mother’s spirit there after her passing, a cardinal singing nearby then too. And I have sensed my dad’s energy in the trees and the crows calling overhead. One cold November night many years ago, Anne and I watched meteor showers streaking across the cosmos in the deep darkness of Mt. Auburn at 3 a.m. Some of my most powerful moments of connection to something greater in the universe (Spirit, the Great Mystery, God) occurred there. All of life and death coming together as One in my awareness.

In Tom Lake, a cemetery on a rural wooded hillside brings everyone together in love and continuity. I feel that at Mt. Auburn. That is why I return, year after year. It helps me remember. We are all finding our own ways to remember now, we latter-day poets and saints of the 21st century. We came to Earth at this time to become fully awake and aware, to connect with one another, and to see the miracles in everything. In life/death, in pure being. Don’t go back to sleep. Remember. It is the gift of a lifetime, of all lifetimes.

Transparency

I don’t quite know how to describe how I am feeling recently. There’s a growing space within me, a falling away of the irrelevant or unnecessary, avoidance of the negative or pessimistic. An opening to pure being without motivation or direction. So much seems like distraction to me, useless to my inner self. And that inner presence is what I live for, full immersion in the love and light that arise from my heart and soul. These are transparent in the material world view, lacking physical substance.

Perhaps it is I who lack physical substance now. I am becoming less a physical form and more a soul. The outer world seems so busy to me: news, politics, networking, apps, shopping. My inner world is simpler, quieter. I read Ann Patchett and Mark Nepo, take long walks in parks or nature sanctuaries, meditate, do yoga, awaken early to write in the predawn hours. Day-to-day life arises from that place.

My life has been emptying out for four years now—past and present homes and activities falling away, living through breast cancer, growing older—all of it leaving a wider and wider space within. An emptiness that is full of spirit, which life continuously moves us toward over the years, through various experiences and relationships. We learn ultimately that that is all we are: Spirit. Transparent spirit, radiating light in the physical world.

Sometimes I feel invisible, floating down the street gazing up at the trees, talking to the squirrels and birds. I wonder if people see me or just hear a voice. Yet when I smile, others smile in return. Does the light itself form an image at those moments? I don’t know. Maybe we are all only temporarily visible when we engage with another’s energy. Otherwise, we are just light beings drifting through the world, witnessing transformations. Sound far-fetched? Actually, maybe it’s truer than much of what we currently hear about humankind. At least it’s positive.

The positive is what my inner self gravitates toward. What touches and lifts my heart. Listening to Christian Cooper and Amy Tan talk about the joys of bird-watching and to Panache Desai speak of infinity and inner peace. Reading the poetry of Mary Oliver. Looking up at the blue summer sky and feeling gratitude and happiness. The small details of daily life that fill up a lifetime and taken together bring wisdom and clarity, if seen through the eyes of the soul. The mind can fall into judgment, fear, and sadness. The soul knows only acceptance and peace.

And so I continue, day to day. I am here, but more and more, I am not in one single place. I am everywhere. I am not one person; I am everything I see and experience. I am the stars and galaxies. I am the universe. As are we all. No separation. There is a oneness to life that we only see when we merge with it, when we become transparent. Perhaps this is exactly why we came here to this planet, to this lifetime. To step into separation and visibility and then to vanish again into oneness and pure light, the source of all being.

This Is Life, Now

In a conversation with my doctor at my annual physical, we talked about various things, including the current state of the world and how people are reacting. We agreed that in order to get through these tumultuous times, individuals don’t need prescriptions or palliatives, distractions or diversions. This is just the way life is now. It is what we are experiencing on Earth as our species and planet evolve. And there is more change to come. Within change is hope, possibility. If I focus on accepting each moment and envision the light ahead of me and within me, hope opens up in my heart. Peace becomes tangible. I can feel it and glimpse it in the world.

That seems to be the wisest perspective for me, as I negotiate my day-to-day life through change after change. My feelings are unpredictable, not necessarily tied to a specific event. I’ve thought perhaps it is post-traumatic stress, after surviving breast cancer, three years of a pandemic, the passing of dear friends, as well as the ongoing challenge of a country (and a world) at war with itself. Or, more immediately, it could be tied to the fact that Anne and I are in the midst of a move between two towns, each very different from the other. Our third move in five years. We are trying to get our bearings, feeling our way. Not everything is cohesive or understandable. It’s a mix.

For instance, across from the building where we live are thick woods on adjacent land. From our deck we can see blue jays and robins in the trees and stunning blue skies above. Each morning the view is lovely, the sky and clouds ever-changing. Our neighbors are friendly and welcoming, one bringing us homemade pumpkin bread the day we moved in. Meanwhile, down the road is a pistol and rifle club where we can hear gunfire in the distance if we are outdoors. A few yard signs advocate stopping a state bill that would tighten restrictions on gun possession and sales. Unsettling, to say the least.

Two or three miles away, the public library has an excellent educational display about books now banned in the U.S., including The Color Purple, Beloved, To Kill a Mockingbird, and books with LGBTQ content. Many libraries and bookstores in Massachusetts and elsewhere have such displays and encourage people to buy and read these books, which are often literature classics. In addition, a number of cities (like ours, thankfully) have passed ordinances in support of the LGBTQ community. All of this is life now, for us.

The other morning on my daily walk, I encountered a woman, also walking, who began to talk to me in Chinese about all the weeds and plants at the edge of the woods, breaking off leaves and pantomiming rubbing them against her skin. “For healing?” I asked. She nodded and continued her explanations, not seeming to mind that I didn’t know Chinese. I listened for several minutes until she finished, and as she turned to walk away, I thanked her for sharing her knowledge. This too is life now: strangers speaking to each other in different languages, not fully understanding but listening just the same.

Could it be that my entire consciousness, as well as our global consciousness, is experiencing a major shift of Earth-quake proportions? Everything is changing, and nothing will remain the same, including how we perceive and how we listen, who we think we are and how we think. We may continue to face challenges and fear-based events, but if we look up at the heavens and in each other’s eyes, we can find inspiration, strength, and the courage to continue. All I can do is wake each morning with an open heart and peacefully surrender to my soul’s life journey and what the day brings. This is my life, now. This is our life now.

Lost and Found

This morning I am looking out my window at green and gold woods, blue skies, and white clouds. Blue jays fly from oak tree to oak tree, gathering acorns for the winter; a red-tailed hawk circles overhead. The sound of crickets fills the air, day and night. I live now on the opposite side of Boston from where I lived two months ago. A move from northwest to southeast of the city, one we had pondered for a while, not sure exactly where but knowing it was time, because of rising rents.

So now the trees and sky I viewed in the summer are completely different, leaves changing color in the autumn, sun setting sooner. Our lives change in just these ways. One day we call one place home; the next it is a memory, and we live elsewhere. A memory, though, that tugs at my heart in this moment, separated from an area that was familiar for so many years (40+). Within that frame, I sometimes feel “lost.”

We don’t detach so easily from a place felt at our core as home. We carry the ache within us, even as we step decidedly on a new path. I greatly loved the town I lived in, my favorite “home” from all the years of living coast to coast in various cities and towns. I was one with Nature there in a way I hadn’t been since my childhood in the Illinois countryside. I gardened daily (hands in the earth, flowers all around) and walked in beautiful sanctuaries like Mt. Auburn Cemetery, where the seasons, animals, and birds dance through the year with a vividness and light beyond description.

So what do you do if you feel lost? Do you try to be found, or try to find—yourself? Words and language can sometimes trick us into believing there is something missing in our lives. Perhaps it’s not about losing and finding but just about being. Fully present, fully alive. If I think I am lost, I look for what is missing, when actually everything is always present all the time! Home is in my heart if I recognize it there.

So here I am, gazing out at a forested landscape. The sky and clouds are stunning. My heart may not feel completely one with what my eyes see—yet. It takes time to find and feel connection, with people and with places. So I wait patiently, with a mix of feelings, knowing that all it takes is a single moment of shining brilliance to fall in love with what you are seeing and experiencing.

These are the moments we live for. And they always come at the most unexpected times. You can’t orchestrate them or wish them into being. You can only repeatedly remind yourself to remain open and that no matter what you are doing or not doing, or where you are, your soul is at home and experiences the miracle of living spirit everywhere. Even now, the blue jays are calling, their silhouettes bright among the trees….

Love, Peace, and Flower Power?

My generation was born in the years after World War II and the Holocaust. The horrors and suffering of that time were still in our parents’ consciousness when we were conceived. If cellular memory can be transferred parent to child, then we emerged with our own unique consciousness that was a mixture of the pain of the past and hope for the future. We carried that through the years of our growing up and coming of age as we witnessed the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War on our TV screens. At a certain point, we ourselves birthed a new awakened awareness, informed by global events but also infused with a positive vision for humanity that we had come to Earth to express. We became the activists and flower children of the late 1960s and 1970s. In the midst of the world’s conflicts and hatred, we spoke our simple truth: Love, Peace, and Flower Power.

In 1969, “in the streets of San Francisco,” I wore flowers in my hair, moved by a belief in loving connections beyond my one individual lifetime. I, and so many others, held that belief in our hearts for decades, working individually and collectively for a more compassionate world based in loving-kindness and equality. We may not use those words now in the 21st century, but the sentiment still rings true for many of us. The question is: Is it still relevant?

What is the state of human consciousness and inter-relationships on this planet? Is love of others and peace on Earth really possible? Many would say No, humans hate and kill one another again and again. Yet, that’s not the whole story. In so many places, what continues to flower (!), in spite of all odds, is kindness and mutual support among people in diverse communities, as well as the courage and strength to persist and survive. Perhaps balance is slowly being restored.

In singing, in speaking, in sharing, we express our humanity, heart and soul fully engaged and interactive with others and with the positive energy of connection and love. We come together in unity for the common good. The deeper truth is that the future is being lived now. This moment is all we have, according to the wisdom of elders in so many cultures. What you sow, you shall reap, moment to moment. Live love, and love moves through you in circles of reciprocity and expansion within your lifetime and beyond. Together we are a living breathing mandala of possibility and wonder. We are colorful bits of light dancing within a cosmic kaleidoscope. We are Spirit in human form.

So perhaps “love, peace, and flower power” never becomes obsolete, outdated. The specific words may change, the clothing and hairstyles differ, but the living spirit of humanity always holds within it a seed of compassion and care for others. Love is timeless, peace is within us, and nature reflects back to us the beauty of our own beingness in every flower that blooms. This is the vision I have held all my life.