We tend to work like old cars. Something goes: The engine. The body. The smooth flow of heat and friction. The get up and go. The pedal to the metal, as they say. But we are not machines or computers. Even if society tricks us, Influences us, Tells us otherwise. I am more than a widget giving an output. Yes, we all need each other. We are an interdependent species, Even when we can feel the most alone. Our time is sacred and limited Precious and potent. How can society run simpler? With less friction, tension and pressure So that what we do matters less than Who we are and how we show up? Maybe that is what maturity and the taking time To ask the questions brings -- Not just rote memory Of what we have always done -- That feels like important, sacred, fulfilling work And maybe a focus I can further explore. Today I am grateful that I’m able to focus On what matters: Healing and connection. Asking. Being curious. Showing up authentically. And maybe illuminating a path for my daughters So they do not fall into those same busy-til-you-break traps.
Category: Connection
The old bakery
We walked everywhere as kids. Mom didn’t drive so our options were limited. We walked up and down the busy at times streets. Cars whizzed by. The blaring sirens of firetrucks and ambulances. The familiar thud as car tires ran over a dipped manhole cover. I don’t remember why we were in Wescott. There was no bus route or a friend’s house to visit. Then I discovered a bakery. I could smell the fresh loaves of bread long before we crossed the threshold. My stomach growled, wanting to gobble the aroma that danced and swirled around my nostrils. Did we go in? Did we buy a prized loaf? I don’t remember eating the fresh bread, just the aromas lingering as we walked by. A secret bakery, no longer hidden from our path. Sweet, fresh, warm, beckoning us all inside for a bit a reprieve from the walking, how our legs would sometimes ache. And our stomachs’ noise matched our longing. A childhood memory, forever etched in my mind of a long gone bakery of decades past.
Just us
The evening sky is now pitch black. It is hard to see much around me. I arrive with my friends, Josh and Sue. We are at the local elementary school playground. There is sandy grass beneath our feet. It is just us at this time of night. We feel free to play. At the cusp of adulthood. The tail end of childhood. The freedom to yell and shout. The freedom to play without care or worry. We laugh and joke. Our spirits are high. And so are we. I don’t know who started the idea of spinning like a dervish dancer. Spin and spin. The world is a blur of streetlights swirled into darkness. And then we start to run in our dizzy haze. And we laugh and laugh. Because, try as we might, to run in a straight line, our bodies run in zigzags, haphazard, and sideways. And it makes us laugh. How out of control our bodies can be when we are dizzy and high. And having a grand time. There’s not much to do when you’re young and broke. To entertain ourselves in this small town. The cops don’t bother us. We are not encumbered In knowing what the future brings. The lines and plans we make are never straight and linear. Try as we might to head for a target, We veer off course and into unintended directions. Destinations uncharted, and that is thrilling. The surprise. How our bodies seem to have a mind of its own. And we’re just along for the ride. Almost surrendering to forces we can’t control. The world stops spinning for a moment All is still and dark once more. It’s quiet. Our bellies hurt from the laughter. Now in the past a distant memory of a silly circumstance.
The coolness of night
The coolness of night Blankets the earth while I slumber. It sparkles with life When it bathes in the morning light. How did it get there? Where dreamers dream It took a rest Leaving only its cool mist As evidence in the morning. Soon evaporated and vanished. A distant memory On the tip of your tongue. Unsure if it was real Or just a dream.
Rest is a landscape
Rest is a landscape and a peaceful terrain. I feel the wave of relaxation Wash over me Like healing prana energy. I vibrate in its essence. I embody the essential nature. Rest returns me to me. More than a return to center. It’s a return home. Where I am always welcome. A place where I belong. Rest is a landscape And a peaceful terrain Of healing and belonging. It is not a far away place. It is always within me Around me and a part of me.
That Rhythmic Dance
I have shared my love of the skies With my children Just as my mother has to me. It is a connection to the cycles, To the phases. A generation of past and future All tracked by astronomers. The regular rhythms and rotations. The future can be predicted With precision. It goes unnoticed. That beauty. That light. If not for my calendar And my lunar yoga practices, I may lose that connection. Unaware of that rhythmic dance Of the cosmos always happening Hidden behind those clouds. Beyond my human sight. There is magic and certainty, Mystery and always beauty.
Shadow and Light
To know what’s behind the shadow I must stand in the light. It may be uncomfortable It may be out of my comfort zone. It may feel out of sorts and confusing. Only the light illuminates. The truth can be too much, Like too much sunlight without a shady spot. The shadow is not always a scary corner. A dark place can be healing. A cozy cave, a reprieve from the spotlight. A space to regain and meet myself again. In the beginning, the womb was dark and was all I knew. Then there was a bright light. The world was born as I knew it. Spring is nature’s green light. A signal that we can go if we want. We can emerge from the shadow into the light. The days march on, allowing in that knowing sun. The butterfly emerges from the chrysalis Transformed in a safe cocoon And the world was reborn into flight. My feet touch the newly green grass That has grown in that warm sunshine And takes reprieve in the shadow of night Knowing that the light will greet it once more. And the greenery will grow more lush and fresh All due to the bright rays above.
The water does not flow until the faucet is turned on
How do I get back into flow? Is there a kink in the system? Like a hose with a knot The full force is slowed. Not completely stopped, But there is a definite blockage, A detour. And my resourcefulness gets turned on. It lays dormant when life feels easy, Downstream, and at one with the current. Less debris Less diverged channels. Life has its interruptions. Where the flow is now a trickle Does that mean my journey is at its end? Am I fixated on the muddy tracks of water, The stagnant spots? If I look closer, as the sediment has settled, Things can be clear when I focus. Sometimes rest, not resourcefulness, Is in order. To lie in the earth To watch the clouds To catch my breath To feel rested and recharged, then I’m ready To begin the journey again.
Awareness & Acceptance
It’s a practice to be aware of when I’m accepting and surrendering And when I’m complaining, Lost in the weeds and missing the big picture. If I want to learn and grow, I must practice. The effort ushers in the Gifts of growth. When we master the practice, We become the master of our lives. No longer thrown about Unchartered, untethered. We chart the course of our lives. We get an outlook on what’s ahead While appreciating what we have right now.
Each day is a gift (II)
The earth is waking up. The ground softens And looks more bright. Can I soften too? Each day is a gift. This body, this life. It’s more than just to merely survive. The season, The challenges Come and go. This body, Like this earth, Is a gift. It provides more than The instruments to just Survive and get by. As the ground softens, The many shades of green Surround my senses. In delight and insight, Growth, Rebirth. I can gift myself With that same delight.
Healing Insights 