Drag your thoughts away from your troubles… by the ears, by the heels, or any other way you can manage it.
Happy birthday, dear Mr. Twain. More than any other author, yours is the blessing of succinct wit. Once again, you said it best, and I am left to elaborate in my own clumsy way.
Mindfulness and meditation are tools that strengthen my psychic muscles, yet often leave me stuck in the realm of Thinking. At their most effective, such tools are better used by Mind. That capacity of perception, compassion and awareness that seems to reside everywhere and nowhere at once. Most of the time I find it in my heart. And I find my heart, with no struggle, on land that sings of grace, and my place in it.
Mornings at the creek, dressed in colors of the season. I pick up the invisible loom and weave this beauty into my soul.
The threshold of seasonal change has been crossed and we are fully enclosed in winter. The descent into the underworld is often fraught with tension and resistance. Then suddenly, we find we have arrived and survived the journey and, taking a look around, discover that it is actually quite beautiful. The more our shadow becomes known to us, the more we embody and reclaim the perfect art form that we are.
The fantastic spectacle of fruit and flowers is over, and everything is stripped down to essence. Luminous and bare.
We want to feel the world, and it wants contact with us. How can we resist the siren’s call?
True reflections. Through you, I know me. Through me, I know you. This is how we flow, Mother and Child, Water and Stone, Sun and Shade, Life and Decay.
I love the Digger Pine. Which, I found out this morning, is actually a racist name for it. I had always assumed it was called a digger pine for the way its tenacious roots take hold on the rockiest of soils. But actually, it is named after the First Nation peoples of California, who dug around the roots for nuts. “Digger” is now considered offensive, and yet the tree has no other official name. Two are the “Foothill Pine” and the “Nut Pine”. Yet I want a name that considers that quality of taking hold, regardless of the lack of ideal conditions. O Tannenbaum, what to call your sparse electric branches, your turpentine cones of sustenance, your eclectic silhouette?
Speaking of turpentine cones, I spent the second morning in search of, and blissed out on, pine nuts. Nothing gives me more respect for my four footed kin than the effortless extraction of nuts, when my poor hands were pitched and torn for days afterward. Again, Mark Twain says it best,
It is just like man’s vanity and impertinence to call an animal dumb because it is dumb to his dull perceptions.
The story goes that my Papa (Grandfather on my mother’s side) used to have the kids shell pinion nuts. He would wait until they had amassed a nice little pile of the meats, and then grab them up, eating the fruits of their labors in one gulp. Hilarious, until you consider having spent 15 minutes just to get one nut.
Fern tried several, spitting them all out. GAH! Do you know how much these cost in the store? Oh sorry, I forgot you prefer to get your nourishment from
the creek scum blue green algae.
We awoke early this morning, and Fern said into the early morning light, “Mama, I wanna go home.”. (Which actually sounds like, Mama, I wah gah hooooome). We rolled around giggling as I asked her, “Where do you think we are? On the Moon?”. She kept repeating her request to go home, and suddenly it occurred to me. Fern, do you mean Bella Vista? Where the creek is? She immediately answered yes.
I know exactly how she feels.
Let us live so that when we come to die even the undertaker will be sorry.