shine brightly

This post and this post have invited me to think about the winter solstice this evening.

I have always been drawn to the solstices. They are like bookends in midst of my year. I love the images of the world turning as my corner becomes full of light or full of night. I am drawn to the idea of the ancients and the way they celebrated the solstice (something my husband brought up to me today). And in the winter, I reflect on the hope that sits in the fact that the days begin to lengthen.

The idea that winter can be a journey inward. In a time of year when everything is about the opposite. The shopping, travel, buying, expectation, disappoint, singing, joy, togetherness. Instead, it could be about spending a few moments alone, quiet, in reflection, just for you.

A year ago, I met with my yoga teacher for a private session. I wanted to integrate chanting and meditation into my daily practice. She gave me a beautiful chant that evokes the idea of spinning all the petals of your heart; it has become my favorite and I sing it often. My heart, mind, spirit soar as I sing. The meditation was to breathe in suffering and exhale compassion. At the time, two loved one were sick with cancer and I wanted to bring my love for them into my practice. She said on days when I felt strong enough, I could breathe in their suffering and then exhale compassion for them. But the most important part was that I first had to do this for myself. Inhale my suffering, exhale compassion for myself. Even though I could not heal the cancer, I could reach out to them in this way. One of them died in February; the other is almost cancer-free.

Now, I work with breathing in compassion and breathing out compassion. I have not felt strong enough to "take on" the suffering of another. In my moments of quiet, I am trying to feel the creation of this compassion inside me. My heart is trying to heal. My grandmother was not one of the loved ones I thought about during my meditation practice. She did not seem to be ill; my grandfather was the one with cancer. Even though I rationally understand that it is not my fault that she died and that with my very life I was sending her love and energy daily because of our relationship, I still think "if only I had realized..." With this winter solstice, my hope for myself is that I will begin to let go of this. As a new cycle begins with the light of the day, a new cycle might begin inside of me, with my light. My hope is that my light will begin to grow stronger, brighter, fuller through this gift of self-compassion.

My hope for you is that you will feel your light. That you will sit in the quiet long enough to find it, feel it, see it inside of you. As the days lengthen, let go of some of your darkness, and let your light shine brightly.

SPT 12/20

I see
what you would see
if you were to look in
on me during the day.
My little room
where I work, create, meditate.
I surround myself with art
from past and present,
books for work and play,
glimmers of inspiration
for all parts of me.
The reflection sees
what I usually see
as I sit here
working, writing, creating.
The backyard, birdfeeders, trees, the garage.
A view into my world.

See other SPT photos here.

(An afterthought.
But if you do want to look
in on me during the day,
please just knock on the door.
I will let you in
and you can join me
to play, work, create, and meditate.
If you were to really stand at the window
and look in at me
and I didn't know you were stopping by
or I didn't recognize you...
well, that is a fear of mine.
So please,
drop me a line
to let me know you might stop by
and you are welcome to spend
some time in my world.)

hope

our prayer is that
people everywhere will
finally learn to live
as brothers (and sisters),
to respect each other's
differences, to heal
each other's wounds,
to promote each other's
progress and to
benefit from each
other's knowledge.

adlai stevenson

rest in peace john spencer

i am saddened at the loss of someone i looked forward to seeing every week. for 6 years i would spend time with him every wednesday night from 9-10; this year, i would see him on sundays from 8-9.
he played leo mcgarry on my favorite show. the west wing. his integrity, sense of humor, honesty, courage made my heart soar every week.
tonight i will spend some time thinking about john spencer and his family.
we invite people into our homes through television, movies, books, art, music. we invite them into our hearts. we learn from them, sing with them, laugh at and with them. often, we become better people from having "known" them.
i am happy to have invited john spencer into my home every week for years now. his character reminded me that i am proud to live in the country.

senses. tonight.

See...
The lights are low, candles burn in every corner, on every table. Paintings on the walls. Garland, baubles, lights adorn the hearth. Faces captivated by sound. People holding mugs of coffee, tea, wine glasses, forks poised over coconut cake and brownies. Musicians enraptured by the music they create. Little girls become friends as they dance together. Clapping hands, tapping toes. A woman with long white hair and a ladybug hairpin bobs her head up and down like a jack in the box keeping time with the music. Sometimes it is as though she thinks she is the bow the fiddle player uses; she seems as though she creates the music. Her foot kicks in the air under the table. Families, couples, friends...community.

Taste...
Coffee, milk, chocolate, mint. Peppermint mocha.

Hear...
Piano, fiddle, flute, banjo, drum. Laughter. Snippets of conversation. Coffee grinding. Espresso machine. Singing, clapping, children giggling. An Irish lilt in song.

Smell...
Coffee beans, candlewax, chocolate, warmth.

Touch...
The velvet of my skirt; the soft cashmere of my sweater. The warmth of my husband's hand. The hot, smooth, steaming mug. The floor beneath my feet as I tap my heel and dance in small movements in my chair.

And know...
You may have moments when your heart feels small. Invite music, laughter, dance inside and you will remember how big your heart has always been.

lighter with a side of shallow

Tonight, my husband and I enjoyed an early Christmas gift.
An electronic upgrade from an elf in Indiana (my father).
Our 19 inch tv has morphed into a new sony wega 32 inch.
Wow.
I knew about it a few days ago, but J. had no idea until he came home this afternoon.
His face was priceless.
Do we need a tv this big? No.
But the joy of being down the hall and hearing him exclaim "I am one with the bacteria" as he watched the science channel was pretty great...
(and now I don't have to get my glasses to read the ticker on CNN)

she was not perfect

She was not perfect.
In fact, I often described her as crotchety (well, not to her face).
She was private to a fault, and she criticized her children too much.
She was married to my grandfather for 59 years and 7 months.
She did not have many friends; she seemed to enjoy solitude.
A gentleness began to blossom inside her when her grandchildren were born.
She could seem difficult to know, private, and distant. But not with me.
She taught me how to laugh, to be silly, to jump on the bed.
She taught me to love hummingbirds, spring, walks on the beach.
She sent me the most wonderful cards. I keep running across them in the oddest places. Stuck between books, in a random box in the garage, in a pile of old bills. I miss those little surprises in the mail. And now I realize the time and care she spent picking them out to reflect that moment in time in my life.
She gave me soft, warm socks every Christmas for the last 15 years. Every year. After she died, in her room, next to her bed, was a pair just like the ones she gave me last year. I took them and wear them all the time. Soft, fuzzy, blue ones.

We were just getting to the good part. The part where we talked like friends. She was beginning to open up...
She lost a friend in the war. She wished she would have sewn a few more oats. She wasn't sure how to tell her children that she loved them. She was on her own spiritual journey and talking about it.
The good stuff. The guts of life as I say. How much more I wanted to know. To ask. To learn.

But I am learning this...
When someone dies, the pain is deeper, wider, stronger than you thought it would be.
It does not go away; it only softens every now and then.
The loss does not make sense.
It does not matter that the person "lived a long life." The missing is still there.
Others may not have experienced this kind of loss yet; they will not know what to say to you.
Your sadness may bring up too much for others; they will not know what to say to you.
People may say incredibly hurtful things to you; that is about them and not about you.
The person who has died is still a part of you. That does not go away; you will just forget sometimes because the missing hurts so much.
I am learning that I am not alone in this world of missing. Other people have experienced this deep grief. One of my dear friends has listened to me talk on the phone for hours. Other new friends have left me the kindest comments on this blog. And others have written their own blog entries about loss. There are some authors who have spoken their truth about this subject as well and I am starting to find them and am feeling brave enough to read.
The truth is, until you experience it, you do not understand. At least I did not.
And because this is my current path, I am going to continue to write about it every now and then.

She taught me to laugh at myself as often as possible.
She taught me how to make sugar cookies.
She was critical at times. I forgave her.
She was sometimes melancholy. I understand.
She was not perfect. Thank goodness.
She taught me to love hummingbirds, spring, walks on the beach.

If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and mystery of the world we live in.
Rachel Carson

SPT 12/13

Imagine...
Looking in the mirror.
Thinking "I am beautiful."
Realizing you could let go of the self-doubt. the self-criticism.
Knowing your very existence is a miracle. There is only one of you.
Holding your own gaze with confidence, acceptance, and love.
Wiping away the fog from your eyes.
Seeing yourself.
Imagine...