Resurrection

 

     

       

This photograph is one that I took a few years ago. I cannot remember where. I love it, because despite its wounds, the tree appears to be praying and even dancing. In that spirit, I want to share a meditation by the Native American writer N. Scott Momaday. This is from Earth Keeper, Reflections on the American Land.

"The force of life is very great...Some years ago the prayer tree at Rainy Mountain was struck by lightning. It burned and turned black. The tree seemed to be dead. But a long time afterward there appeared a tiny sprig of green on a charred limb, and the hidden life of the tree burst out in a hundred leaves. It was a wondrous sight, and I wept to see it. I believe that the earth gave of its irresistible life to the tree. How can we not give thanks in return?"

Friends, spend some time outside today if you can, and give thanks for the blessings that you discover there. Take good care of your beautiful souls. The work of love will continue.   

Calm

 

 I just read a lovely quote by Episcopal bishop Rev. Barbara Harris (1930–2020). She was commenting on the story of the disciples panicking in a storm while Jesus slept:

"What they did not understand, and what many today do not understand is that although we may panic in times of stress and distress, God does not share our panic."     

   

   

Thank you, Father Richard Rohr and the Center of Action and Contemplation for this reminder.

 

Jesus woke up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased and there was a dead calm. He said to the disciples, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”
Mark 4:39–40

Walking With the Soul

 

Seeing the shadow of a rose petal makes me think that life might be a little more tender than I realize.  I am two months away from retiring from ministry. I am grateful for the message that the time has come to learn to walk in a new way. 

Inside the Rose (2)    

Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks

    

But there are those in bodies

who are pure soul. It can happen.  

   

These messengers invite us to walk with them.  

They say, You may feel happy enough where you are, 

but we cannot do without you any longer. Please.      

  

So we  walk along the rose,

being pulled like the creeks and rivers are 

out from the town onto the plain.  

   

My guide, my soul, your only sadness

is when I am not walking with you.   

   

In deep silence, and with some exertion

to stay in your company

I could save you a lot of trouble. 

    

   

    

image: San Leandro, November 2024   

     

Love Letter

 Overall, I am feeling optimistic. Now, that feeling does come and go, but I am getting better at reading the tide. At the moment, I know only this morning's beautiful light. A few nights ago, the crescent waning phase of the moon was stunning. I love that moon phase because when the sky is clear, the outline of the full moon to come can be seen. Yes, it is subtle. All the better. Then two nights ago, it rained. Not a lot, but it was indeed rain, and not, as I initially thought, a creature rummaging around. It really has been a long dry summer.    

 The image that is attached was taken from the dining room window at Villa Maria del Mar in Santa Cruz. The sun was setting. As I have mentioned, the ocean was very much alive last week. Anchovies were in, and they were feeding whales, and all sorts of sea and shore birds. I was particularly delighted that pelicans were able to feast. I understand that is not always the case. I knew little else but awe and gratitude. I do think they often go hand in hand, like the lovers that they are. 

  

Speaking of love, I love this poem. So I share it with all of you.  

    

He Is a Letter  

 

Someone who goes with half a loaf of bread

to a small place that fits like a nest around him,

someone who wants no more, 

who is not himself longed for

by anyone else. 

   

He is a letter to everyone. You open it.

It says, Live.    

 

Rumi   

   

Yes, I am trying to keep things simple these days, although I did have some moments of discomfort when I could not find my book, A Year with Rumi, by Coleman Barks. However, in the process of searching, I put two books in the giveaway box. As a friend of mine says, "It's all good." 

Connecting

 I spent Monday - Thursday of this week at Villa Maria in Santa Cruz.  Every October, I meet with friends with whom I studied spiritual direction. We graduated from San Francisco Theological Seminary in 2007 and we have been meeting every year since then, including meetings on Zoom when we cannot not meet in person. Villa Maria, a Sisters of the Holy Names retreat center, overlooks the ocean, and it is a beautiful place, simple but meticulously maintained. Upon arrival, there was the smell of fish in the air - a very encouraging smell in October for it signals the arrival of anchovies, and anchovies signal the arrival of hundreds of pelicans, gulls and other sea and shore birds as well as whales, otters, and seals. For a while, I could forget my concerns about election campaigns and global warming and simply give thanks for the anchovies that were nourishing life all around me.    

At lunch a couple of days later, several people, including some visiting nuns in full habits, were excitedly talking and looking out the dining room windows. A whale had been spotted. Yet, as I looked out, my vision kept returning to a tiny hummingbird visiting the gardens below the windows. I felt a connection between the whale and that tiny hummingbird. Nothing is truly separate.

Another moment then came to mind. The day before I left for Santa Cruz, I was standing along the fence in the backyard watering a fuschia that grows there. On my neighbor's side there is a board that stretches along the length of the fence. I call this board the "squirrel highway" as it gives the neighborhood squirrels and the occasional cat an above ground route to and from the front and back yards.

As I was watering and probably talking to the fuchsia because that is what I do, I suddenly heard the sound of a galloping squirrel by my head. The sound startled me, and I wondered why the squirrel was expending so much energy.  I then noticed a black bug on the fence that was quickly scuttling away. I realized that this small creature and I and the squirrel were sharing surprise.  Regardless of the stance that some politicians are trying to take in this election, we are indeed knitted together, and need to stay that way.  Our existence depends on it.

  

This image was taken at Villa Maria this year.  I thought I had an older photograph of the cypress tree that is partly seen here, but I could not find one. It is a beautiful old tree where people and crows gather to chat, rest, and view the world around them. Last winter's storms obviously took a toll on this venerable being.  I played my flute to the tree, and felt my own roots deepen. This is indeed a time for all creatures to hold on together.

      

        

image: Villa Maria, October 2024

A Passing Blessing

"If something comes toward us with grace and can pass through us and toward others with grace, we can trust it as the voice of God."  

Richard Rohr 

      

   

    

    

image:  Sonora Pass, September 2024

Beyond Walls

 In the dream I seem to be working in some sort of outdoor hospital. There are no walls and no floor, just a few makeshift beds. There is quite a bit of chaos going on, but my intention is to baptize two young children. I do this because both of them have asked me to do so. I  cannot tell you the exact nature of the chaos, but it was very present, and I had to work through it and around it. Finally, I am able to baptize the children. I stand upright, and I hear someone ask me why I would do that. Why would I even attempt a baptism in such an environment? I ask in return, "Why wouldn't I? It is all a temple." 

 This morning I received the following thought from Father Richard Rohr:  

"Our very suffering now, our condensed presence on this common nest that we have fouled, will soon be the ONE thing that we finally share in common. It might well be the one thing that will bring us together. The earth and its life systems on which we all entirely depend (just as we depend on God!) might soon become the very thing that will convert us to a simple gospel lifestyle, to necessary community, and to an inherent and universal sense of the holy."    

 On January 12, 2025 my intention is to retire from the San Lorenzo Church. I have loved being there. Yet, I cannot deny that Tyler and I both long to do some exploring, both internal and also out in what is still our beautiful country.  I recently bought a small book, Earth Keeper, Reflections on the American Land by N. Scott Momaday. I would call this book a devotional, a prayer book, and a book of dreams. I also call it beautiful. Momaday, a poet, novelist, and essayist, was of the Kiowa people.  In this book he writes, "The earth is a house of stories." I want to hear, and experience, more of these stories, more of these dreams. 

     

    

    

       

image: Coyote Regional Park, October 2024. When I took this photograph, I did not see these two women. As we walked by them, they had paused at the trunk of the tree, and were leaning against it. They seemed relieved to have found a resting place.  I think I understand.   

Focusing

 On Saturday, Tyler and I ventured out to a place where we had never been, Coyote Hills Regional Park. It is a fascinating park with wetlands, dry hills (this time of year) and many birds. We forgot our binoculars, but even with our ordinary vision, we saw turkeys, white pelicans, egrets,hawks, ducks, avocets, and other shorebirds. As we walked along the wetlands, we met an older woman who evidently goes there a lot. She had a beautiful monocular mounted on a tripod and she invited us to take a look through it. She said that morning she had already spotted forty-six different species of birds. I liked her immediately. Standing next to her was to experience silence, even when she was speaking. I sense she had been looking for a long time.

I am grateful for those who are trying to pay attention to the earth and who value all creatures. When we re-learn this practice of attentive watching, the earth can heal us, and we all can live in balance once more.

"We are not here on Earth to be alone, but to be a part of a living community, a web of life in which all is sacred. Like the cells of our body, all of life is in constant communication, as science is just beginning to understand. No bird sings in isolation, no bud breaks open alone.

And the most central note that is present in life is its sacred nature... Hearing its presence speak to us, we feel this great bond of life that supports and nourishes us all. Today's world may still at times make us feel lonely, but we can then remember what every animal, every insect, every plant knows - and only we have forgotten: the living sacred whole."

~ Llewellyn Vaughan-Lee--

First Sip

Only This and More

 I have been thinking of this beautiful poem all week. I woke this morning thinking of this photograph that I believe was taken from our campsite on the western side of the summit of Sonora Pass.Tyler is not sure of the location.  I do know it was taken on the day before we drove home because the eye phone keeps track of dates. If you look to the right just below the peak, you will see a patch of snow.  If you look lower and to the left, you can see falling water, more than likely runoff from the snow. This is not a gentle, rolling hills sort of land.

I find our journey across the Sonora Pass is staying with me. We take for granted being able to pass through the mountains (Although if you lived there you might not.)  This morning, I feel like we should have asked their permission before traversing. I still feel their presence, and I am humbled.     

  

This Only

A valley and above it forests in autumn colors.
A voyager arrives, a map led him here.
Or perhaps memory. Once, long ago, in the sun,
When the first snow fell, riding this way
He felt joy, strong, without reason,
Joy of the eyes. Everything was the rhythm
Of shifting trees, of a bird in flight,
Of a train on the viaduct, a feast of motion.
He returns years later, has no demands.
He wants only one, most precious thing:
To see, purely and simply, without name,
Without expectations, fears, or hopes,
At the edge where there is no I or not-I.

~ Czesław Milosz   

From Wikipedia:  Czesław Miłosz was a Polish-American poet, prose writer, translator, anddiplomat. He primarily wrote his poetry in Polish. Regarded as one of the great poets of the 20th century, he won the 1980 Nobel Prize in Literature.     

     

On to the Desert, Part 2

 After a day of exploring the Tablelands, we settled on a campsite. It was located a little closer to Bishop than we intended, but that really was not a distraction, especially since later, another camper drove past our site and parked at a slightly higher elevation. He was a paraglider, and his rig included a beautiful yellow wing. It was soothing to watch him soar and dip as the day came to a close. 

After dinner, we settled in our chairs and waited for the night sky to be revealed. As we looked up and watched the Milky Way become apparent, I thought of our ancient ancestors who were probably so much more knowledgeable about what they were seeing in the night sky. As we continued to sit and gaze upward, a sense of awe enveloped me. I am convinced I felt the love of the universe that I believe is always present for each of us. I did bring my wooden flutes, and as I was packing for the trip, I envisioned playing one under the stars. Yet, the silence was so beautiful, I felt I should not disturb it. I have tinnitus (ringing in the ears), so I really never experience complete silence, but that night I came close. I let the flutes rest.  

   

The next morning I picked up my smaller flute and walked across the unpaved road that led us to this site. Some of you know that I intended to play a flute in memory and gratitude for Rev. Earl Kehert who passed away shortly before we left. He was supportive of my going to seminary all those years ago, and he introduced me to the book, The Land of Little Rain by Mary Austin. I knew I was in that land.  As it turned out, we did not go see her house where she lived in Independence. A friend of Tyler's who owns a brewery in Mammoth Lakes had invited us to dinner that night. Tyler really wanted to go, and I knew I would enjoy seeing Sean again. To go to Independence would have meant an additional 80 miles.  Yet, standing there looking at the mountains and again feeling so much love, I knew I was indeed visiting Mary Austin's home - the desert that she wrote about and loved. I felt complete. 

  

As I began to play, I was a little tentative, however I remembered the advice that I had received on a YouTube video by Charlie Mato-Toyela of Blue Bear Flutes. He suggested to play to the mountains, or to a tree, or to someone or something. Beautiful mountains were before me, so I played to the mountains, especially since part of the range looked like a person reposing on their back in deep rest. I thought of Earl with deep gratitude and I wished him well as his journey continued.    

I then felt that someone else was playing. I was no longer tentative; I simply got out of the way. I let the desert sing through the flute. When the song came to an end I spoke a prayer and wept. I then crossed the dirt road once more, and we left for Mammoth Lakes to enjoy some time with a friend. Yes, we rented a motel room because I really wanted to show up for dinner clean. Tyler tried to convince me that Mammoth was just a ski town. It may be, but probably for not much longer. When we arrived, construction was going on everywhere in anticipation of the ski season, and major high end hotels were moving in. Even after briefly experiencing the desert, such commotion was jarring.  

There is a part of me that always yearns to return to the high desert. Tyler loves the mountains and the trees. We will probably always need to find compromise, and that is okay. In November we will celebrate our 37th wedding anniversary.  On this trip we learned much, and laughed much. Where to next and when?  We do not yet know.  However, I am confident that love will show us the way.  On our way back across the Sonora Pass, I played to a pine seedling growing among trees that were struggling to survive. I was filled with hope. I still am. 

   

  

Love and Blessings to you all. Pack a warm cap; you never know when you might need it. Oh, and one more bit of travel advice.  If, as you are driving, you suddenly realize that you forgot to pack your shirts, I do recommend stopping by Big 5 in Oakdale should you be in that area. The staff was helpful and kind, and in about 15 minutes I bought some very soft shirts in lovely pastel blues and teals. Between Big 5 and a sporting goods store in Bishop (I believe it was Reagan's) where I bought my cap, I realized that my needs are shifting, and that makes me smile.    

  

           

"I lift my eyes to the mountain peak -
Where does my help come from?
It comes from you
Maker of heaven and earth
Who holds my foot on the path up
Who's constantly present
Everywhere aware"

from Psalm 121, Opening to You, Zen Inspired translations of the Psalms, Norman Fischer

          

     

image:  Camp site, September 24, 2024

On to the Desert, Part 1

 Tyler and I spent our first two nights of our trip across the Sierra on the western side of the Sonora pass. I gradually began to feel unwell and I could not get warm. On the second morning, I told Tyler I was not doing well with the cold and that I needed to get out of the trees. He wisely replied, "It is not the trees, it is the altitude. We need to go lower." We packed up without breakfast and crossed the summit and descended. We actually spent that night in a motel in Bishop so we could clean up and get our bearings.  The next day we headed out to explore and camp in the Volcanic Tablelands outside of Bishop. While in Bishop I also bought a warm cap for the trip back. I had packed two lighter weight caps and a goose down jacket, but still underestimated how cold the nights can get among the trees close to the summit. I was reminded that I have lived close to sea level (56 feet) for a long time.  

But regarding the Tablelands. The terrain is quite dry, so when we came across the Fish Slough Ecological Reserve, I was stunned.  According to a plaque there, the slough spans "over 188 acres and features natural wetland areas, riparian habitats, and alkali meadows that are fed by natural springs... and is recognized as an Area of Critical Environmental Concern."  As I read and pondered, I learned of a local botanist, Mary Decker (1909-2000) who discovered the Fish Slough milk-vetch that exists only in a six mile stretch at the fish slough. I thought of the author Mary Austin (1868 - 1934) and wondered if their paths crossed.  I felt gratitude for both women who were truly pioneers in their work to help protect the desert and its inhabitants.  

As you can see in the photograph, the slough is fenced off, as most sensitive areas need to be now. I argued a bit with the sun about its position, but that is always a pretty futile conversation. Yet, I hope you can get a sense of the beauty of this surprising slough. What a sacred gift the slough must have been to the ancient Paiute-Shasone who inhabited this land. Not too far from the slough we found some petroglyphs, also behind a fence. I understand that there are more petroglyphs in the area, but their locations are not widely publicized because of vandals who have destroyed some of this ancient art. 

I pray that we as a culture regain a sense of the sacred spirit of place and learn again to be awed by holiness. I also pray that we regain our sense of being part of the land, and not just intruders. May we learn to walk in beauty and listen to the wind.               

       

"Water will gush forth in the wilderness
    and streams in the desert.
The burning sand will become a pool,
    the thirsty ground bubbling springs.
In the haunts where jackals once lay,
 grass and reeds and papyrus will grow.

 And a highway will be there;
 it will be called the Way of Holiness;
 it will be for those who walk on that Way."   

  

Isaiah 35:6b-8      

          

  

Earthing

 “Knowing that you love the earth changes you, activates you to defend and protect and celebrate. But when you feel that the earth loves you in return, that feeling transforms the relationship from a one-way street into a sacred bond.”

—Robin Wall Kimmerer

    

Tyler and I returned home on Saturday from our trip across the Sierra. I have felt unmoored since then. I found the trip to be thought provoking, beautiful, but not always easy. We traveled some backroads that were rough and would have been inaccessible had we not been in  a four-wheel drive vehicle. Tyler had invested in an electronic GPS mapping system that proved invaluable, and we were able to find and camp in sites that while on public land, were fairly remote and wonderfully quiet. Every night we sat out under a dark, clear sky filled with stars. As we sat in silence, I felt embraced. The stars seemed to be singing a chorus of love that completely bypassed my ears but reverberated in my soul. I miss them.   

   

As we journeyed, we were surprised that we saw almost no wildlife. We saw what we believed to be kangaroo rats that darted across our paths as we drove. We saw two deer, not together or even on the same day, but both were standing in the middle of a highway. One night we heard a Great Horned Owl, and on another we heard the raucous celebratory yips and howls of a band of coyotes, animals that I deeply respect. The night that we heard them, we were sitting on some rocks above the valley floor (where we believed the coyotes lived) to watch the stars. There I saw a small mouse darting in and out of the rocks. It would periodically pause and look at me, and then dash away. I tried to not even move a stone in order to leave its home the way I found it.  Earlier that afternoon we were visited by yellow jackets. One landed on my arm. I was not alarmed because I, too, had on a jacket. Again, it paused and looked at me, and I returned the gaze. A few moments later it flew away, perhaps out of boredom. I do not know. 

 This particular campsite was so thickly covered in pine needles I could walk barefoot. I have since learned there is a word for this connecting to the ground: earthing. Research is revealing that earthing is healing for us, and I will add it is probably healing for the earth as well. I say that because we humans are generally not giving the earth a chance to rest and return to balance. Therefore, we are not giving ourselves a chance to rest and return to balance either.  I suspect gardeners have long known about earthing, even if they never heard the word or never have taken their shoes off to walk among the cabbages. Hands are also highly sensitive receptors.    

   

On this trip we saw far too many dead and dying trees. Drought, fire, and bark beetles have taken a heavy toll.  Yet, fortunately, there are still healthy trees, and one morning I was able to practice a Qigong standing meditation position, "embracing the tree" while standing among some of them.  I learned they are unafraid. I shall practice that as well.   

We camped at both high altitudes and lower. I shall write later about the desert. Thank you for reading. It encourages me to keep writing, and to keep exploring. I pray for those trying to recover from Hurricane Helene passing through their land and neighborhoods. Let us listen to her warning. She is quite sincere.  

    

     

       

image:  Donnell Vista, September 22, 2024

Service Station

 I received this poem back in August. I find it beautiful. The images are so clear to me, probably because I remember when there really were gas station attendants with whom we actually interacted. I also love it for the reminder that Jesus does walk among us, doing what seems to be routine tasks in profound ways, while casually reaching out to someone with a few kind words of greeting or encouragement. May we not fear to be that simple, that profound.   

 

Service Station  

 You’re beautiful, sister, eat more fruit,

said the attendant every time my mother
pulled into the 76 off Ashby Avenue.
We never knew why. She didn’t ask
and he didn’t explain. My brother and I
would look at each other sideways
in the back seat, eyebrows raised—
though, lord knows, we’d lived in Berkeley
long enough. He smiled when he said it,
then wiped the windows and pumped the gas.
I liked the little ritual. Always the same
order of events. Same lack of discussion.
Could he sense something? Attune to an absence
of vitamin C? Or was it just a kind of flirting—
a way of tossing her an apple, a peach?

It’s true my mother had a hidden ailment
of which she seldom spoke, and true
she never thought herself a beauty,
since in those days, you had to choose
between smart and beautiful, and beauty
was not the obvious choice for a skinny
bookish girl, especially in Barbados.
No wonder she became devout,
forsaking nearly everything but God
and science. And later she suffered
at the hands of my father, whom she loved,
and who’d somehow lost control
of his right fist and his conscience.
Whose sister was she, then? Sister
of the Early Rise, the Five-O’Clock Commute,
the Centrifuge? Sister of Burnt Dreams?

But didn’t her savior speak in parables?
Isn’t that the language of the holy?
Why wouldn’t he come to her like this,
with a kind face and dark, grease-smeared arms,
to lean over the windshield of her silver Ford sedan,
and bring tidings of her unclaimed loveliness,
as he filled the car with fuel, and told her—
as a brother—to go ahead,
partake of the garden, and eat of it.

~ Danusha Lameris

Key of A

I spent some time today                                                          watering plants and doing some trimming, 

waving at the mail carrier, saying hello to a couple 

of neighbors, and giving thanks 

for the cool morning and the sunlight 

and the water that still generously flows from the faucet. 

Yes, that is a lot to be thankful for. 

   

This afternoon, I paused, and decided I would 

play my new wood flute outside because 

I do believe that is where flutes like to be, 

even when the playing is still uneven.  

 

As I played a breeze came up and sounded her own notes 

through the open holes. 

I dared not budge; the sound 

was a whisper, too easy to disturb.   

The tree leaves added their rattles 

and the windchimes, never shy, 

 raucously joined in.    

  

Life will breathe and sing with us if we let it.

Why do we so often choose otherwise?     

Perhaps if we listen we can even hear the birds sighing 

as they settle into a quiet refrain: 

"Ahh...finally I do not have to do all the singing,

I, too, can sit and listen and give thanks 

for the wind that carried me here." 

    

Holy Spirit, always moving, always breathing, 

always gathering us in.     

          

 

     

     

say, September 2024

High Spirits Flute, Key of A 

   

One Note at a Time

 While recently speaking to some friends, I mentioned that I had ordered a Native American flute. One responded, "But you don't know how to play a Native American flute!" Well, she was right, but I do know how to play a transverse concert (albeit an older student model) flute. I sought some advice from a friend who does play a Native American flute, and I did some reading online. I picked a flute in a key that was suggested as a good starting point for someone to learn, especially if that person has small hands as I do. It arrived yesterday, and while there are some challenges as there are with learning anything, I am finding the process satisfying.  I have wanted an earthier, warmer sound than my current flute can give me, and I actually have heard the sound of Native American flutes in my dreams. I really love to follow threads like this.

Before I went to seminary, I attended the same church where a retired Presbyterian pastor was a member. He was always encouraging of my struggles to sense where I was growing and going in my faith. When the time came, he and others encouraged me to go to seminary. Through his son-law's FaceBook post today, I learned that Rev. Earl Kehret  passed away last night. I left a comment that I would always be grateful for Earl. In addition to his encouragement about seminary, he suggested a book to me, The Land of Little Rain by Mary Austin. I can't even remember why this book of the Eastern Sierra came up, but it is a book that I treasure. Tyler and I will be heading to the Eastern Sierra in a couple of weeks. I shall take the memory of Earl and my new flute with me, and I will play a song somewhere along the way in his memory. Will it be perfect? Well, I doubt it. However, the drive to perfection was never the message Earl gave me. He simply encouraged me to grow. 

Earl, I am grateful, and I know many others are as well. May we all follow your good example, and encourage one another to explore and grow into who God is calling us to be,  even when the way seems so unclear. I think it is time for all of us to dream big and go.   

     

"For all the toll the desert takes of a man [Austin's book was first published in 1903] it gives compensations, deep breaths, deep sleep, and the communion of the stars."  

Mary Austin, The Land of Little Rain  

           

              

 image: San Leandro, June, 2022 No, not exactly a desert, but the way is not clear. It is, however, beautiful.

The Eyes Have It

Some months ago we replaced the deteriorating fence  

between our house and a neighbor's. 

His side now has a board near the top

that runs the entire length. 

It has been turned 

into a squirrel highway 

and is run with 

great intention.

  

Yesterday, I looked out our south window 

that overlooks this highway 

and spotted a squirrel with a 

green walnut in its mouth. 

It paused and turned toward me.  

I stared; our beady eyes locked. 

Forgetting that a closed double paned window 

separated us, I said in my sternest voice, 

intent on showing that I was experienced in 

the wily way of squirrels,  

"Don't plant that in my yard."   

   

The squirrel continued to stare, 

walnut in mouth, 

I do not think  

my land claim was believed.    

I, too, continued to stare with my 

biggest squirrel sized eyes, 

and repeated myself, again forgetting 

I probably could not be heard. Then again 

I am not certain words really touch 

the minds of squirrels, but words were 

pretty much all that I had at the moment, 

(Well, pretty much in any given moment). 

I had already spent some time in the front yard 

and noticed there had been a fair amount of digging.

I stood resolute. 

With a flick of the tail, the highway squirrel turned 

and briskly continued on 

a journey that refused to be deterred.      

 

I thought nothing more about it 

until I went to the backyard 

sometime later.  

There, on the stairs, on the second step, 

a green walnut had been placed.  

Laughing, I brought the offering in.  

The biggest surprise? 

Its sweet scent, like flowers.  

This morning, the scent is gone. 

The smile remains, 

as does the highway, though 

the traffic has not started.

   

 A wily squirrel indeed.

Maybe it was my eyes.   

Resting in the Immortal

 In last night's yoga class, our teacher re-introduced a posture that I am definitely not adept with. As she began to lay down on her mat to get into position, she mentioned that the posture is called the immortal one, and added that she did not know why. However, as soon as she laid on her side, and rested her head in the hand of her bent arm, I knew I was seeing the Reclining Buddha. I have not thought of this image of the resting Buddha in quite a while. I thought the statue I was seeing in my mind was probably Thai. An internet search this morning confirmed that, although statues appear in other countries as well. Some statues are quite elaborate, others profoundly simple. I am not going to try to include a photograph as I pirate too much as it is, but I do recommend wandering through the many images of the Reclining Buddha that are on the internet. 

This morning I learned that the statue portrays Buddha just before his physical death. He appears, of course, quite composed and relaxed. I confess I lack such composure when attempting this yoga position that includes laying on one side, resting the head in the palm of the hand, stretching out both legs, elevating one's top leg, and maybe gracefully reaching up and taking hold of one's big toe. I think I have returned to yoga much too late to master this move. However, such composure is worth pondering.

 

The Reclining Buddha also makes me think of Jesus sleeping in what was probably a pretty rickety first century Galillean fishing boat in the midst of a storm with panicking disciples hovering over him. I think of my own mind, so full of whirling concerns, memories, fantasies, and other bits of souvenirs that I have collected and stashed there during this lifetime. It is amazing that there is any room at all for Jesus and Buddha. However, they take up far less room than I do because they mainly reside in the vastness of the heart. Too often I forget to journey there.

 

 While I was walking back to the car last night after class, I realized that the daylight hours have grown shorter, and this morning does have a touch of coolness that reminds me of autumn. Also this morning I came across again the following quote that Diana Butler Bass recently included in her June 22nd post. I am grateful because her post also led me to a wonderful book entitled Awe, The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Change Your Life by UC Berkeley psychologist, Dacher Keltner.  The research is fascinating and encouraging. It seems we have been made for awe. It also seems that awe helps us clean up our psychic debris so we can once again gaze in wonder, delight, and gratitude. I think that maybe we really can return to the garden because in truth, we never really left it. We just forgot to look.        

 

Given all of life’s ambiguities and the reality of impermanence and suffering,
our existence is remarkable, wondrous.
It evokes awe and amazement.
We need to pay attention. Really pay attention.
Lest we become blind to the awe and wonder that fills our days.
 Marcus J. Borg  

      

        

 

image: San Leandro, from a few years ago,