I TOLD you not to go to the doctor!  Your stupid naturopath ALWAYS tells us not to have ANYTHING we want to eat and to exercise!  You knew she would–so why are you so glum, geez.

Well I just always want the sugar stuff.  I mean, I won’t drink sweetened tea, but that icky Mt. Dew just glows in the dark to me when I pass it.

It probably glow in the dark cuz it is RADIOACTIVE with crap in it!  YOU will probably glow in the dark when you freakin’ die in your casket with all that in you!

ok ok, shut up.

YOU shut up!

Up yours.  I just want what I want when I want it.  I know it’s a habit, but I’m sick and TIRED of breaking habits–what for?!?  To freaking LIVE longer?!  What big freaking deal is THAT?!  Dad lived longer and he was for shit sit YEARS at the end.

Remember what you love–discipline.  Eat carrots, apples, salad. ICK.  Why can’t I eat glazed chocolate donuts, or peanut butter and jelly tacos, or rice with butter or something?!?!

Probably cuz you are from a long line of sugar eaters, potato farmers, drunks and escape artists of all kinds.

Yeah, they are all very cool. 

Maybe, maybe not.  She tells me it just won’t work, my blood will clog up, my insulin doesn’t work like it used to.  blah blah blah.

Get over it.  Take walks–you like walks anyways. 

Yeah. yeah.  I miss my dog.  (instant sudden tears).

Yeah.  me too.  Let’s get outta here and walk to the bus, go to work and set this aside for now, ok?

Ok.

Sol appears and we remember that she never left.  It is our eye now open.  We now turn from darkness, pull back the covers of unconsciousness and warm our face in her love.

Scientists have been here tying bright ribbons to tiny branches.  Dogs have been here scattering green balls romping in distracting directions.  I hear the crewmaster in her bullhorn calling out to the rowers across the quiet gray morning lake.

Logs from far away forests, bones of the ancient ones, covered with soft moss slowly melting into Gaia’s arms.  O that I could melt like that each day with forever waves stroking the shore, hearing the push and pull of Her heart pumping the day through me.

When I don’t like something, it finally makes me move to do something about it.  But when it is someone else that is doing something I don’t like, it takes forever to consider the options and consequences and then take action.

What if they won’t like me?  What if I’m wrong?  What if I make a mistake?  What if I’m just freaking cranky and want to escape the whole world?  What if it is me and there is nothing I can do to run from ME!?

The Buddhists say you can’t ever “get over it.”  That it is a fallacy that someone will save me, I’ll be rescued, I’ll get enough money to buy my happiness, the right car, the right partner–none will give me comfort and confidence.  Apparently I’m supposed to practice comfort in the face of all uncertainty.  What’s harder, I think, is certainty in the face of discomfort.

The word “comfort” comes from a word for “strong.”  Perhaps it is to be like a tree–anchored in the spirit earth Gaia, but letting the winds of daily life bend and stretch me.  I cannot be broken today, and being alive, I am able to move and return to pull nourishment from the center and core of my birthright–Nature soothes.  Nature is stronger than me.  Even if broken, I will return to the Source of my life–stardust.

Some days seem like there is no dawn.  The dark barely slinks back and though I sit still on a hill watching, it is only when I shift my gaze from the east that I realize the colors are slowly returning to the green hill.  It is like a reluctant day.

Reminds me of me–slow to roll out of bed, deep sigh to leave the cozy comforter, a bit achy in the too-heavy bones, mind numb and stumbling.

My routine these days, however, connects me in such a modern way with you.  With whoever is out there, with friends and family in email conversations.  It is good and I am grateful to have these clicking keys reveal my little snippets of the heart.  My goal is to let the Lady speak through me, to keep my flute clear and open for words of Her grace to come through.

It is not me, it is the Blessed Breeze that makes the trees bend and bow.  It is the waves on the lake that catch the geese as they plow to sit.  She is the cloud cover that plays hide and seek with my life, laughing out loud when I stand in the middle of my day and tearfully cry out “Olly olly oxen free!  Come out Dear One wherever You are!”

yipes!  I’ll be late–here’s my list:
old friends
new friends
computers
emails
vitamins
kitties
cozy clothes
speed dressing
lunch already packed
Spring
Divine goddess who loves me when I run around silly!

I forget that often.  The Way, the truth of the Path, is always easy.  If I am struggling, I’m fighting the Path.  Now there are sharp corners on the path along with easy soft curves.  Slowing down and pausing is the best idea when change burst in with a big wind.  Seasons are rarely immediate, they can be predicted, the follow similar routines.

Nature never struggles with the seasons.  Mist comes.  Mist goes.  The center shifts every moment, even if slightly.  And within me, the center is constant.  Relying on the outside world to keep still is useless.  No one, no thing remains the same, neither do they/it follow my instructions–why would my instructions or expectations be the Path?  Hysterical.

I rest along the Way today.  I breathe.  I pause.  I cherish and embrace the next indicated action without judgment, anxiety, argument or relief.  One step.  One step.  One step on the Path at a time.

I often wear these jeans that have holes in the knees, peek-a-boo seams that show what’s underneath at the side, and the frayed center that I hope no one sees when I sit.  It helps me to remember how holy I am.  Wholly holy holey.  That’s a line in a hymn I used to sing in the Catholic choir as a youth.

Being human in this existence, there is only one way to be holy–to make friends with my holes, my defects, my default reactions, my shadow, my dark side.  There is no way to have only sunlight on this earth, every single day we turn our backs to the light.  But the light never goes anywhere and we are always safe.

I am after all, a material girl, made up of ashes from fallen stars and fashioned after some local god (who, of course, was very good looking!).  Maybe it is the spark inside me that makes these holes, that tests the seams–pushes all the seems–in my life.

And then again, there are just these comfortable old jeans that cling to me like a druid’s robe, gently patched, tenderly loved, and woven with the hands of the Dear One.

Balsamic moon.  Angel clouds dancing down from pink to purple.  I found a tree that saves a seat for me, with slabs of old concrete tilted in the water over the lake below.  A fruit tree now bare bones with winter.

The flock of geese honk above making a wake that heralds the dawn.  I chat with these trees who stand as the shore and see the plank of hewn wood high in a crook of her branches.  A perch to watch the sunrise or ducks.  The chickadee says ducks.  She holds a seat for me whether I choose to climb up or not.  Oh that I could spend my last moments in such a tower in her waving branches and safe arms.

When I spill tears missing my oldest walking four-legged friend, she listens and a heart rock smiles.  Clouds and mountain play hide and seek.  Woodpecker furiously drums machine gun rattles pounding on wood.

Tiny point limbs of would considering the season to unravel.  To leave a season behind.

I cherish that seat saved for me above the water to watch the ducks dipping in the dawn.

2/2009

I take my glasses off to frustration,
and put them on to see my farthest intention, to the path following my heart to
that which calls out to me.  I rest in
the now of the neutral zone.  I am safe
on a boat that is guided by my heart’s desire seeded by the Divine One.  I sit wrapped in Her arms on a dry soft seat
while She pushes the boat through the fog, through scary shapes and mournful
sirens with bumping waves and cold air that wants to pull me off balance.  I can not fall out of the boat.  I am safe. 
The journey is guaranteed.  The
destination is a carnival ride that brings me back to the safe landing
platform.  After a breath, I am ready to
go again.  Here I take my breath.

Surfing on gratitude, letting Her set my
sails, turn the boat, I allow the Skipper to set me straight, bouncing on the
waves, jibing and slanting and tipping and soaring in a timeless suspension of
a loving now.

My favorite image of the Way, seen in the east, displayed on ancient rocks on the Isle, wrapped around colorful cloths in the southern hemisphere and even in the far frozen north is the knot that never ends. 

It is the path as I stand, the here and the now.  It is the past, the “then”.  It is tomorrow, forever unattainable.  It reminds me that success is irrelevant, failure is a false idea, and the destination keeps sliding past the infinite horizon.

I claim my tiny space on this earth.  I indulge in the soft green, caress the firm trees–kin to my soul.  From the stapler to my heart, through my fingers to the millions of parts and people who fashioned these keys.  Across the universe to that first glimmer of light from the Prime Creator to this stuffy office on the second floor of the last building in a small park at the end of the continent on a mid-sized planet of a modest galaxy in the corner of a fringe universe.

There is a continuum of spirit that wraps me and firmly knots me in Her soft always embracing green  scarf.