Becoming Visible

Our family's winter houses made to shelter new life.

"...To be human
is to become visible
while carrying
what is hidden
as a gift to others.

To remember
the other world
in this world
is to live in your
true inheritance."
David Whyte *

I finished this week by spending the evening with a group of men. I had the privilege of carrying the singing stones from the fire into the lodge where they were gathered. What an amazing week of beginnings. First, being welcomed into a women's circle to receive their blessing. Then to serve and pray in an all men's circle.

Today i thought how this sense of balance in community is what I have always longed for. It's just the way I arrived is far different than I imagined. So many of a child's dreams shimmer only in the secret world... the other world. When I took my vows this week I stated a commitment to my own life, which is created by God. It's a life which is a miracle just like everyone else's life. The breadth of details and outcomes seem to be out of our control.

Rilke says in his Ninth Eulogy:

"The trees you planted in childhood have grown
to heavy. You cannot bring them along.
Give yourselves to the air,

to what you cannot hold."

I wonder if the task of living is to be born again and again through the many stages of our lives. I'm sometimes shocked that I am here, barely hanging on to land that I love while learning to be present in a family and a marriage. Last night I sat with men who shared from the heart about situations that have challenged them to the core. Then we all sang together as the clouds swirled about the lodge.

This week I have felt welcomed by the masculine and the feminine, mother and father, sister and brother. I want to carry these two ends of the rainbow into my everyday life.

Bless you.
May we meet somewhere in the circle of the heart,
in the safety of brotherhood and sisterhood.
May we meet in the challenge and the afterglow of our journeys.
May we see each other.
May we be made visible in the seeing.

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* An excerpt of the poem: What to Remember When Waking from a wonderful book by David Whyte called The House of Belonging. p.27

Three Strands of Community

Venersborg Apple Fest

Three beginnings occurred in my life yesterday.

I met with my amazing editor, Jill Kelly, to go over the draft of my book The Cabin That Flew Home.

I walked into my therapists office and left the nice, always competent looking guy at the door.

And as the ring around the moon ignited over the swaying forest I was ordained in a circle of women at my community People of the Heart .

All three events seem to weave together. The creative, the shadow and the initiate within me came together for a reunion yesterday. What humbling joy to have the whole of me witnessed by my friends.

I'll tell you more about the ordination this coming week. What I can say is that there is a circle of love praying for the world, up in the wild hills above Battle Ground, Washington.

When I knelt for receiving my vestments, when prayerful hands were laid upon me, an expansive peace came upon me... filled me. Those moments still flood my memory with hope.

Today I am grateful for the calling of community. I am grateful that community sings its richest song when the whole diversity of self and beliefs is invited along.

Peace to you my friends and family.

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Family in the Sun

The wonder of sadness is that it can become a great motivator and teacher as it morphs into something else. I hope in my case that my wrestling with depression blooms as wisdom and compassion.

We went to Canon Beach for a day this weekend. We've been spinning in circle of a familial storm. So we paused and left for the coast. As we discussed our vision for our coming year together I was struck with the power of gratitude. Recognizing what meets my needs helps me to make more rational and soulful decisions. In this year I contemplate: What do I want to accentuate and foster? Rather than "What do I want to diminish and excommunicate in my life?"
I understand that the struggles in our family system are not just going to fade away and magically transform. Family life is a challenging path to God. I at least want to feel connected with my own heart (Not all clenched up) and connected with my partner. When I am disconnected I see three roles that I participate in. Perhaps you see yourself somewhere here too? I call them the AAA of Inner Circularity:

Agitation: Keeping moving and busy, fixing things, fixing others in my mind.

Analyzing: to the point of scrutinizing aspects of myself and others that seem unnecessary or distasteful.

Assuming: I know the motivations and purposes of behavior that stings me. Assuming the world is fair. Assuming I am communicating fully.

Being still, praying and just witnessing the inner melee' are helpful. Taking a time out to touch and be caressed by the natural world is wonderful.

Today, I'm grateful for the pause of getting away without dissociating from my life and body. Today, I feel more hopeful because of collecting a humble basket of gratitude at the beach and with friends.

War does not stop war

Resistance to what is true does not bring healing

Today, I seek boundaries and more personal stability based on what I decide is healthy and loving for me in my family. I'm grateful for my loyal loving spouse. I'm grateful for the diverse circle of couples at People of the Heart that have supported us.

Today the sun is shining on our home. I know that moods lift here when there is light. Tomorrow it may storm But I have today to collect and store a little more happiness by choice.

Peace to you My Friends,
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Sanctuary For The Heart

In our garden, this morning

Do not despair when the beloved sends you away.
Today's rejection may turn
tomorrow into an invitation.

If the door shuts, do not go away.
Be patient, even if every possibility seems closed.
The friend has secret ways known to no one else.

Rumi
* p. 96

It's 9:30 PM. Rain is thrumming on the roof steady and hard. I am wrapped in a rainbow afghan that my mother made for me when I was twelve. I hear only my wife's book page turning occasionally in the other room. In the silence I feel a sadness, a loss that the day of talking and driving cannot divide from me.

I hold in my hand a polished wooden frame that holds a single sheet of paper titled The Constitution of the Field of Seven Houses, May 15, 2008. Written here is an invitation and commitment that I had hoped our family could share. I hold words that offer loving kindness and respect. And there is also a simple rule of no violence in the forms of words or actions that are meant to harm another.

Right in the middle of the sheet are the words: "This is a place where people are safe and free to reach for the life that they long for." The words: "tolerance, listening, cherishing, dialogue, privacy and sanctuary are woven into the document. These are ideals we all agreed to pursue and instill when we moved here.

I feel sad because I see that the home I idealized and envisioned is often shouting out with demands or anger or even violence. And I am split. On one side is the innocent who longs for unconditional mutual positive regard. And another side that sinks into despair because I often do not feel safe here. Perhaps God loves us between these two polarities. I hope so.

I wonder how Adam and Eve felt when they lost the nurturing of the Garden and were sent out into the world to toil and bleed on the land? I think, how hard it is to grow up, even when you are already 48 years on this earth. Tonight, in my childhood shawl, I hear a sad rainfall moaning: "It's not fair!"

No, it's not fair. But the morning will come. Some part of me will bleed... like the rest of the world. Some part of me dazed from the awareness that the rule book seems to be shattered, along with a peace of the heart. And some part will be healed again.

Morning will come. The constitution that hung in our front hall will rest beneath my bed. But the words true meaning will burn in me like the sun. They will shine, even if I don't feel safe, even if a storm of children's unkindness and disrespect blows in on the winds.

Is there a place for ideals in a world at war? Is there a place for peace and love?
I say Yes, YES!.

The day that I say : "There is no sanctuary for my heart." is a day that life would stop shining for for me.

The tome of loving kindness is under the bed instead of forgotten in plain sight. How does one be an adult and still have innocence of magic in their life? Love is not easy. And yet it is so necessary in this world.

From Rumi's Secret Places:

Lovers find secret places inside this violent world
where they make transactions
with beauty.

* p. 48

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* Rumi translated by Coleman Barks, Rumi, Bridge to the Soul. Journeys Into the Music and Silence of the Heart, 2007, Harper Collins Books, NY

Holy Breath Holy Memory Holy Life

Mt. Shasta Cedar Grove... A Holy Place

Having a new experience with children has caused me to think about developmental stages. I've been curious about the range of actions and motivations as kids grow through their early lives. It struck me today that adults continue to develop too.

As I near fifty I am beginning to feel a fullness of experience. I am seeing how memories and recollections can metabolize into my very cells. The places that I consider pivotal and sacred are becoming a part of me. I think that one of the jobs of early eldership is to allow the metaphor and the experiences to grow richer and deeper. I notice that the kids I love are going through stages of knowing what the basic truths are about their lives. But inside them there is much insecurity.

As I get older I see that I really don't know much. I'm being chiseled down into a more fluid shape just as I am expanding in my soul and mind.

My yoga teacher has a quizzical saying when she is centering and stilling herself. When she loses herself to spinning thoughts she chirps in a childlike voice... "Hmm, that is not my breath." And she follows her breath again.

I'm not very good at stilling my mind or my body. However I feel a distilling process is happening within me now. I am being winnowed down into more basic elements.

When I am physically still, memories come up in me like bubbles from the floor of the ocean. I witness them floating up. I breathe in and out. As a recollection of a place or interaction with another being rises to the surface I think to myself: "Hmmm... is that love?" When I just let the memory move through me I almost always hear a reply..."Yes that was love. Yes, that is love!"

When I am still, a part of me rests in the grove of the holy world, where we are... a world so rich with beauty and terror. I feel a part of me becoming the song of the universe. And I feel another part of me being chipped away into something more.

Holy, holy is our one life on Earth.
Holy, holy the paths that choose us.
Holy, the song that remains in the silence.

Holy, holy
Each moment is forever...

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Intersections and Opportunities

Choices of Honey (c) RSS 12/09

Quote from my Great Grandmother's journal, 1890:

"...I will try always to be better than my words and more liberal than my promises; every day I will make the most of myself and the best of myself; and so be ready for the opportunities which god daily sends to those who are ready for them..."

Julia M Sievers, Dennison, Iowa

Last night I was driving with my wife to an agriculture entrepreneurship class. The ongoing class is held at the extension office south of our little farm. When we came to the intersection below our house I turned north. We'd arranged sitting for the kids. We'd paid for the class and came ready with a completed business plan and basic business vision statement.

Yet I turned north, not south! My wife looked at me and said "Where are you going?" I replied that I wanted to go out on a date instead. Impromptu.

She laughed. She agreed, fortunately. And I lightened up my obsessions about making a living on the farm. We shared a beer and ate chocolate cake at the new pub in Battle Ground. We talked while the business class forded on without us. In the process I became clear that I want to focus on my writing and creative life

The catalyst for my heart is not farming or building or community service. Rather I love trying to synthesize something meaningful from these avocations within the written word. For me, nothing makes time dilate and fly more than working on a heart strung poem or story. Nothing threads the space between head and heart like words and colors. The choices for joy are different for everyone. Clarity is sometimes difficult.

I will go back to the class next week. But this time it will be with an expanded attitude found in a noisy pub over melting ice cream. What a privilege. There are so many choices in life. And there are many motivators, including paying the mortgage.

I remember my great grandmother today. She lived a vibrant and solid life. She created art in her children's upbringing and within her home. She prayed a lot and took risks based on what her heart and mind said.

What brings joy for you? And what experiences are you uniquely created for?

What opportunity would come for you if you were to "make the most and best" of yourself?

Last night the opportunity came in the laughter as we ditched a class. I found a happier clarity between home and my dreams.

Blessings at your intersections.
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Rune of a Dream

The Rune of a Dream
The Traveler Coming Home

®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®®

Excerpt from a book begun today:

Have you ever had one of those mornings where dreams kept right on coming? You open your eyes and there they are, alive. I had one of those mornings today.

A woman named Oran stood by my bed, all in black. Lace skirts shimmering. Midnight gloves with her fingers bursting through. A rainbow feather dangling, tied into her wind strewn hair.

We stepped into the night, the dreamer and the dreamed.

Oh many wonders of dreams and wandering!

We walked out through the dew as the jet sky was offering herself up for the sun’s silver coins. We glided into the powerful part of the day when everything is between this or that. I invited her into the cabin. Inside the light was already alive above my desk of many hues. A song stream of paint flowed off the linoleum desktop. There, onto the floor, flooded a story of a rainbow and a god’s promise fulfilled. Oran looked at me, still dreaming. “In the colors is the telling of the universe.” she whispered along the nape of my neck.

She swayed into the room; her skirt was many waves rustling. I followed. I implored her as an unrequited lover: “Please stay. Take any seat you’d like. Please stay. It’s been so long.” She looked up to me with her voice of a thousand soft winds, her breath sweet grasses, blowing and swirling in my hair. Her feet ruffled all the loose paper and project strewn on the floor. The shelves of poetry rattled in a shiver quake of recognition. The books came to life, remembering the One who wrote every word ever written.

“I’ll be here now.” she said. She flew her right hand into the air, scrawling a sign for the deaf and longing, for the pilgrims of earth, for the dreamless and the worried, a gift for the found and the ones searching. Her index finger was outstretched. Her and and fingers followed loosely like a wing.

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