Category: Balance

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Winter Solstice 2020

A few years ago, I wrote:

For over a year, I have been watching sunrises. Waking in the quiet darkness, I move to the living room windows and watch the eastern sky. Most mornings, I do yoga as I keep watch out the window. Other mornings, I simply sit in peace and presence. I miss a few sunrises here and there when sleep is too sweet to interrupt or the nest inside the blankets is too warm to leave. On those days, I miss more than the sunrise. With the dawn, I set an intention to guide my words, actions and thoughts for the day. At this time, whether in yoga or in meditation or both, my body, mind and heart rise to greet the day. My daily intention emerges like the sun, slowly and reliably from behind the veil of night, sometimes a surprise but always a gift.

As the winter solstice approaches this year, I begin writing down my intentions. I think that subconsciously, I am hoping to hold the gifts of the sunrise a bit longer as each day gets shorter. Alas, each morning I still need to learn anew that the beauty of the sunrise doesn’t linger. It is leaving even as it arrives. Impermanence resists holding. Impermanence is inevitable, and there is beauty in that too. *

In this year, 2020, impermanence has become a way of life. It is no longer something I need to wrestle with; impermanence has become readily visible in dozens of mini daily adaptations that are required to accommodate new and emerging realities. We have been continually adapting to new situations and information in response to climate crises, the coronavirus, growing social awareness, and declining confidence in our political, educational, and cultural institutions. Our schools, jobs, homes, and relationships have been dramatically altered. What has been felt as tremors in the microcosm of my life has been earth-shattering for others. The impact of our individual earthquakes has been magnified in the collective. It has been exhausting to be continually in response mode and the rate of change has been overwhelming at times.

So this year, as the winter solstice approaches, instead of leaning into the sunrise, I am settling into the gestational period just before it. I am savoring the stillness and nurturance of the pre-dawn darkness, more fully embracing the attentive waiting that precedes the sunrise. In this pregnant pause, there is something waiting to be born, a new intention preparing to emerge. As I wait here in the darkness, I sense the ever-present flame of life that burns within me. That light rising within me is quietly preparing to meet the light of the rising sun.

As the planet turns toward the sun this solstice, may I nurture my little flame of love and compassion. May I kindle fires of justice and hope. May I be the light in the tunnel. 

*Excerpted from Arriving Here: Reflections from the Hearth and Trail. Available now at your local bookstore or Amazon!

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STOP: Dangerous Bridge

About ½ mile into the woods on a trail I have been running regularly since last spring, a rotting bridge straddled the creek. A sign, with a crude stop sign shape and the words STOP: Dangerous Bridge painted in red, was affixed to the handrail. Every time I approached the bridge, I did stop. I read the sign, contemplated the risks and proceeded, picking my steps carefully so as not to fall through the holes or the rotting wood ready to give way at any moment.

My pause before stepping on to the bridge and my slow progress across meant that I had time to look around. I noticed the height and flow of the water. I noticed the rocks that protruded and those that were submerged. I noticed the trees on either side of the creek and the darkness of the forest floor in this particular place with its dense canopy.

And every time I paused there, I had an extra breath to notice that crossing a divide takes time and intention. It can be daunting and it can be exciting – and, usually it doesn’t really matter where the crossing lives on the spectrum between “piece of cake” and “here goes nothing”.  The only way to get to the other side is to put one foot in front of the other until I reach the other side.

A few weeks ago, a group of volunteers replaced the bridge with a new one. The new one is lower, safer and well aligned with the trailbed on either side. It does a much better job of protecting human travelers from accidents and also protecting the stream bank from erosion. The new bridge is comfortable to approach, travel across, and step off. The last few times that I have run this way, I have appreciated the simplicity of the wooden structure and the craftsmanship of the rock cribbing on one side of the bridge. But I have run right through the creek valley without noticing the condition and contour of the earth, the rusty water, or the dappled sunlight. Without the dangerous bridge inviting me to pause, I have travelled through this place caught in the thoughts in my head instead of aware of the presence of the forest. I have not only missed the opportunity to connect with this bit of land, I have missed the opportunity to acknowledge the necessity of making each crossing with intention.

While I miss the pause, I appreciate the uninterrupted flow, the continuity created between the two sides of the bridge. The bridge creates unity. 

I am yearning for this coming together in so many aspects of our social dynamic. We need to tend to the bridges of connection in our communities and nation so that we may better recognize our interconnectedness. Despite our apparent encampment on either side of political or social divides, we are one human family. I believe that we––all of us––are more alike than we are different. And sometimes the bridge is safe and accessible, and the movement feels easy. Other times, the bridge is rotting and dangerous but crossing, and pausing to stand in the middle to take stock of the landscape, is the path to wholeness. 

Crossing

This bridge is a threshold,

a passageway,

Between there and here

between then and now

A place of transition

A posture of possibility

A mode of connection

A practice of trust

Can we? 

Will we?

How do

We cross?

 

We must build

from both sides

With hope

and faith,

Courage

 and love.

We must build

from both sides.

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Turn, Turn, Turn

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

These words from Ecclesiastes, made familiar by the Byrd’s, Bob Dylan and other folk heroes, have been echoing in my mind for several days. I recognize them as accurate and true. They also feel prophetic.

A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

There is a generational turning, perhaps even an epochal turning, occurring in our lifetimes. Perhaps that is overly dramatic. Surely, other generations have felt the weight of history and hope for the future bearing down on their decisions and indecision. At this time, it is clear that the breaking down and the building up are happening simultaneously, along with the killing, healing, weeping, laughing, mourning and dancing. This emotional outpouring is overwhelming. To what can we give our energy and attention?

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

We can sort the stones, cast away those that no longer serve us and gather close those that nourish, nurture, and heal. We cannot embrace but we can refrain from embracing with all the love in our hearts. We can care for our communities, near and distant, by safe-guarding physical, emotional, and spiritual health.

A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;

A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

We can use our money, our vote, our privilege, and our words to name the injustices we see and to advocate for a prosperous present and future for all beings. In silent presence, we can heal the broken human heart and hold space for the earth’s healing power to flourish. With every turn, we can stitch together the frayed edges and reclaim our wholeness and belonging to All That Is.

A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

A time of peace, I swear it’s not too late… Listen to this beautiful rendition from Judy Collins and Pete Seeger and allow the seed of possibility to find fertile soil within you.

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What We Need is Here, Somewhere

Last week I attended both the BTS Center’s Convocation: Engaged Hope and the One Planet Peace Forum. Both events were opportunities to learn from and enter into practice with faith leaders, visionaries, and justice workers. Needless to say, it was a full, thought provoking, and inspiring four days. 

Importantly, the internal and external conversations that continue to resonate from these two conferences have been rich and meaningful––I can feel new learning and ideas finding space inside my body and collaborating with both prior experience and aspiration. 

At one point in the weekend, someone quoted from Wendell Berry’s poem “What We Need is Here”.

And we pray, not

for new earth or heaven, but to be

quiet in heart, and in eye,

clear. What we need is here.

As I re-read the entire poem to myself several times over the weekend, my body relaxed into the sacred truth that what we need is always here.

And then, on Sunday, I saw a video of the Pihcintu chorus, a chorus of immigrant and refugee girls based in Portland, singing “Somewhere”.

Somewhere there’s a place for me. Somewhere.

Watching the girls sing, I could see their innocence, feel their longing, and hear their strength. My own body recognized the yearning for community and belonging to the wider web of creation. And I recognized my simmering anger, frustration, and sadness of the injustice of our world systems. My perfect rootedness here, and my continual longing for connection, are both true.

This paradox of here and somewhere is both delightful and vexing, painful and beautiful, heart-wrenching and heart-opening. As I hold this paradox and turn it over and over in my mind, I recognize that it is expanding both my heart and my spirit and that expansion will benefit all I am and all I do. Here and Somewhere.

So swallow the sun. And wish on the stars.

And let love define the people that we are.

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Autumn Equinox, 2020

Last week, I went for a mid-morning run. The air was cool and the sun was warm. A strong breeze was blowing and it seemed to infuse me with energy. I turned around at the usual turn-around spot, a bridge at the bottom of a short hill. The bridge spans an inlet into a tidal marsh. At high tide there is a large pool of water under the bridge and on either side of it. At low tide, a narrow rivulet flows under the bridge and out in either direction. At low tide, I often take an opportunity to pause at the bridge to watch the sandpipers and heron who gather here and to scan the sky for hawks.

 I don’t remember if it was high or low tide that day. I don’t remember if I paused to take in the scenery and catch my breath. I do remember that when I turned to head up the hill, I was met head-on by the wind. The wind that had been gently accompanying me was now confronting me. If I hoped to maintain the same pace, I would need to expend twice the energy. Not in any particular hurry, I paid attention to my excessive exertion and the sluggish output it generated. I was acutely aware of the not so subtle pressure against my forward motion. Each step was laborious and the thought of running home in this condition was exhausting. How could it be? On my way out, I hadn’t even noticed it as a tail wind. It had just felt like a beautiful, buoyant day. 

And that was when I saw the learning opportunity.

My white privilege is an invisible tailwind. As I run along through my life, this privilege influences every step and how I feel about each step. For a black, brown or indigenous body, that same breeze is a strong and persistent headwind. What I experience as a lofting energy or momentum is experienced by another person as a hindrance.

Yesterday, on the same run, I felt as if I was running into the wind and uphill both ways. Some days are like that. I am grateful that not every day is like that. It is my deep wish and fervent prayer that that could be true for us all.

On the Autumn Equinox

As light and dark find balance in our skies, may we find balance in our lives. 

As the hummingbird leaves for warmer climates and the chickadee arrives for the long winter,

May we all recognize and arrive in our places of belonging. 

As the tomato plants die back and the unripened fruit falls to the ground,

May the seeds find fertile beds to rest until it is time to crack open.

As we navigate a landscape riddled with fear, violence, and disruption, 

May we also notice and cultivate companionship, safety, and opportunity.

As we enter the season of growing darkness,

May we find light in our hearts. 

May the light in our hearts rise like the sun to usher in a new day.

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Late Summer Morning – A Haiku Series

6 am

A soft mist is rising

To meet the warmth of the sun

As my feet sprout roots,

Reaching down beyond

Twig, acorn, grass and soil

In a morning prayer.

 

8 am

This melon sweetness

Startles and soothes every sense,

Instigates delight.

I want to linger

In this joy… May I? Should I?

Yes ~ In thanksgiving.

 

10 am

I tend the garden

As a breeze begins to blow

Change is coming in.

The air is cooler

And full of dragonflies, sign

Of transformation.

 

12 noon

Teenagers wake up

To eat both breakfast and lunch,

Looking at the news.

The too familiar 

Stories of fear and violence

Spark conversation.

Yet still, their blue eyes

sparkle like dragonfly wings,

Light and love in flight.