the shift.

the winter pulled me in, swaddled me close.
i sweat through the shovelling, i shivered before letting sleep take me under.

and now. well. spring is coming. here's hal borland....

"March comes, a kind of interregnum, winter's sovereignty relaxing, spring not yet in control. But the pattern is now established. The incredible but annually commonplace change that is life eternally renewed has begun to stir. Out of the cold and dormant earth will come the leaf, the blossom, and the twig. Out of the pupa, the egg, and the womb will come the palpitant swarming of gauzy wing, chitinclad body, feathers, and fur. The pulse of plasma with its green chlorophyll or red hemoglobin begins its slow vernal throb. Sap stirs. Blood lives. The protoplasm of life begins to quicken. It is a deliberate process with its own rhythms and responses that are unchanged over the eons. Only man, keying his life to his clocks and calendars, is impatient. The bud and the egg can wait, for a safe temperature or a precise span of daylight.

Man measures; they respond.

And for all man's cast store of facts, he still cannot alter that response. To grow a blade of grass he must start with a seed or a root, then wait. To hatch a bird he must start with an egg, which contains its own inflexible schedule. March comes and the sap quickens down at the root of life. Buds, set on the twig last summer, begin to swell toward April. In the woodland's litter and debris there is a slight stir. Ice melts on warm afternoons. Water begins to flow. Chill darkness checks the slow awakening, but another day starts the deliberate throb again, the slight breath of change, the incredible, inevitable renascence of life. "


this morning, as i was driving i noticed blue hoses emerging from an old tree by the side of the road. the tree looked dead.
and yet, i know what time of year this is....
not knowing much about getting sap from the trees in the spring to make syrup... i grew up in new england, and i know this much: that when the tin pails, and white plastic buckets start hanging from the trees, it's that time.
but, not knowing much about this... i began to wonder... how does taking the sap out by hose effect the smallest branches at the tip top of the tree? isn't that the life force, the juice of the earth, that's being taken? just above the root?
and of course, how does this metaphor play with me? for, i, too, have hoses (of many colors, shapes and sizes) emerging from my trunk (just above the root). and yes. there is life force, juice of the earth that is seeping from them into 'tin pails' and 'white plastic buckets'. how are my smallest branches at the tip top of my spirit doing?

just fine.

after all. in addition to a trunk, and branches, the tree that is me, has roots galore. stretching this way and that into deep rich soil. and they are drawing from a source with no end. infinite life and cycles, and winter and spring, and that mystical thing that happens while i shovel and sleep.

that shift.

when winter graciously bows down to the raucous drive we call spring. oh how we all love to watch it dance into town. here it comes. we cannot, nor will not, stop it.

so sap?

i have it to spare. and after all... somehow (i'm not quite sure how, but i don't need to know anyway...) in the end, that sharing of my life force, of the juice of the earth...it turns into something very

very sweet.

so it is.

closer and closer.

when synchronicity swells and washes over.

i find it.

****

i'm sitting in seconds of pure light.

here it is... the darkest time of the year...

and i'm bathed in love and light,

and held like i was that afternoon on an island with turquoise water

and the softest smile just off shore.

****

you know that feeling when your throat closes in the rip of emotion.

overwhelming.

your breath catches in the half way mark between heart and head. right where words form.

when you have so much to say, then the words stop. your heart surges and splashes against the wall of what feels safe and what feels scary.

when you swallow that feeling, where does it go?

and when you release it? and the warmth of the crashing wave crests and falls easily down your cheek.... what then?

****

i'm standing here watching my ship come in.

so it is.

successes

"the secret of success is to be in harmony with existence, to be always calm, to let each wave of life wash us a little farther up the shore."

~cyril connolly

****

a few thoughts on this steely morning, where there's moisture in the air, and the world feels poised, and ready:

*which boundaries are guiding you towards your self?

*what spirit is moving through you?

*what will be your success today?

*how are you measuring success as you read this right now?

*what is the goal?

****

i'm watching smoke drift from a chimney across the way. and thinking about the spark... so it flares on the tip of a match (the smell that burns your nose a bit), adds itself to some fuel (wood, gas, paper), and grows.

and then what?

then, the fuel must change. it cannot help itself.

then the fuel turns to smoke.

rises up a chimney.

bursts out into chilled air.

releases.

dissipates.

dissapears.

the smell remains.

are you getting washed further up on shore?

remain calm, and true to your spark.

you are changing things, whether you know it or not.

so it is.

holy texts.

i'm curious.
i'm wondering.
what are your holy texts?
and. what makes a "holy text"?
if you were to gather up those books, those bits of paper, those photographs that make you think, feel, understand, question, and feel more alive... what would you gather?

the other night, i sat to write a ceremony. i gathered up my texts. i realized how there were some new ones in the pile. and i felt comforted by the ones that have been there for quite some time.

i really want to know this from you. tell me. what are your sacred, and most holy texts.

here's what i found in my pile (in no particular order):
*emerson's essays
*the essential rumi translated by coleman barks
*the mastery of love by don miguel ruiz
*the celestine prophesy by james redfield
*the soundtrack to 'amelie'
*the soundtrack to 'the piano'
*life prayers from around the world by elizabeth roberts and elias amidon
*the bridge of stars edited by marcus braybrooke
*practical feng shui by simon brown
*singing the living tradition (the unitarian universalist hymnal)
*you can heal your life by louise hay
*leaves of grass by walt whitman
*e.e. cummings complete poems
*the shawshank redemption screenplay
* the view outside my bedroom window
*the photo on the windowsill of the loves of my life

so.... there's the beginning of my list.
i'm ready to hear yours.

so it is.

heaven.

there are stars by the billions just outside my window.

how small can i feel?

with that expanse at my fingertips.

with those piercing pins of light peeking through mere panes of glass.

with a distance that presses down on my heart.

there is a vase of full and fat bodied roses at my side.

how held can i feel?

with their petals begging for a touch.

with the soft glow of light kissing on their color.

with a closeness of scent waking my soul.

so in the middle i sit. perched on the balance point between small and large, the mystery and the familiar, time and space and life and dying all in this moment.

and of course, love.

the distant light that holds wishes of masses (and mine). the stars that lend a little hope to the darkest nights. the night that remembers....

the velvet touch,

the unfolding and unfurling,

the opening of that place that used to hold tight.

i'm letting go.

stars. come on in.

petals. open up.

i'm ready.

so it is.

sick days.

my body protects me with a great ferocity.
is that even a word?

well anyway. my dad is always telling me to listen to my body. and i've also been told that if you listen to your body, you'll always be led in the 'right' direction. because, after all, why would your body do anything to destroy itself in the end? you know, go with your gut. it's a good point.

so the trick, then, is to listen.

but it gets tricky when
you absolutely LOVE everything you're doing,
and you just WANT to do more,
and
"of course",
and
"YES!"

i've also been told that sometimes i might be able to get away with saying, 'let me think about it.'
but i feel the surge of YES! as adrenaline, as spirit, as soul! and so, YES! it usually is.

and then. my body has to speak up a little louder, until, finally, i hear it.
and spend two days in bed.

but, what a gift: two whole days of my pillow, and my comforter, and my breath, and my thoughts, and my body (finally happy, being heard).
and my body has great messages to tell: awareness of thigh, of eyelids. consciousness of right ring finger, and ankle. the balm of breath. the salve of sleep. enough sleep to exhaust even dreams.

what is your body saying to you tonight?

note to self:

don't wait for screaming sickness to hear the whispers of life within the skin. you'll be glad you made the time. trust me.

so it is.

open. air. market.

stay close to any sounds that make you glad you're alive.

~hafiz

fact or fiction, is the mind ready?

open~ for any experience to come rushing through. any experience that might inform the rest of your days.



open to sounds of the clamour, of the hundreds of bumping shoulders speaking languages foreign and familiar. sounds of instruments strummed and blown, and the percussion of footsteps on surfaces woven and fired.

open to smells of citrus and spice. sweet bundles of cut grasses and animal sweat. the smell of hot sun on linen, and mint tea.

open to the feel of plush carpet, roughly woven basket, smooth bead and hot stone. to the touch of strangers brushing past, the nuzzle of a stray dog.

open to tasting dust on your tongue. tasting the burst of a pomegranate seed. tasting sweat mixed with lemon cakes.

open to sights that dazzle, confuse, and affirm. to sights that raise curiosity and consciousness.

****

open air~ in this maximalistic place, there must be space to process, and expand. outside, with the boundless blue rising forever above you, you may find breath, and you may find peace. or, you may feel suffocated and full of turmoil. but you'll find something there, in the spaces between. in the air that holds all this cacophony together. in the air that is life.

****

market~ are you here to buy or to sell?

what are you 'buying' at this 'market'? what do you buy for necessity? what for decadence? are you aware of what you're buying? of what you're supporting? do you 'purchase' from friends, or from the booth with reputation? where is your 'money' best spent, or saved?

you know in this 'market' that there is anything you could imagine or dream to buy. this 'market' is so full of choices and textures. will you make a purchase here? or here?

and what are you 'selling' in this 'market'? what do you have in excess that others need? that others want? is that 'good' for sale? and how will you 'sell' your wares? will you stack them neatly on display for all to see at a glance? or will you tumble them into a basket that must be dug through, with frantic fingers and excited eyes... searching for that hidden treasure? will you hold your best work back for that certain customer you can always expect, or will you let the universe decide?

well?

are you open to this market?

the steam rises of my lemon tea, to clear my thoughts, and smooth my brow.

so it is.