Inspiration

On this Solstice night, Declaring winter, The year’s closing sigh relents By-gone months of Broken selves strewn Untidily in cobwebbed corners, Dreams shrugged From shoulders bowed in Disappointment and desiccated hope. Effort and agony-the excellent products. On this longest, darkest night Let us sit silent in review Lest we miss angelic, “Hurrah” For failure and forgiveness For losing all-Yet Rising one by one again To be the light This darkness calls.

This time of year takes us into the dark, our inner core of sustenance, which does not have to be mysterious, but when given half a chance-is.  As explored in last week’s Breath, we are in that straddling time of endings and beginnings, of work and celebration, of fall into winter, of questioning past results in order to produce a better new year.  To survive 2012, we’d best learn to go into the mystery in order to grow mastery. We have become a fast facebook nation of tweeters who disgorge and cannot dis-engage.  We are plugged in from every pore recycling other’s ideas, and appeasing our friends by liking them.  Our appetite for the mundane is voracious, leaving little room for the numinous.  Like anything that is not black and white, going into mystery takes time.  It is a practice of silent intention and repetition.  It is a sacred, solo practice away from errands, kids, work, friends, chores- and yet it must hold all that and more. We do not live in a cave on a mountaintop. Whatever mystery is, whatever the numinous holds, and however we go there, it is not achieved by the instantaneous. How do we master what is unknown?  How do we make space for the grey areas, the non-defined, and non-denominational?  I fear the growth of my own trigger-happy habits, of fitting in too many things, making over-quick decisions based on too little information.  I fear for my creativity that has to produce something, anything in order to be heard, to be seen, never mind to be ‘excellent.’  I wonder who’s really listening to all these bodies so insistent to be heard and seen. Perhaps Daily Breath shall take a vacation-a great exhale of surrendering in order to beckon what is numinous, and more compelling….…

Straddling is not easy. When we are of two minds it’s difficult to make clear decisions.  Emotionally, when we are un-committed, neither fish nor fowl, we stew. Straddling is more difficult with big changes such as divorce, losing a job, a child arriving, or a parent dying. This requires we figure out new energetic pathways while sustaining the known, that we learn to straddle an old life with a new.  It can be exciting.  It can also be tough.  When we don’t know the territory, straddling, despite the wide stance, feels tippy and risky. Shifting into a new year asks we make an upgrade in consciousness, that we re-boot hard drives. These past months, the world has struggled and straddled many difficult, and extraordinary issues, and because we are interconnected through an energetic grid, we influence one another all the time.  My transformation, or lack of, accelerates your cellular structure. Your triumphs and failures influence mine.  Planetary waves of distress from major disasters, affecting large numbers of people, profoundly affect the planet, plant, and animal kingdoms. We have straddled giant leaps of faith, we have tried to keep the faith, but have we taken time to heal the wounds holding us back, and/or the horribly wounded? Sadly, there has been little to no straddling from those running the world.  We have failed miserably to come together despite random act of conciliation and kindness.  What can I do?  If my action influences yours, and together we are a more formidable resonance, rather than curse the dark, let’s stand in the night to sing the Beatles, “Come Together.” We move into 2012 at the speed of light.  But before we blast off, we are straddling this worn out year, struggling with what was lost, and those forsaken. We look to the future……

The stranger arrived five days ago. I see him stride along the storm-line Stooped and blood weary Yet resistant to surrender, Walking miles with himself Watched by those inside Warm by fires, wondering Does he want friendship? Is he hungry to be seen And sit shoulder to shoulder With us as the dogs do? He was not expected, This tall, turkey-necked, solitary man Thin to emaciation. But he owns himself without pride And grace becomes him. Is he nobody, with nothing But the hair on his head? Has he loved?  Did she die? Does he mourn and carry her inside Reminding him of everything most cherished? Did they sit across a small table With gentle meals shared between Sinewy arms open to one another? Does he live with love still Nestled in gristle and bone? Is that his Grace? I will set out from my warm cottage To catch him up at the headland Where wind’s the fiercest. He can show me how to see My poverty as the evening sky Lit by first stars. On returning I shall light candles In every window So he might walk in. When has Grace not set us free Safe home from lonely years?

How much room does expectation take up?  Where does it live?  Who does if feed?  How do we see it? When is it at its worst?  And…if you did not expect ‘it,’ would there be room for more delightful things such as contentment, awareness, lack of angst, and more turkey? It’s hardest when we expect happiness, right?  Happiness at the holidays?  Happiness with loved ones, family, friends?  Happiness is such a big shoe to fill.  When we walk in those silver slippers life is slippery. How do we catch ourselves expecting?  It ain’t like having a baby.  It would save much heartache if we knew when we were expectant, especially as we enter the winter holidays, layered with memories, family, and old friends; invitations, and gifts.  Oh yes, it’s an enormous minefield of hidden expectation. Must we become Zen, or Buddhist to not suffer at our own hand? Perhaps, starting with the suspicion that happiness is over-rated? I doubt it.  If I learn to hold my hopes more lightly, and care less?  If the pleasure of a stranger’s smile could replace the anxious expectation of the thoughtful gift? If only Uncle Ned won’t get drunk at the party?  What if Sister Sarah’s boyfriend doesn’t give her the ring?  And on it goes, that merrie-go-round of expected joy and disaster which leaves so little space for being present, for giving oneself the gift of surrender.  Perhaps I shall wrap a small box, beautifully, and place it by my bed to hold all my expectations, conscious and un, to see me through the holidays. “You did invite me to your party, didn’t you?” Pose With Seasonal Energies: Asana: Goddess Pose.  A great pose from which to create composure, endurance, non-expectation. Standing with legs wide, feet open out, take a breath and as……

We can choose to perceive the mundane as a grand, and weird mystery, or a boring dump.  We can, and do, edit our viewpoints from multiple perspectives in every moment: spiritual, self-absorbed, short-sighted, hopeful, angry, in awe, confident, un-knowing, detached, add-on ad-nausea.  As Buddha said, if you are sad, wait until the next breath.   In last week’s Breath, my viewpoint struggled with personal boundaries, and short-sighted-crankyness. Buddha was not at hand, but you were.  Many took time to remind me what is important, and how to cross over old thresholds.  You held the vision until I could pick it up again for myself. I am grateful to all of you who wrote.  It helped turn the corner toward the mystery, and magical thinking held in this week’s Full Moon, or perhaps I needed to simply wait until Buddha, with my friends, came forth. Last week, another far more mysterious and seemingly difficult boundary was crossed by Steve Jobs. But since he said with his last breath, “Oh wow.  Oh wow.  Oh wow.” We might assume impossible shifts of perspective and consciousness come when we need them, and come when least expected. They come as we live.  By that, I mean, they are highly personal views and expressions.  Steve Jobs’ life was extremely passionate and full of wonder.  “Oh wow.”  Is just what his personal ‘practice’ said time and again.  When George Harrison died, his last words were, “Love one another.”  That was the sound of his life, those were the songs he put into the world year after year. Last words are the most powerful because who has time to re-think death with half truth’s and correct syntax?  The breath can only hold the core of the soul at that point.  What will you say on dying?  Where is the……