Must Know Life…

Mumford and Sons’ song “After the Storm” has held my hand for a while now. It seems appropriate today given the grief and confusion the world experienced on 9/11/01 and since then, on such cataclysmic levels worldwide. It’s an idealistic song of sorts but I believe we cannot evoke change in the world without clinging to the best of humanity and…it’s why I hold…

What A Ride…

“Until you have loved, you cannot become yourself.” -Emily Dickinson

Rob Brezsny’s Free Will Astrology posted the above quote on Facebook today. And I have to say this resonates more deeply for me than anything going on in this rather roiling world. News of riots in the streets of London and surrounding cities, hurricanes hurling category 3 in the aftermath of atypical quakes in my own town here, ugly political posturing, corruption amuck and with each issue after issue I follow passionately – finding no solid resolution – the one thing that shores me up, defines every footstep and hand-holding moment is love and, in particular, loving others. Loving others. In whatever way life allows, in whatever way we can create, envision, revolutionize, we become more truly who we are by our loving. This is especially true once the masks have been stripped away, the safety mechanisms melted down into acceptance and the ego purified, tamed.

A nearby train hails me on a regular basis and it twists through my ideas of what should happen in a life, what is “fair.” Love is tied to that train but a love I can’t access as I want to access it. That train held my kids when I hoped they wouldn’t know the hurts they know now (ah and the joys…the lessons learned, the wisdom), that train held a promise of healing of my own childhood, that train faithfully calls out, haunting, insisting, reminding me I cannot control outcomes but I can certainly be fully on the ride this life has become. And what does it evoke of me? Love of other. And it magnifies. Increases. Grows me up, asks me to accept what is and release what isn’t, allow all my longings to birth me beyond any guarantee of their fulfillment. It reminds me that we all have such a hailing reality somewhere in our lives, maybe even deep within calling out possibilities, asking that we love beyond the control-filled drive to get there now, flowing in a spiraling wonder of returning possibilities. Maybe new ones but it’s always love. Love is always returning us to the deep place within so we can grow more fully into who we are.

I hear the news. Watch cause and effect unfold in my own life. And it’s quite a ride. We do the best we can and sometimes that best doesn’t fill the void, assuage the angry wounds. One of my kids is grieving on levels deeper than I would ever fathom or imagine to witness, grieving his parents’ split. And it splits me, rips me into pieces as I give all that I can and find that I have, in pouring myself out, not begun to fill up the loss for him. It’s a process his life will unfold and I can only augment, give room for his awakening to what life is and is not, what love can heal eventually. This loving in the midst of grief and joy and challenges surreal does something to the stuff of amness. There is a solid being emerging here, there, in-between the shocked pauses but only as I allow love to stew me, brew me into presence. It’s not so much about scrambling for a solution as it is about standing in, being with, holding up.

I love the scripture that says “there is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear.” For all my frustration with many mis-translated, mis-interpreted scripture this one sings out a truth I cannot deny and that cannot be mistaken. It’s a highly powerful filter through which we can determine how much “love” is truly love. How many of us respond to others in fear of not being loved and call that very exchange love? How many of us respond to others in the hope to make them happy because we’re frightened of disappointment and identify that very response as love? What if it’s all we’ve known?

It’s the love that comes like a bit of a thief in the night out of nowhere that births us. It’s the love that melts away all the poses we identified as love, ceases all the reactions in the hopes to make mom and dad (in the form of someone who has become their replacement) understand or love us just a bit more, quiets the endless clamoring for the next fix and evokes heart, soul, mind in expression of gratitude, in constructs, creations that affirm the heartbeat of humanity. Through this unfolding of love for other, the fearless love, the control-free love, we become. And in our becoming the train goes ’round one more time, one more ride, and yet another.  And we experience yet one more opportunity to manifest ourselves as love.

On with it…

For Japan

May your lands be filled to overflowing with the greatest human tide of compassion…healing…restoration…

Shelter

Times are tough for many right now. My sisters lost their homes this year, moved on to different places, found resilience in the aftermath. Life goes on. I’m hanging on here and feeling exiled. In my home. Why? Because I have no definite plan of attack that will assure shelter in the future. It’s not like there’s a definite plan of attack actually available. I can only wait it out. There’s no sense in putting up a for sale sign for a home that is better rent than you can find anywhere for what it gives me and my children. But I feel exiled. And it’s not a bad thing. It’s this strange shelter, the kind you find when things are uncertain, when the sense of homeland rests mostly within, when the reality of “place,” of settledness is discombobulated and distorted and that allegedly solid place is more a feltness, a bond with people not here but, well, here.

I’ve little else to contribute to the land of expression today except to add Ray Lamontagne’s beautiful hopeful refrain…”When all of this around us’ll fall over, I tell ya what we’re gonna do…you will shelter me…I will shelter you…” We’re forced to find shelter that cannot be foreclosed, bankrupted or otherwise ousted, aren’t we? Anchored from within, we’re not tossed around so much…

Bring On The Song…

I’m heading for the hills, so to speak (and literally), and will be MIA for a while. This song is very slow, almost painfully so but the words sing my heart at this time. And I’m low on words lately. (Stunned, too. My daughter drove me home for the first time today. She did very well but I swear. It was just last week, wasn’t it? She was only 4.) So, bring on the wonder…bring on the song…

Bird Song . . .

. . . is my talisman these days (always, actually) and a timely e-mail from Dave Grant put this at the top of my list of fun posts . . .

. . . definitely not your typical bird symphony but i like!

A Sparrow Oblivious

The rain pings the window to my left and the house rests. There are so many things to do. The contrast of the stillness, the silence hums a lovely tune to the melody of falling rain streaking jagged rivulets against the backdrop of a reliable, perpetual drumbeat toiling a rhythm on the walls of my home: “do this now! and that! and!” Surreal.  

Schools shut down yesterday and stayed down. The slightest bit of icy rain and all is quiet. I’ve loads of time to do. Or not do. And a weekend coming up on me with my children. And. Go. Go. Go. Soccer season soon. Essays and. Professors who won’t let me end a sentence in and, even if a period lands. It’s. Life.

I sat in the quiet this morning and perused the headlines. It’s unavoidable. I had mail to check and there was the glaring news of the missionary in Haiti. The woman with the scarlett F on her chest. Take your pick. She’s probably Fundie. Or Flawed. Or Failed. Or Foreclosed. And she’s definitely Foolhardy. According to the news, that is. I sat there shaking my head. So much for human. Why is it sticking in my mind? Do I feel the F’s on my chest too heavily this morning? It’s not like I went to Haiti and absconded with children for their own good. Maybe it’s not a good idea to psychoanalyze every damn thing, eh?

Let things rest.

Where does this post go, then? Where do any of us go with the contrasting forces pulling on our lives and asking for equal time or, often, domination? Stay. Go. Rest. Flow. Work. Plan. Balance. It. All. Out. And.

Oh let’s not forget to add: Start over. Learn to trust again. (what? whom? life? them?) Stay serene. Find the simple joys. Grin at lost writings and hope they rise from the grave with a hallelujah on Saturday. (Nevermind the dead bodies in the crypt over there whispering of lost loves.)

Wait. That’s supposed to happen on Sunday.

It’s amazing, isn’t it? How one person can eek by with a squeak and a scheme and come out smelling like roses in spite of the less than stellar history and another can concern herself most of her life with taking care and still land in a pile of um, yes. Note to reader: Don’t be misled, I’m grinning. It makes for an interesting read. It depends on your level of compassion. It begs you to ask what you reveal by what you don’t. And then it has no answer that can truly be relied upon because the story changes as soon as the press groans.

Ever just feel cryptic? Like life is rigged? And the poem refuses to spill because you’ve got too much log-jammed up inside to begin to do anything but spew.

But life. Somewhere between the rigged gigs and the skewed headlines is a pinging on the glass, rhythmic falling down a streak of sound and the resurging gurgling call of singing back there behind the magnolia, a small sparrow covering us all up in an accidental grace, painting timeless refusals of shame and colors alive revealing face no story can hide. Nothing rigged. Nothing faked. Nothing surreal. Just the melody unrestrained and calling out the courage to make a go of it again, whether it looks good in the long run or not, whether it ends happily or not, whether it ascends into heaven or rots. All from a sparrow oblivious.