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Thursday, March 12, 2015

Thank you, Maya


Image by Maya Chae
There are various ways of getting wings, and I don't recommend the one my friend and sister-in-spirit took, on March 7, the day before Daylight Savings Time began. For one thing, I suspect very few of us have the internal fire necessary to take a fatal overdose of some kind of soporific or opiate, and then override that stupor to shoot right on out of all traps, which is what I now feel and believe she did.

Good for you, Goddamn it! Maya had far more than her share of both physical and emotional trials. I won't detail much of that except to say that she could barely walk at times, she who used to dance, who had been an athlete. The pain she experienced was extreme and outrageous. She struggled for over ten years to find ways to get better and become self-reliant again -- a most self-reliant soul, it hurt her just to have to depend on others for basic needs.

Maya was never a sob sister, never overly emotional, except in times of great crisis. I know she frustrated many health practitioners and helping folks, some to the point of anger at times. It so often seemed she would be doing great and then, within days or hours, there was another emergency, another dire need. It was hard at times not to ascribe this to some weakness of hers she should be able to fix, but I don't believe that was the case.

And, you know? That part is over. I want to just sing out Maya's beauty. She had a raucous sense of humor I am going to miss like crazy. She was so damn smart, if anyone past the veil of death is able to come back and read messages on the internet, it would be Maya. And now, the electro-magnetic pollution of being online won't be able to touch her. I like to believe she is thumbing her nose at all the triggers that kept shooting her down, over and over and over, while she was in that broken body.

Her artistic sensibilities and talents are also going to be badly missed. She shared so much with me (and with others also) of music, images, performance art she would find online that was both deep and experimentally edgy.

Ah not even that says what I want to say though. Her soul, her spirit, had that flashfire we all need a hell of a lot more of on this planet. She was an activator. She could blow you right out of your complacency with a phrase or a joke cracked at the expense of whatever pretense was sludging up the works that day.

That she stuck it out as long as she did tells me she loved her life, she claimed her life, she wanted to be here. She had a period, while the Occupy movement was a central event, of talking about her idea of Occupy Body -- that we all needed to Get Here, to occupy our bodies for real and true and stop going about like the dumb sheep we often behave like, sleeping our way through life.

So, I'm not going to say rest in peace, Maya. I'm saying, you dance, girl, you dance on.

Flash on through the stars. I can still see you.


Psychopomp. Image by Maya Chae

Saturday, January 17, 2015

Not Spring

Frozen Rain. Photo by Kyla
Not yet, but there has been a major change. Not seasonal, but deep down beneath where the seasons express themselves, something big has let go and moved out of the way.

That's all very nebulous and perhaps not ready to be put into words. It would be easy to assign this feeling of liberation to the idea that there is more daylight after the solstice but it is not that.

Something quite stubborn has departed, something imprisoning, stuck, buried deep and locked in place, so much a part of the background it almost went unnoticed. But when it dissolves? there is energy and possibility where there was not, before.

Despite the desperate condition of the world and of the planet body, despite the outrageous opportunities for fear and horror, what is actually happening is that those reactions have far less grip on the soul than they used to. They can grip the mind, if the mind is available to such influences, and that's a big problem for many people, but if the mind has any discipline at all, it's far easier to lift out of the crap than it used to be.

Something that had hold of us has been made to let go.

But you have to cooperate.

I was out shopping the other day, and standing outside a store in a large shopping center waiting for my companion of the day to come pick me up, when I had a rush of awareness that most of the people walking around there, in the parking lot and the stores, were still locked away from their own lives, and caught in the mind loops. That's not news, but the experience of that moment was really striking.

How do people live with the kinds of pressure being brought to bear on us, if they have not taken hold of their minds?  What is on offer is either a diet of horror, or a retreat into generally unhealthy denial and escape. Those who have developed their minds are often similarly bound, unless they have strong enough creative spirit alive in their beings to give the mind something to go with that has survival value.

Many of the people I interact with have no patience for imprecise terms such as "soul". I can sympathize. However, I find myself no longer able to speak to what is happening, without using such language.

And the imprecision is really only one of unfamiliarity and disuse, not inherent in the concepts themselves. Yet the communication gap is vast and not bridgeable with any ease.

So, I talk about gardening, usually. That's where I build my own sphere of soul, of liveliness, of heart and health. This is a survival tactic. In order to continue to be embodied here, I have to have a place, a venue, an activity that is life-sustaining on subtle levels. Subtle, but potent and necessary.

In order to fly, find your garden.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

Talking About the Garden



Photo by Kyla
It's hard to share the garden right now. I don't want to talk about anything else, but when I show people around, they look a little lost and tend to change the subject.

This is no doubt because the garden I am walking around in is full of time that plays out toward next summer, and I see where the new daylilies will be/are blooming, and what the herbs look and smell like and how the soil grows richer by the day. People look and wonder what it is I'm so excited about. After all, teeny plants, some older ones kind of sick looking, bare spots, rocks under which bulbs lurk -- that's all that's visible for the most part. They can't see, like I can, the seed packets waiting to be wintersown and how the not-yet-developed new beds will be full of sunflowers and agastache and blue flax.

A few flowers are blooming strong right now, sure. But how long can you focus on one or two blossoms, when the mosquitoes are biting?

Everyone does marvel at the compost, though. There is so much! Wow! What a neat system! Well, yes, it is, and I wish I had about three or four times as much.

I moved an old rose yesterday, from the shaded side of the yard, into a spot I'd prepared in the sunniest area. I feel confident the rose will make it and will thrive over there; it's a Dr. Huey which is an old rootstock variety that all the new roses get grafted onto, because it is so sturdy. Even in dry shade, it bloomed generously. I expect it will be happier in the sun.

At one point digging it up I was on my knees, coaxing it with all my might, as gently as I could while at the same time using all my muscle power, into the trug which I then used to drag it across the yard. (No wheelbarrow.)

This is all really happening, and it is so damn symbolic it's almost corny and embarrassing. I do feel that the world is in similar shape. On the surface there is trouble (no I am not going to go into detail) and how could anyone even say things are getting better? I don't say that, but I have this sense just as I do in the garden of a rich stream of time and what lies just up ahead, what is emerging in a way that's still pretty hard to notice.

And there are definitely times when I have to wrestle in the mud and muck, with gentleness and great force at the same time, acquiring wounds, crawling across an expanse, pulling a heavy weight, bleeding -- in order to re-arrange something important and get it right.

When I moved the rose, which I had been planning to do for months, I did it on the spur of the moment because it felt like the right time. The weather was perfect, not too hot, nicely overcast, and magically -- even though it was really hard work -- I was barely tired afterward, not sore, not wincing from a hurt back, only a little blood from a thorn scratch I'd not even noticed when it happened. I was astounded, frankly, at how good I felt, getting that done.

Digging up the rose, I found a beautiful rock, I thought, buried about six inches down, in its roots. I set it aside to clean up later, and when I cleaned it I found it was not a rock but a carving of a sleeping cat, who had lost an ear somewhere under there. There are some fresh scratches from my shovel but the broken part was done earlier.

It's still a lovely thing to have found in the roots of the rose.

Surprises like that, better than that, seem to be forming here and there, while we face into winter, watching the strange weather, staying out of trouble or, at least, like I did with the rose, choosing our trouble when the moment feels right.

So I have little to say. I'm working on the garden. It doesn't look like much yet, but you just wait.

Sleeping Cat. Photo by Kyla



Monday, June 30, 2014

It's All In The Conversation

Weed garden. Photo by Kyla
Hi.

Long time since the last post here; I am learning that I'd better not announce how frequently I'm going to post, because it never seems to be sustainable. This past month and a few weeks since I wrote here last, I have often thought of coming in here to share something, but each time it has not proved possible.

The process has been too swift. There has not been time for anything to gel enough to get words around it in any adequate way.

But today I want to talk about gardening.

Even most people who love to garden, who feel an active bond with the natural world, don't seem to get that what's going on is a conversation. We have such a bias toward our notion of the evolutionary preeminence of human intelligence we can't see past it. (I made a typo and almost said "unintelligence.")

Don't get me wrong here. I'm not one of those who believe humans are some kind of blight upon the natural world, though I have in years past come close to that opinion. But for me, the fact that we are a part of it is predominant. If we are a part of it, there has to be a way for us to benefit the whole (which includes us), instead of what we've been mostly doing lately, which is more a kind of colonizing and often rapacious misuse.

I won't get into why I believe that is so, right now. There are, after all, whole books about that notion.

Let's accept for argument's sake as a given that, a., humans belong and have a rightful place here, and, b., that rightful place is not one that involves despoiling the environment.

So, how does a person find that rightful balance? That's been a question I've investigated for many years. 

One thing I have found about the natural world in general is that it is outrageously forgiving. There are no grudges held. Unlike some human conflicts, where conversation eventually seems to prove impossible, with the natural world the door is always open to humans with the right approach.

Which is simply the very same right approach as it is to human conversation: you have to be willing to listen.

Listening to a garden means paying a kind of deep attention that is deeper than the mind and its cognizing, but involves an atmosphere of fellow-feeling. T. Allen Boone wrote a little book called Reverence for All Life in which he shared how he communicated with animals. He used the phrase "high and horizontal" to describe the necessary attitude of approach.

It's perhaps a bit easier to think of paying attention to an animal with a high and horizontal attitude than it is to a plant, or a patch of soil, or an earthworm. But the results are similar.

There is a tremendous amount of bias we have to overcome. We have to give up the notion that because we are human, we are always right, for starters. And then, we also have to give up the notion that because we are human, we are always wrong.

The thing is, when you begin to enter into the conversation, the whole of life becomes something so much richer than it was. Even if your prized plants fall victim to a mysterious ailment, the rest of your garden will be singing with a vibrancy that puts any failure into perspective.

The forgiving, grudgeless attitude of nature toward us does not mean we always win. It does not mean there are no situations where we need strong defense. I am not an advocate of letting the mosquitoes bite or the other predators prey without restraint. But attending to the whole with a respectful attitude of listening gives a context to all of the less pleasant aspects of the communication. We don't understand a lot of what is conveyed even after listening for years and years. But over time, the listening offers such great rewards that what used to be failure becomes only another part of the mystery, to be listened to more deeply.

May you listen well to all of your life.

Thursday, May 8, 2014

A Suspicion About the Future

Come What May. Photo by Kyla
There is something about the future that I have suspected for a long time. I mean the future we all share in, however far or near it may be. I mean that place we've not come to yet but are all going toward in some mysterious manner that is not linear, but is rather a sort of building, or an infusion, that is dawning imperceptibly.

This suspicion itelf has been dawning on me in a similar fashion, slowly and almost humbly, except that it has no ego to humble and is more of the nature of inexorable natural law. A natural law that is so present it goes unnoticed until enough of the loud distraction of invention quiets down. The dawning itself is a function of a massive clearing away of noise.

What if the future were not just more of the same only different? What if in some quiet, indestructible manner, the future is sneaking up on us from inside everything that we are so used to, and without fanfare quite simply turning it all inside out?

What if the inside of things is where it's really at, and has been all along?

I don't think I am making this clear. It's as though all the world is very focused on events that are crucial and deadly and of utmost importance to us all, and we are laboring under great strain trying to work out our survival in conditions that get ever more dire. Or we are ignoring that drama for one of the other ones, about making wealth or gaining honor or winning over something or someone, and all the while all of this is going on, we are just not noticing what's really happening.

I know that has been said often, in clearer terms. But what if it is really true? And what if that truth is, right now, in the process of claiming us, claiming us for ourselves?

What if it's all an inside job?

There is a sea inside of it all, a sea that is rising. So much that seems so vital soon will be shown as dust, as seafoam, as debris dissolving in that sea and a sea change will be worked on us, so that what we really are becomes more fluent and alive than we ever imagined possible. Our parts come together, we find all our voices, our completion offers a way nobody yet can envision, not really, because it takes all of us, all the pieces popping into relationship under a sky of the correct timing -- the wheels line up, the moment arrives, slowly, instantaneously, in a perfection of amazement.

A perfection that has nothing to do with solving problems, or working things out, or fixing what's broken, but instead takes all of that and reconfigures it, changes all the patterns, so the wholeness that underlies and holds it all finally shines through without stopping.

Avalokiteshvara, She Who Is Never Not Broken, has been singing us this song for eons, forever. When you ride the crocodile with her, all that has been impossible becomes your ally, your grace blessing, your nourishment.

How else can the future be?




Tuesday, May 6, 2014

A Milestone: the One Hundredth Post, and a Reconsideration of Flight

Bye-Bye. Photo by Kyla
 I'm revisiting this whole notion of flying as a metaphor for aliveness and creative freedom. I wonder if I am doing justice here either to the metaphor or to my intentions.

So much of what I've posted over the last months has been about struggles which don't really feel a lot like flying, or like freedom, either one. At one point I even said "it's all flight, after all," meaning, the Earth flying through space might be all the flight we really get to experience, or need.

That was a low point. When I consider this flying metaphor, I instantly recall that the flight I mean is an inside job. I feel it inside my body, that sense of freedom that I know, in my bones, is our birthright. If I can't access that sensation, then I know I have something to work out, some trap to release myself from.

This doesn't mean I go around feeling floaty all the time; far from it. Nor does it mean that's a goal of mine. What it does mean is that access to a bodily sensation of conscious awareness of fundamental freedom as my inalienable state of being is something I consider mine, and yours, by right, and I know we often do not have that access in reality. I am doing what I can to restore it.

This is all as true now as it was when I began this blog, one hundred posts ago.

Flight also means running away. The flight to freedom is not a flight of denial, but it is a flight from entrapments. That flight can only occur after we experience the traps. We fool ourselves often into thinking we can escape our prisons by means of pretense. But it doesn't ever work, not really, not for long.

It's as though the only thing that fuels the genuine experience of flight, of inner freedom, is the pure willingness to be aware within whatever experience is assembled around us. That would be grounding, I suppose, to continue with the metaphor, and taking off from a secure, firm grounding would make for the strongest flight.

But this is getting too theoretical here. When I feel trapped or stuck, out of balance, lost, out of sorts, what I do first is connect as best I can to this inner sense of flight. That is where the corrections can begin to come in, the adjustments to my own energy, and the additional awareness, perhaps, of what the circumstances require. But usually what's needed is primarily that simple internal awareness coming alive. From there, I can move and so can the circumstance, whatever it might be.

Even if I am physically still, even if I am physically stuck, even when my problems seem without resolution, if I can access the inner flight, I am accessing that which knows how to be fluid and to move through the best path that can arise.

I am also accessing a kind of subtle nourishment that gives me what I need to keep facing whatever reality I am involved with.

May the Spirit of Living Flight be with you always!

~~~~~~

My other blog, Walk into the Mystery, updated May 4


Tuesday, April 22, 2014

Everything At Once


Weed Garden. Photo by Kyla
That describes the flavor and experience of this time. It is no longer possible (if ever it truly was) to focus on or immerse in one limited part of experience and close the doors to the rest.

No, now, at least for me, simultaneous themes and concurrent storylines, overlapping and interweaving, are just constant. There is no simplicity "out there", not in the external world nor in my understanding of, or confusion about, what's happening.

Simplicity is what I crave quite often, and I can only find it by letting all those stories and melodies and arguments and disruptions go right along, unfolding as they will, while I witness them from some place inside that doesn't move.

It's only when I reach to attempt to sway the course of events that I become caught in the swirl and trainwrecks. If I refrain, more often than not, forces I was not aware of have a way of intervening and changing things beyond any prediction of where they might have gone.

Oddly, this also seems to offer a clearer space for action than it might seem. Not needing to take into account, too much, the moving multiple targets of changeable streams of events, I can make a simple choice, from my simple center, and even make a plan of steps that could take me from here to there.

As I read this over I wonder if it will make sense to anyone else. I have the idea that this "make a plan" process is much more familiar to most people than it has been to me. My trajectory has had too much force cutting across the bow at odd unpredictable times, and so "making a plan" long ago became a laughable endeavor.

I learned I might as well not even try!

Now, though, it is like some weird kind of perfect storm, keeping itself busy while I go about my way, noticing it but not needing to give it much consideration, after all.

I've no idea how this will work out, but for now it feels like space, and like freedom.

When the garden approaches climax, perhaps then the gardener is liberated.

~~~~~~

My other blog, Walk Into the Mystery, updated April 22.

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