Castlerigg at High Noon #castlerigg #stonecircles #cumbria

I had been forewarned. Silence can speak volumes, and the early spring was impossible to overlook. Yet, there was that glimmer of hope that the mysteries of Castlerigg would somehow be open to me.

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The Welcoming Information at Castlerigg, which sits atop the charming town of Keswick.

We are waiting for you.

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Unlike some stone circles, Castlerigg is easy to find and access, and with unbeatable vistas it’s nearly impossible to have the place to yourself.

I had heard the ancestral call. I had felt the cells stir through centuries past with a visceral memory that fired my body into deep longing in the weeks, months, and even years before I made this journey. Yet it was not to be. Not this time anyway.

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The stones felt lifeless to me, as though their energy had retreated deep within their forms.

We drove up the hill that holds the stone circle known as Castlerigg at high noon on a brilliantly warm spring-like Sunday. Cars flanked the roadside, and at its crest an ice cream van sat in wait for the throngs of hungry tourists. The urge to turn around and hop back into the car nearly consumed me. You can’t erase first impressions.

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Castlerigg is an undeniably beautiful place any time of the year.

Sometimes, though, we must face our must crushing moments head-on and take the lessons they give us. Disappointment can be a gift, leading to surrender and acceptance. And so I climbed to the top of the hill and met the stones filled with visitors.

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I wanted to spend some time with this stone in particular, but as you can see it was a popular spot.

It’s a beautiful place, I am sure, in any season, and that day Castlerigg shone with the light of the noonday sun. Bright and golden. It lit the faces of the picnicking family having lunch in the sanctuary (hence the absence of photos of this intriguing area of the site). Its rays played through the shadows of bodies as they wove in and out of the standing stones, and lit the smiling faces of selfies posed amid the inert bodies of rocks.

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Although I didn’t do a great job capturing it, the stones of Castlerigg shadow the contours of the surrounding landscape.

The site was filled with energy, but it was not coming from the stones, or the distance hills that rim the landscape. Instead, it came from the revelers of humans visiting the site.  It was, in many ways, the antithesis of the encounter with Castlerigg I had envisioned.

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Even the faces one expects to find in ancient stones were virtually absent during my visit.

If I could, I would take it all back. I know that this may be the wrong response, but it’s the truth. There’s no point in lying to oneself, it merely pushes the truth into dark corners where it festers for light. It is not an easy thing to do, writing this post. It would be impossible to describe the full impact of my first encounter with Castlerigg, and its effects on me. Yet, it is for me, and me alone to process as I attempt to dig inside and find the gifts from this experience. Not the “why,” as much as the acceptance of the “is.”

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It was as though the spirits in the stones had turned their backs to me.

What felt, in the moment, as the ultimate betrayal and rejection — a date to meet the beloved, only to find the beloved had receded back inside the the distant hills — led to the inevitable acceptance that the beloved resides within. Always present. Yet, this is not an easy acceptance. I still long for that promised (re)union. To place my body supine upon that open hillside in the middle of the ancient stones and hover in the liminal space that bridges the Earth to the heavens. I still long for that moment where I can open myself completely to the spirits of the land and listen to all they have to say. To feel the wild wrap of the elements and the stirrings of a long held magic waiting, just waiting, to be brought to life in that perfect moment of union.

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Below Castlerigg, the lakes of Cumbria mirror the glory of the land.

There is, though, a comfort in the mundane, and the knowing that I made it through this trial. This test, of which I am still unsure of the answers. That I am unscathed, albeit a bit heartbroken. My beloveds surround me in physical form back home in New Hampshire, and little, in the greater vista of life, has been lost.

Later that night, when I closed my eyes to sleep I saw the girl standing in the hallway and the wrap of cloth around her eyes had disappeared. I still had two full days ahead of me, and I was determined to make the best of what was offered to me.

To be continued…To read the previous posts in this series about my recent visit to England, please follow the links below:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

I Journey from Long Meg to Little Meg #longmegandherdaughters #longmeg #littlemeg #stonecircles

The pulse of red spiral of light emanating from the Long Meg stone lasted mere seconds. As the stone returned to its outer stasis, I found myself catching my breath in wonderment. Had I imagined the red eye? I examined the place where it arose, and before me was a spiral, inlaid in the stone. Surely I had not, but what did it mean? I am not, by nature, prone to seeing the unseen with my eyes open. Each time it happens it feels like a rare and precious gift, and this was no exception. I had not expected to have a connection such as this at Long Meg. Rather, I had thought my moment was intended for Castlerigg.

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Long Meg looks over her daughters

Like with each visit to these sacred, ancient sites, I found the time passing all too quickly. Time that could not be spent with each individual stone, whereby it might offer some of its secrets. Instead, I felt the whole of the landscape as best I could. Opening to whatever it had to offer. As I looked from Long Meg’s vantage, down the rippling slope that held the oval wrap of her daughters in stone, I felt the blindfold slip from my eyes. There was a longing within me, but the longing was not mine alone. It came from the stone standing beside me, and in chronicled a time that stretched through thousands of years. It was filled with loss, but not the same ravishing loss that I had felt at the Raven’s Nest.  This was not the feeling of sudden, violent pillage and desecration. This was the loss of a slow diminishing of the magic held within. A loss spread out over centuries. And a longing for it to be returned. To be remembered and revered once again.

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I would have liked to have spent more time with this large stone, which shows a bird-like face rising from its left side in the photo.

There are stones in the oval below Long Meg that appear sad and forlorn. Others feel empty and forgotten. And then there are those that stir with life still held within. Some watch, while others wait. Some feel like they are missing entirely, and now only empty space remains.

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Some of the gaps, such as this one, feel purposeful, as though they mark an entry to the “circle” flanked by recumbent guardians.

As I relaxed my gaze to take in the landscape before me I saw the ghosts of a distant past. A ceremony filled with life and purpose played through the sacred space. I saw our ancestors walking through grass that rippled like water, the heavens arching above. I saw a merging of the sacred. Each element aligned within and without. As natural as the breath that is not held back. And I saw a path leading to a smaller circle down below.

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You cannot see Little Meg from Long Meg, at least not now, but it is not far away.

When we left Long Meg, I asked Steve about Little Meg. “It’s not far from here,” he told me. “I’ll take you to it if you’d like.”

Little Meg is tiny in comparison to Long Meg. The stones arranged intimately, as though to contain a fire. Not an outer fire, though, as much as an inner. Whereas Long Meg feels open and exposed to the outer, sharing its magic to many in a larger ritual of ceremonial reverence, Little Meg seems to represent a space for the individual relationship to the “teacher” within and without.

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Little Meg in its present state.

The path, if there once was one, which I feel strongly there was, is no longer marked from Long Meg. Instead, one must either wander through farmers’ fields and over stone walls, or drive as we did. The distance between the two sites is only 0.5 kilometers. Situated in a farmers field amid a rubble of smaller rocks, the circle of stones that is called Little Meg looks and feels disrupted. But, it has not entirely lost its magic.

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The stones of Little Meg are not likely placed as they once were, but they still hold a magic of the past.

It is still being used, and honored in individual ways. Most likely not the same as it once was. When I was there, I saw crow’s feathers arranged in its center, and the offering of a polished pillar of quartz. It did not necessarily feel misused, so much as neglected.

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The more you peer at each individual stone, the more faces and figures you see. These stones hold stories for those who wish to hear them.

During my brief visit to Little Meg, I had the impulse to sit in her center and open to the inner world that might be revealed to me. Yet time did not permit this. There was also the impulse to clear away the debris that didn’t feel like it belonged. The litter of smaller stones…the fallen branches…but there was also the feeling to let it be. That although in some ways forgotten and neglected, Little Meg was living out her legacy as a part of Earth and there was a feeling of peace to this acceptance.

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This stone looked as though it was missing a part, perhaps chiseled off years ago, but one cannot mistake the connection to Long Meg with its spirals.

It reminded me of circles I had seen in landscapes that were both intimate and vast. Like Barbrook and the Nine Ladies. It offered an inner wisdom for those who wished to find it. A union of energies. The outer to the inner. The masculine with the feminine. And, the human with the animal nature of self. It was both lovely and serene. And it offered a peace and acceptance I would soon need.

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The faces in this stone are hard to miss. A human face intimately joined to a feline/animal form hints at the melding of these energies that exist inside all of us.

Once again, I left with the pull of longing to stay.  Both Little Meg and Long Meg had offered gifts, and I was filled with gratitude for their presence. Tomorrow would not be easy to accept, but in the meantime, I had the companionship of my lovely hosts and their furry friends, as well as a delicious and grounding dinner awaiting me.

To be continued…

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

 

 

 

 

Keats & The First White Feather #keats #keatshouse

I woke to sunshine and the sound of my friend hollering across the room. I had slept for two-and-a-half hours, our agreed upon time so that we could venture into the land of Keats.

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The Bust of John Keats. A rather handsome man, as my companion declared.

More than two decades ago, I had fallen in love with the young poet and his bold, unapologetic, and hopelessly romantic poetry and writing. Before the tender age of 25 when he succumbed to death by tuberculosis, Keats had managed to produce an astonishing amount of work filled with the beauty and pathos of life. Truth and Beauty. Those words haunting the Grecian Urn to extend time into eternity. You can imagine my surprise and delight to discover that the poet was also an amateur artist of sorts and had drawn the actual urn he had poured his musings into.

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Keats’s Grecian Urn

And then there was his beloved’s engagement ring. A hopeless romantic myself, I had fallen in love with their love. So much so, I had written my honors thesis comparing Keats’s poetry to his love letters to Fanny Brawne.

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The ring Keats gave to his beloved. Sadly, they were never able to wed.

The house itself is both beautiful and understated, fitting for the young poet. Nearby is now a large library, of which we did not venture inside, but both felt a fitting honor for the poet. Outside the white facade of Keats’s home are beautiful gardens, which were in the full flush of spring. February spring. The day before I was in the throes of winter in New Hampshire. Wrapped tightly against 20 degrees Fahrenheit amid a land blanketed in white. Now, before me, purple and gold crocuses littered an emerald lawn where an old tree reaches toward the pathway that wraps the house.

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The guardian tree outside the poet’s home.

I felt the spirit guardians inside the tree watching me as I passed. Judging, perhaps, the worthiness of my feet to walk the path of the poet. It was, in many ways surreal. The sudden, early spring laid before me. I, treading the the role of voyeur through the rooms where Keats slept, ate, and wrote his heart’s truths on a wooden desk with quill and ink.

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Instead of the wall, I imagine the young poet gazing out the window at his gardens.

What did he see, I wondered? What was his land like many years ago? The house looked, in many ways, untouched. Outside, several of the same buildings still stand as they had during the poet’s lifetime. England is old, far older than Keats’s timeline.

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The poet’s home

It took but a short while to roam the rooms and gardens of his home, and we were soon venturing out in to his beloved Hampstead Heath. The afternoon sun beginning to turn the land golden. Its heady warmth lifting my sleepless form in a semi-somnambular weightlessness.

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Hampstead Heath is vast and filled with romantic beauty.

How many poems had been inspired by the poet’s walks through these woods? Woods so vast one could easily get lost inside of them. We did. For awhile, before we took out the phone and gave into the modern convenience of tracked navigation.

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This tiny pup stole our hearts with her brave determination to keep up with the big dogs.

It had been a full day. A day blessed with the quiet peace of a past mingled with the present. The woods were filled with dogs and their companions, the air imbibed with the mingled appreciation for the beauty of the early spring day.

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We ate outside, in the garden under a heat lamp. The air turning chill with the descending sun.

We had an early dinner at the Spaniard’s Inn before we ventured toward home. As I looked over the land, my eye caught upon a large white feather formed by clouds over Jack Straws Castle. I took it as a sign. Of what, I did not know, but there would be more white feathers. Many more, before my journey in England was over.

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White feather cloud

I had almost forgotten about the girl with the blindfold waiting in the hallway as we climbed the stairs to the flat. Overcome with the exhaustion of travel, the weight of the long waking hours over took me as I climbed once again into bed. I closed my eyes expecting immediate sleep, but there she was. Unmoved in the hallway. Waiting for me. The blindfold still wrapped around her eyes.

To be continued…

This is part 2 of my most recent journey to England. To read part 1, please click here

 

 

 

 

The Blindfolded Girl in the Hallway #travel #london

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Photo Credit: Pexels

It had been easy to plan. Perhaps too easy. My husband’s forwarding of the airfare deal had led to another trip across the pond that had been pulled together quickly and nearly effortlessly. I had two sets of gracious hosts, an almost absurdly inexpensive flight, and dates that fit the family’s schedule as perfectly as circumstances allowed. My feathered seer had appeared to me in dreams, visions ,and physical forms, and I felt I had to go. The pieces had seemingly fallen into place of their own will.

Perhaps too easily.

Life, I have learned, rarely unravels before us in the way we envision it. I had felt the shift. The silence in the weeks before my departure, but had tried to ignore it. The plan had changed, but I wasn’t sure how.

The inevitable test began during the flight to London. I was sandwich in the middle of the airplane, between two men, one much larger than the other. The armrests were taken and I knew I could easily succumb to the feeling of entrapment if I allowed it to cloud me in. There would be no slumber, not that I had planned on it. I rarely sleep on airplanes, even when the flights, like this one was, are overnighters. The large man to my right began to snore before the plane taxied down the runway, so loudly, heads turned from several rows away and looks of pity fell upon my face.

Yet, I was determined to make the best of it. I pulled my headphones out of my purse, plugged them into the seat in front of me, and scrolled through the dismal list of films. Two movies and one granola bar and yogurt later, we arrived at Gatwick. I, surprisingly alert.

The trip through customs was quicker than expected, and my train tickets easily purchased. My only mistake, not buying the combo tube ticket because the agent assured me I would get a better rate if I waited until I got to the station. Turns out it’s not so easy to get a ticket if you don’t already have one, or an Oyster card, of which I am now the proud owner.

After some minor scrambled confusion, I got my tube ticket, found the right terminal, and boarded the tube. My friend was waiting at the “meeting place,” and we set off to buy some provisions before we settled into her flat so she could get a few hours of work in, and I some sleep.

The bedroom was cool and welcoming. After I removed the layers of clothing that had enveloped me for the past night and previous day, changed into PJs, and brushed my teeth, I slipped under the duvet and closed my eyes.

And that’s when I saw her. The girl with a blindfold over her eyes. Standing in the hallway, beyond the closed doors. Waiting for me.

Part 1 in a series of posts to follow that will cover my most recent journey to England to study some of its ancient sites. 

#Timeless #writephoto #SueVincent #poetry

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

She whispered

I am waiting for you

But the hills stretch for miles

where will I find you?

Her voice echoes through me

rising from the shadowlands

Inside I search the detritus

 of lifetimes forgotten

their effects left behind

my eyes look for the ever-green

of the heart to find her again

as feet stumble over instinct

broken by memory

until flesh touches stone

and her song sings truth through my cells

erasing time as the door

within opens again

 

For Sue Vincent’s weekly write photo challenge. A fitting photo as I get ready for another journey across the pond to mingle among the stones. To participate in the challenge, please click here.

 

A Marriage of Eastern & Western Medicine & my thoughts on the documentary “Heal” #heal #healing #medicine

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If you haven’t seen the film “Heal” yet, the trailer can be viewed here. My husband, a family care physician trained in western medicine, and I, a practitioner of energy medicine (to borrow Donna Eden’s term which I prefer over healer), watched the documentary last night. A few days ago my mother-in-law had inquired as to whether I had watched it, so my interest was piqued.

We have been asked the question several times, in several different ways over the years, what it is like to be married to someone who practices “Eastern” v. “Western” medicine. As though they exist on the extreme ends of the a spectrum with no overlap. It is a question that involves polarity, which is always fraught with at least a small dose of misconception and judgment. We live in a world of polarities that can easily overtake our better sense of truth, serving to divine instead of unite.

Our marriage of seeming polarities works. for us. It is not always easy, we have our differences, but we balance each other out. My husband is one of the smartest and caring people I know, and I am not saying this because I am married to him. I have known him since  we were both 17. He is a genuine healer who came to medicine, not for the prestige or the money (hence why he chose family practice), but because he has a genuine interest in helping people.

In his office at work there is a salt lamp and a diffuser to balance the energies and help purify the air around him. If you searched his pockets, you would most likely find the polished gray of hematite and a blue andara crystal. He goes to acupuncture on a semi regular basis, and has had energy healing/medicine.

He has also referred patients to me, and to other “healers.” When we share our stories, we don’t doubt each other’s truths.

Many years ago, we studied science together. I graduated Bowdoin College with degrees in English and biology, thinking I would one day be a geneticist (and a writer on the side), while graduated at the same school to pursue his dream of going to medical school. From Bowdoin, I went to Brown University to continue by study of the biology and chemistry, but after one year there I realized I was not on the path of my heart. I still loved and valued science, but I knew there were other places for me to explore.

I am not finished exploring them, and I would venture to say neither is my husband. Many years ago, when I started venturing into the realm of energy medicine, my mentor at the time told me that my marriage would never work if we were both going in different directions. And, I believed her. I took her words as truth. She was my mentor, and I had falsely placed her upon a pedestal. Something we can all do, but should not. Our best teacher is always ourselves, and we should always check another’s wisdom with our own truth.

I have had to learn, through many difficulties, that a marriage is not about always walking the same path, but about allowing each other to walk their own path, while othering a hand in love to help each other along when it is needed.

We are each here, I believe, to see past false perceptions and to find that unifying force that unities all of us. That thing we call love. Limiting beliefs lead to polarity and false judgements arise from the fear of our own sense of inadequacy.

And now to speak directly about the film we watched together last night. “Heal.”  I am not writing this post to analyze the film, but to spark a different way of viewing medicine. There were aspects of the film that I felt were on-point, so to speak, and places where I wanted more, or different. No doubt my own beliefs and ego-centered judgements factored into my thinking, but one area I was hoping the film might venture into more is how “Western” medicine and “Eastern” medicine need not always be seen as polarities. You know, that “us” v. “them” concept so pervasive in our world right now, at least on the surface.

The downfalls of the practice if medicine driven by money and greed are not to be over-looked, as the film noted, but the focus was on the side of western medicine.  There is also, ego-driven greed in the practice of “eastern” medicine. It’s a fallacy to believe the ego plays a part in one and not the other.  Not always of course, but it is false to imply that this does not occur. There are also limitations to each system when the belief exists that “I know what is right for you.”

I had hoped that the film would attempt to bridge the divide, and to remind us that each extreme did not evolve separately, but that we have, in many ways, chosen to take the paths of division. The healing properties of nature are used in some of our pharmaceuticals (albeit not always ethically), a practice that arose from our earliest history. Hands are used as vehicles to heal in both, whether they are threading a stitch to seal a wound, or directing energy to release a pocket of density.

We have much to learn from each other to keep bridging the divide. The enemy does not exist on the other side, but in the false system of belief of the “other.” I see great promise in where we are heading, despite what we might see or perceive as the truth. I have encountered extreme beliefs based on ego on both sides, and have fallen prey to them myself. We must always check in with fear and weigh it in the heart of truth. But, science and ancient wisdom, or so called “new age” healing need not be viewed as separate and unequal. There’s a common thread that unites us all, and I believe we can weave it together.

“I was wrong about you” #yoga #nonjudgement

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Image Credit: Pixabay

It was like any other Tuesday morning, only it wasn’t. No two are ever exactly the same, just as each moment passes by us changed from the one before, whether we are aware of it or not. This Tuesday morning, though, was memorable in unexpected ways.

It began with a small mishap, a yoga mat de-potting an African violet that had been repotted after another de-potting from Millie-the-kitten-almost-cat a few days prior. Poor plant. Yet, accidents happen, and after a quick few swipes with the vacuum order was returned, or so I thought. Yoga with said mentioned kitten-cat Millie, and her side-kick Zelda-the-fifty-pound-dog, is never what I would call orderly. It’s a combination of laughter/hatha/kitten/dog yoga and one ever knows whose mat is going to be chosen for the Millie v. Zelda wrestling match yoga competition practice. This morning, though, Millie decided she’d rather spend the bulk of the class prowling the perimeter and upending every crystal and figurine in sight, while stealing peacock feathers and fishing in the water fountain for more rocks and crystals.

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Millie-the-kitten-cat resting after yoga class
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Millie’s side-kick, Zelda, who loves her like a daughter despite their obvious differences

But, I am digressing from the true purpose of this post, which is about what happened after class had formally ended and the collective “Om” had been uttered. Often, instead of a scurrying out the door to get to the next destination for the day, there is a lingering behind and sharing of the thoughts of the mind. Some days chatter is light banter, but today it rose from the heart. That place that reminds us we are all, in essence, the same. That we are each, in our individual way, trying to find our place in the world as human beings. Trying to live each day to the best of our abilities in this existence we call life.

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Photo Credit: Pixabay

Life can morph and change at any moment, both within our own existence and beyond. A fellow writer had shared her news that she would be appearing at a local bookstore the next day to discuss her book about childhood depression. A deceptively small work of fiction based upon her own life experiences as a mother with a child who went into the darkness of life at an early age.

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More about my friend and her book can be found on her website

When we open up the stories inside of our hearts, our shared humanity emerges. The energy of compassion and empathy pours from our beings and outer differences are ignored. I knew my friend’s story, but the others in the room did not. From her story flowed another, equally poignant. One that I had never heard before. We often interact with others without really knowing who they are. Their triumphs and sorrows, as well as those more mundane moments are not widely known outside the space of the home, or even the individual being who may tend toward introversion. And, although we may guess at other’s thoughts, and think we can read them on their faces, we can never truly know them unless they are shared from the heart.

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Photo Credit: Pixabay

When my friend shared her book and her story, another member of our yoga class shared her story about helping a different boy through his darkness. A boy, who was between childhood and adulthood who needed someone to see him for the gift he was. They had almost overlooked him when he asked for a job because of the reputation of his family. Now, they are his primary guardians. Although he is not theirs through blood, he is by any other definition their son. They have given him shelter, nourishment, and love. They have also given him unwavering support and guidance to see his gifts come to life. Yet, he was almost dismissed.

Five words changed everything. For him and for them. “I was wrong about you,” his foster father confessed after feeding him a much-needed meal and opening his ears to hear the stories in his heart. After realizing that a false judgement had been placed upon this young teen, the couple opened their door and their hearts to him, giving him a chance at a life he was not endowed with by birth. From his place of darkness, a new and brilliant light had dawned.

“I was wrong about you.”

How many times do we place judgement upon another throughout our days. This tendency of the human mind to make assumptions about other living beings has likely been a key part of our existence since the earliest stages of humanity. In some ways it helps us to survive, but it doesn’t always help us to thrive.

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Photo Credit: Prexel

We are at a stage in our evolution where polarization appears to be triumphing over unity. The false belief of the “other” that is somehow lesser than ourselves appears like a virus that we carry through each generation. Sometimes it lies latent, and other times, like now, it flares in all of its diseased desire to win and overcome us.

Later in the morning, after the rest of the yoga class had left, my fellow writer friend and I lingered a little longer over cups of tea while she told me about her night at the same bookstore with her husband. And as she talked, more hope sprung within me. There had been a discussion, which is part of a larger movement taking place across this country. It’s starting small, less than a dozen Indie bookstores are doing it at this time, but I have a feeling it will quickly grow. Its basic premise, to bring together seemingly different viewpoints and spark a conversation to find unity. That common ground that is in the middle of polarity.

The store had been filled to capacity, and I wonder how many left with a different mindset than when they had arrived. How many had said, either out-loud or in the privacy of their minds, “I was wrong about you.”

#Blade #WritePhoto #SueVincent #poetry

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

It is said the heart is a forest

green with life it is fed

with the breath

of love

pulsing renewal

in each moment rebirth

is possible, yet we wear the shield

of armor with thoughts of valor

forgetting

the sword that cleaves

is in our hands shining the green

like a mirror into eyes refusing to see

the life that is love

held inside

For Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt. If you’d like to participate, please click here.

 

Left Behind #dreamsymbolism #acceptance #dreamhealing

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I woke before the alarm, standing in a room filled with crystals and stones inside a mall. Alone. Left behind by two “friends” and a boyfriend. It is likely they even took my blue Volt with them, driving away in the guiltless pleasure of having deserted me. I had my cell phone with me and took it out while I surveyed the crowded, lifeless space. It was useless to me. I didn’t have any of their numbers. Even if I had, would they have answered?

It had been a strangely vivid dream. So real it felt like life, yet I had not even been thinking of these three people. Remnants from adolescence angst. The two girls who I felt had once betrayed me and left me behind many years ago, I realized were still haunting me with this fear. We dream what we need to heal, and last night I dreamt the fear of being left behind. Again.

If I take the road back further, driving in my blue car, as I did in the dream, I can retrace the routes I once traveled. Those I had left behind, and those who had left me behind. I am not guiltless, as my dream showed me. There was the girl I’ll call Sally, who tried to get into the car with me. Opened the door blue door to squish her way into the passenger seat with me, while my boyfriend drove and those two former friends sat with glee in the backseat. I told her “no,” that there was “no room for her,” before I shoved her out and closed the door, while thinking about the empty space that could have held her behind me.

It was fall when we traveled the roads in my dream. The season of life before decay. I had gazed in admiration at the hills shrouded in color as we crested the top of one to land in a place covered with carved stones. “There’s a goat!” Or was it a wolf? I thought it was real before I became embarrassed by my mistake. Oh, how I wanted to be accepted. Liked. Loved.

Yet, we are all left behind and we all leave others behind. Intentionally and deliberately. Sometimes with love, sometimes for lack of love. Self-preservation can be a cruel need. It forgets that this leaving behind is never lasting, but a necessary part of the growth of the self before it discovers that there is no self. Division, another cruel trick of the mind searching for acceptance. Forgetting that the self divides only to someday return to the ever-flowing river that is Love.

 

A Fragrant Life #writephoto #liveinjoy #poetry #yogapoetry

 

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Photo Credit: Sue Vincent

To think life is a garden to feast upon

is a fallacy of the human mind

We are birthed opening our eyes to wonder

but too often this wonder turns to greed

The want for more pleasure feeds the hungry mind

which triggers the body into belief that it too is ravenous

for more

Dissatisfaction is the inevitable result

as the body and mind encode the belief that more

is never enough. And so we feast

until there is no more to feast upon. Too late

we realize we have stripped bare the beauty

before us. The shadow of misery

dims the light and life withers

for lack of love. A self-inflicted prophecy

of despair. They say misery loves company

but that is not true. Misery does not love

And so we must discover Truth

turning the key inward to Joy

that every-present light within

We must breathe it back to Life

as we discover the self

inside the shadow

is the one true garden

waiting to bloom

For Sue Vincent’s weekly #writephoto prompt. If you’d like to participate, please click here

#writephoto