As the seasons tumble from summer into autumn, the fields turning to gold, I realise that it’s already October and I still haven’t finished writing up my account of The Silent Eye weekend I attended in June. I suppose I’ve been on a blog break (I’ve been doing a lot but have little to report as yet; however, stay posted), so I guess that’s one excuse.
But I also think that Maiden Castle, which was the next stop on our weekend, is somewhere that I’m still processing, the echoes of our visit there ringing through my mind. It was massive, in so many ways. Sue had warned me, the previous afternoon, as we were making our mad time-twisting dash between churches. ‘I want to see your expression,’ she said, ‘when you first see it.’
I hope it was suitably awed – I know I felt it. I can still…
Out of a hidden fear, we seldom examine our personal origins – this sense of ‘me’. Yet, if we let go that fear, the journey can teach us so much, and leave us with an emotion of deep belonging.
We can explore this with a meditation, rather than the intellect; if you’d like a little journey?
Be quiet and become conscious that our everyday lives define us by how we react to the world. Feel all the things, now, that are defining you. Feel the tensions in your body, the worries and concerns about the day ahead. Feel the aspirations that you have; possibly today holds the chance of a furthering your ambitions? Or perhaps many of those have been defined by others… for you.
Feel how all these things resolve themselves into your body. Is the centre of your body in a knot? If so, relax it with kindness…
Most saw it as a the remains of a tree covered in moss and simply passed it by without a second thought or glance. Others saw it as something more, and those were the ones it watched. Two faces, one above and one below, with a breadth of life in between. Those that linger the longest hold the most memories, and the Way-stone had been there for centuries, cataloging each movement of the grass and the many feet that had pressed down the green to feel the touch of Earth’s body. The Way-stone had seen trees come and go; an entire forest felled for man before roots pushed their way to light once again, as all life will do. Those men had seen the stone and thought it curious. There was one, though, who stopped each day and lingered with his axe in hand, waiting for the others to pass by unaware.
The Way-stone watched him. Noticing his pause of understanding. The way his eyes saw through the green to the life it hid, and how his heart fluttered through memories of a forgotten time. Each day the two faces in the stone watched and wondered if the man would pause just long enough in his daily routine of felling the trees around him. If he would sit, perhaps, or stand near enough to be beckoned.
There are two directions one can go, and an infinity of possibilities in between. So it’s written on the Way-stone’s visage. The man with the axe sometimes looked to the sky and saw the blue expanse and wondered what was above the reach of his eyes. More often, though, he looked below. He seemed to see those penetrating eyes that watched him and studied each action and reaction. He seemed to know he was a guardian to the path held deep inside where most dare not venture, thinking the surface was all there was or could possibly be.
Then, one day, the man with the axe stopped. The others had gone home and the blue above had deepened to indigo. The first stars had broken the veil of darkness and the man with the axe, who had no one to wait for him, drew close to the tree-like stone covered in moss. He laid the axe nearby and sat upon the cool ground. His back was turned toward the well-traveled path into town, his eyes level with the the green eyes before him.
“Show me the way,” he whispered as he reached his left hand to gently touch its soft side where it broke through the ground below.
Waves of heat pulsed through his skin and the lids lowered upon his eyes. The man felt a drawing inward, experiencing a complete absence of light before the entire universe held inside opened before him and he surrendered into its embrace.
I was lying in a chamber under the sea. The murky green of the ocean and all of its life surrounded me. It was impossible to say where my body ended and it began, except I was aware of my presence and the sea of life around me. I was both observer and participant as I watched the dance of life, sometimes struggling to break free, sometimes weaving together. Dark shapes moving through the soupy sea in what felt like an endless play called “Life.”
In the background, somewhere unseen and only heard, was the voice of God on the radio.
“So, you are saying that the individual will eventually become the we?” the host asked.
“Yes. The individual is finite, the we is ever-lasting,” God replied.
My ears listened to the interview with God as my eyes watched the play of life searching for individuality around me. I felt their struggle as my own, sensing myself as separate from the whole that encompassed me. I felt lonely with separation until I gave way to the concept that felt like Truth of that everlasting “we” that was waiting. This inevitable return that was waiting not just for me, but for every being. Peace replaced fear and anxiety. The struggle of the individual cells to join into a self gave way to the rhythm of the sea, which I began to realize was a part of me. The fear of a loss that was only mine left me. This me that I called “I,” I realized, could never feel whole until it gave way and became the whole. I could live this life, and whatever ones that came after, to feel the struggle as I must, but I no longer would fear that inevitable union. That coming back to the whole never to be born, perhaps, again, into separation. For the eternal we felt like bliss.
Who has not felt ripples
At some point or another
Life comes a full circle
With its curves of ups and downs.
In the course of living
There will be many ups
Where the ego is boosted
And the spirit seems to soar.
And in the same breath
There will be many downs
Of grief despair and loss
Sometimes beyond compare.
As life continues its path
Between the nowhere and somewhere
Between the pain and pleasures
Know there is an art to living.
Call it the wisdom of moderation
To stay clear of tilting in the extremes
Of emotions that manifest
In life and living.
Sense it all, both pain and pleasures
For what is life after all
A little laughter to fill your hearts
And let your tears flow if they must
Just don’t dwell in it for too long…
Hello to everyone! I want once again to offer an opportunity for all writers who follow this blog to share information on their books. It can be very difficult to generate publicity for our writing, so I thought this little effort might help. All books may be mentioned, and there is no restriction on genre. This includes poetry and non-fiction.
To participate, simply give your name, your book, information about it, and where to purchase it in the comments section. Then please be willing to reblog and/or tweet this post. The more people that see it, the more publicity we can generate for everyone’s books.
We’ve had Millie now for three weeks and one day, to be precise. Millie came into our lives when she was just nine-weeks-old. It wasn’t a spontaneous decision. The four of us had been discussing what we would do once our terminally ill, 19-year-old feline companion Penny had passed. We knew our 11-year-old cat, Yoda, would miss his sister, but we also knew that the cats and the dogs in our house had chosen to live separately since we had welcomed our dog Daisy, and then two years later, Rosy, into our lives.
Zelda & Millie after two weeks together
Three-and-a-half years ago, after our beloved Daisy passed, we adopted Zelda. We didn’t know how Zelda would respond to our two cats who had long ago established their separate space inside and outside the house. Being a rescued dog with an unknown past, Zelda soon decided she would stick by her new “mom” wherever I went, which included into the cats’ space. Often Yoda and Penny would scoot outside their cat door when they saw Zelda, but not always. Over time they learned to walk around together and mostly leave each other alone. If they felt threatened by Zelda’s presence they would give her a quick swat to the nose, hiss and run away. Rosy, rarely dared venture into their space.
Zelda trying to figure out how to lick the plate around Millie
Adopting a nine-week-old kitten, though, felt like an offer of sacrifice. What was I thinking? I often asked myself over the course of the next two weeks. There were days when I felt like we had brought home a live meal for the dogs, and the stories well-intended friends were telling me about kittens murdered by their canine companions certainly were not helping to assuage my fears. I knew this would be a test in more ways than one. . .
Our tiny and fearless Millie
And did I mention how tiny Millie was when we brought her home? About the size of a chipmunk, an animal that both Rosy and Zelda tried to chase and capture any chance they got. What were we thinking? What was I thinking? After all, I was the one who would be in charge of Millie’s care for the majority of the time.
Mille atop the stairs to the healing space where I assist others in letting go of their fears
The first two weeks seemed to test every fear my cells were holding onto. I feared for Millie’s life like a mother fears for her child’s. What will I do if they kill her? This thought filled my mind more times than I cared to count. I was, I realized, living my days on the edge of fear. Until I began to let go…
Mille the ever-curious kitten
The first time Zelda lunged at Millie, I thought she was trying to eat her. The second time it happened, I thought maybe she was jealous. The third time she tried to intercede, I thought maybe she wanted to play. By the forth time I realized the miracle for what it was. Instead of trying to protect me, or something worse, Zelda was trying to protect her Millie.
Zelda and her Millie
I’m not going to tell you the fear has entirely disappeared now that Millie’s been here for just over three weeks, has grown to the size of a small squirrel, and now snuggles up next to her dog sister Zelda on the couch when she wants to nap, and bites her ankles when she wants to play. I still don’t leave the dogs and the kitten alone together for more than a couple of minutes at a time, but I am learning to trust in what feels like a miracle to me. That one tiny cat named Millie, so filled with love and trust, can bring a harmony to our house that I never knew would be possible.
Sisters
As I write this, I can hear Zelda snoring on the couch in the other room beside Millie. Rosy isn’t too far away, but for now Zelda has decided that Rosy isn’t quite ready to be beside Mille, and Rosy doesn’t seem to care all that much. A sense of peace has settled into my body, reaching its hands into the corners that once held fear. Anything seems more possible now. Outside the sun shines through autumn leaves and in this ever-turning cycle of life and death that we are all a part of I feel the deeper harmony of balance beneath the outer fears we are collectively holding onto. If this little world inside my house filled with different species with different backgrounds can coexist in a harmonious state premised upon love and trust, maybe, just maybe, we can find that place in the larger world around all of us and realize that core that binds us all together. That core we call Love.
*
The Light Behind the Story 