note to self

find the journal

you don’t dare write in

because it is so beautiful

unblemished

and untouched.

crack it open

like a walnut

and scrawl your name

in raggedy letters

you can’t erase.

then get on with it --

put things down,

and if you are tempted

to lie

at least say so.

try telling the truth --
you might be surprised

when no one falls apart

except

maybe you.

breathe a little . . .

suffer if you must,

but don’t overdo it.

because misery won’t

make you a better person.

join the world

of splotchy ordinary 

run-of-the-mill

bumbling humanity

where you live.

then live.

really LIVE.






(This little poem is an intention,
 a note of encouragement from me to me...
you are invited to remind me
when I get twisted and forget my own advice,
as I am prone to do.)
Lilmomma

By the Seat of My Pants

Recently, I was asked, "Why do you want to blog?"

Pondering that for a couple of weeks brought me to this one simple truth.

For the joy of it.

The same reason I sing in the car . . . and the shower.

The reason I make unstudied strokes with a  paintbrush.

Or set the paintbrush down to dance around the kitchen to an irresistibly great song on the radio.

For the joy of it.

There's another way to put this, which is equally true, but more analytical.

Blogging, painting, dancing, singing . . . these things create for me a dialog with life.

An interaction.  A back an forth.  A co-creation.

And, that dialog is my way of being more fully awake.  Alive.  Vulnerable.  Growing.

So, when I break out the kids' old watercolor tins, left over from elementary school,

turn on some great music

and stand over the kitchen counter at all hours 

letting the colors and the brushes and the curves choose me. . .

When I paint myself into an ugly corner

and somehow paint my way back out of it (or not) . . .

 It's just about experience.

The joy of it.

Joy which encompasses flailing and frustration and laughter and perspective.

And, I don't think this is about me.

I think it is about Living.

About leaving me out of it and tasting the richness of the unknown.

Letting it roll through me and spill out as it chooses.

Of course, it's there for all of us to do whenever we want to, pretty much.

Or to pass on, either way equally good.

Equally legitimate.  

It's not "worth" anything - won't add up to much that's tangible.

Still, it matters somehow.

I've never been a person with a grand vision I set out to accomplish.

Yet, I've always been a spirit with a grand desire for adventure.

Life, I believe, can be that.

But, hey.  Don't take it from me.  I might be wrong.

I'm just flying by the seat of my pants.

The Spoils of Summer

Know what I find most charming about this time of summer?

It's over.

Oh, heavens, don't get me wrong -- I absolutely love summer.

Love every minute of it!

But . . .

when it starts to wind down, and the days turn golden,

and the clouds set crisp against a china blue sky,

when the grass is shaggy and the flowerbeds raggedy around the edges --

that's when the elements of nature, after the enormous festival of summer fertility

finally

begin to relax.

The sun still warms my skin in the mornings.  And evening falls more gently.

Whatever this summer was to be -- it has been.

Nothing remains to be planted or painted or climbed or conquered.

The pools have closed, and the neighborhood is quiet of an evening.

It is a time to revel in the spoils.

To cease the harvest.

To sit back with an iced-tea and gaze up.

To relish what the summer brought and make peace with what it lacked.

To realize, it was, in its own way, quite satisfactory.

The big to-do is over for another year,

and it is a singularly lovely time of no expectations.

Which leaves all the more room for simple

appreciation.

For savoring the one still remaining perfect blossom.

The arbor sagging beneath the weight of its vines.

Like that blessed silence after that last guest leaves the party

but the house remains draped in decorations.

Can you do it?

Give it up?

Find that waiting chair and rest in its arms?

Good.

I'll meet you there.

Riversummer

Sometimes I call this place Rivendell, because it is so full of grace.  

Able and ready to provide soul restoration.  All I have to do is show up.

It is nearly impossible to worry here.

Nature's order murmurs, laps, ruffles and flows through everything.

There is nothing to add.  Nothing to improve on.

And plenty to love.

                      

So when late afternoon sun back lights the willows and makes the river's surface into a sky mirror,

I just simply have to get in.  And sit there.  Waist deep in cool water, lifting up handful  after handful of pebbles that made their way to Kansas from the great Rocky Mountains.  Welcome connections.

Reminding me that I, too, have my place here. 

We all do.

So, whatever your Rivendell may be, I encourage you to remember it's there.  

It's always there.  Utterly at one with its own nature.  Ready for you to dip down in,

and be blessed.

Is this Oz?

This is what I saw.  With my own two eyes.  And, I started thinking about the lenses we use to view our world, temper our moods, shape our realities.  

Then, I took a step back.

And things looked somewhat different.

So, I backed up a little more.

and a little more . . .

Until I had a completely different sense of things.

And I got to thinking

this is kind of a meditation,

an out-picturing of how to notice 

"space"

how to to experience the silence

between thoughts,

 how to back up off my story line and get some breathing room, 

some delicious soul space.

Yes.  I think so.

Wishing us all enough space . . . to breathe, to rest, to soften
 . . . and to love.

A Walk With My Sister

It was only about a thousand degrees the day my sister brought me to Botanica at my request.  So I could revel in the joy of taking these photographs.  Which I did.  We walked.  We traded amazed comments.  Pointed out fascinating features of this blossom or that fern.  Pondered the ages of trees.

My sister waited for me.  She sipped water.  I took photos of things I could see

. . . and things I couldn't.

Having scuttled our plan to rise too early and rush through coffee, we didn't beat the heat.  We sweltered. 

Truly flippin', mop your brow,my shorts are sticking to my legs, sweltered.

 When the sun hit high noon, its glare made lily pads shine like patent leather shoes on Easter Sunday.  (This is "bad" light for photos, I'm told.)  I rather enjoyed its stark effect.

Recalling it now, I see what a big sister/little sister moment this was.  She, waiting, allowing for my delight.  Me, pouncing around as if I were some master photojournalist.  Both of us knowing it was just about having fun.  And what really made it memorable was being there together.

I think of the paths we've walked.  Together and alone.  Through shadow and light.  Following.  Leading.  Side-by-side.  Doing our best to illuminate what matters.  Determined to see what's out there.  Clashing.  Harmonizing.  

Sistering. 

As I took a final pass through The Shakespeare Garden, my sister headed back to the cool of the lobby to wait.  "Take your time," she said.  "I'm in no hurry at all."

Just listen to that.  Seriously.

"Take your time.  I'm in no hurry at all."  How often do we hear those words?  
Almost never. 

But, in the big book of Sisterosophy, those words are golden.  In a world where people seem to shout, "Hurry up I love you we're going to be late!" those words, "Take your time," proclaim sisterliness. 
Because sistering takes time.  Lots of time.

Coming from someone who taught me to mold pretend mashed potatoes and peas for my toy kitchen using salt/flour paste and food coloring, 
sewed me the coolest dresses,
 introduced me to love beads and Joe Cocker,
 and festooned my hospital bed with a country-western, lasso-twirling, twangy-singing, stuffed duck that made me laugh my butt off as the antidote to trauma -- 
these words, I suppose, are only natural.

my sister

And little sister, I suppose, is profoundly, inexplicably blessed.

Daredevils

Late August, just before school resumed, everyone went to the Finney County Fair.
Beyond comparing tan lines and crop tops, eating cotton candy and flirting with the boys, lay another sinister  dimension.
This dimension was ruled by the daredevils.
Those who relished the thought of being strapped down in a wire mesh "squirrel cage" attached to machinery assembled by a not-so-wholesome-looking, middle-aged carnie, and tossed about willy-nilly in front of the entire town while tampons flew out of their purses, and their hair was scrambled into knots.  Some of them even puked.
I hated the daredevils.
Because I was, by comparison, a chicken.

The kind of anxiety provoked by a carnival thrill ride was precisely what my brain had been programmed in utero to avoid.
Still, that day arrived during the summer between 8th and 9th grade when I knew it was time.
I didn't mess with the Scrambler or Tilt-a-Whirl.
I signed on for The Bullet.
You know the one.  A rotating cylinder on either end of a towering torture device.
Guaranteed to stop for awhile as you hang suspended from the top,  upside down, naturally.
Hell on earth.

So I did it.  And it was bad, but not that bad.  Not like I'd imagined.
Lots of screaming.  Lots of shrieking.  Some laughing.  Rather exhilarating in a perverse way.
When it was over, well, I had that great Forrest Gump feeling of "One Less Thing."  And I remember thinking, "So NOW I'm COOL?"
Damn.  That was easy.

Cm' on.  Let's get more cotton candy.

Ready or Not

Ready or Not, Here I Come!

Amazing, isn’t it, how children’s games, played with a light heart, are about practicing for the pith of life?

Cover your eyes.  Count to a hundred.  Don’t peek!

When you look out again, everything will have changed.  And, it is your job to muster the courage to peer around corners, under bushes, and behind the shed to find everybody again.  To chase them home, and tag someone else.  Because it wouldn’t be fair to always be the one facing the unknown.

So we practice and we play.  Sometimes instigating the startle.  Sometimes receiving it.  But, over and over, getting the hang of the game.  And getting a few rules under our belts.  1.)  Play fair.  2.)  Don’t scare yourself to death with your own fantasies.  3.)  Dig deep for courage.

The reward?  We’re part of it, of course.  The game.  The world.  This wild, unmanageable, sometimes dull, sometimes terrifying event called Life.  Not only are we each part of it.  We’re each instrumental.  No one knows how to do my part but me.  No one could possibly do your part but you.

This photo of autumn seed pods against the sparkling late summer leaves demonstrates what is about to blur and what is coming into sharp focus.  Indian Summer.  Harbinger of Autumn.  Time to run and play until dark.  Time to gather courage for whatever is next.

Oh, and remember to have fun.  If you dare.

Mountain Mama

Years and years and eons ago, when I was finding my way back from the shadowland of cancer, I made myself a promise.  If I get through this, I'm going to the mountains.  Which, I did.  

I traveled alone by car on a pilgrimage to the town of my birth, then the town of my youth, then to my spiritual home, up in the bosom of the Rockies.  

There, I felt the terror which had taken up residence in my spirit loosen its grip.  And the whispers of pine boughs proved more compelling than the ghost voices my mind was conjuring.  The high, clean scent of pine needles releasing their essence cleared my nose of its memory of hospital stench.

I spent hours hiking.  And even more hours sitting next to icy streams, dipping in up to my ankles until my bones ached cold with fresh life.  The fear, shame, grasping, loathing, horror of it all found its place.  And it's place, among the mountains, wildflowers, streams and clouds, was utterly infinitesimal.  As am I.   Nothing was more comforting or more astonishingly beautiful.  

Today feels like a good day to give thanks.

So, thanks.

Jeannie

Settle In

I love the title of Ram Dass's latest film.  "Fierce Grace."  I listened to it as I lay on the floor of my loft one Sunday morning, my ear next to the internal speaker of my laptop.  Actually, that was the perfect way to hear him.   Occasionally, I propped up on my elbow to watch the images and enjoy those spirited blue eyes of his.  But, mostly, I listened.  I marinated in that voice, those words, the deliberate pace.

There is a joy in this man.  It has always been there, and no less today.  Drastically affected by his stroke, very much compromised in his physical capacities, he insists:  This is the most important teaching I've received.  I'm really learning.  I'm learning to settle in.

To this moment (smile).  And now this moment (smile again).  And this moment.

And, eyes twinkling, he tells me with absolute and utterly lighthearted conviction, it's okay.

What love lives at the root of this fierce grace.

Just Passing Through . . .

As a kid, family vacations were always, always, always (like it or not) an adventure.  No two could possibly be alike.  And taking one's chances was written into the deal.

It was before the age of franchise.  

Limited safety.  Little predictability.  Utter adventure.  And memories never to be rivaled.  

Growing bored beyond bored in the back seat of our big car lead me to creating intricate fantasy stories  of being a pop star (Cher, perhaps) on tour with her band.  Learning to tune out "the news" on the radio, along with Dad's cigarette smoke (even though the window was cracked) required a variety of strategies.

Stopping to eat was a lifesaver.  It meant a new place to explore.  The little roadside diners along the blue highways we traveled were as varied and unpredictable as America herself.

Can you imagine . . . not knowing what the menu (nor its ethnicity) would be?  Anything from German to Mexican to what I call Country.  Delicious?  Ummm . . . probably better than a 50-50 chance.  Worth it?  Oh, yeah.  Even the grumbling after a less than satisfactory roast beef sandwich was interesting to observe.  And, for a kid, there was almost always something good for dessert.  Big cookies, a milkshake, some whole new kind of pie.  

Arriving at the destination began another leg of the adventure.

Trolling the town from place to place, getting a feel for the motor inn (motel) from the look of the sign and all it promised.

The heart-sinking feeling of coming across what looked like the MOST fun place with the best pool in the nicest spot only to see the "NO" lighted up on the (NO) VACANCY neon sign.  Then, finally, Mom would spot us a good one.  Dad would agree, and we'd move in.

Again, one never knew quite what to expect  . . . in terms of decor, facilities, playgrounds, and so forth.  But, that was sort of the point of being away from home, actually.

I love all that.  Individuality.  Folks.  Little glimpses into other lives.  (Often the motel owners had their own little home attached to the office and I could see in and see their dog sitting on the couch.)  A funky bell would ring telling them someone had arrived.  They'd visit with mom and dad.  Wanting to hear about road conditions or wheat harvest.  It was cool.

Looking back, we were fearless.  We never even stayed in Holiday Inns (too expensive).  And, thank god for that.  We got the richer, realer, warmer version of America.  Of which we happened to be a part.  And, if we occasionally had to suffer the disappointment of a creaky bed or unheated pool, well, we sucked it up and looked forward to the next stopping place.

That's a pretty satisfying way to live if you ask me.

Square One

What to do when things fall apart?  Big things.  Put-my-whole-heart-in-it-and-it-went-kaplooey things.

Nobody knows.  Not really.

First, there's the flattening.  After a time, propping up on one knee.  Then, a sucker punch, for good measure.  Finally, on two feet.  Staggering about.  Disorientation.  And so forth.

But, here's the odd thing.  What seems to happen next is that I find myself willingly doing something as a complete beginner.  It may be quite tiny.  It may be in private.  And, it may not amount to a hill of beans in terms of a tangible achievement.  BUT -- it reconnects me to life.  Right where I am.  At square one.

Which is how I've come to dabble in watercolors.  I know nothing.  So, I come empty-handed and just experiment.  And sometimes the radio is on.  And there's a lovely glass of iced-tea.  And it may get very late before I realize I've spent a Saturday night absorbed in the process.  And that is the magic.  That is the healing.  That is the reassurance that life goes on. . .  with me, somehow, still in it.

After all, that's what my heart is being asked to do.  To just go on beating.  To start out empty.  To experience life the way it is now.  Makes sense that it would feel right to do it on the outside, too.

That is what I have today.  And, oddly, it's everything I need.