Thanking the Messengers

Dear ones,

I thought I’d pause a moment to write you. The children of the spontaneous now.

Unplanned moments. The paths that I took, because the other roads broke. And the road itself carved and sculpted me, like a smoothed out mountain, from a great river flowing through it. And now, we meet, at this spot.

                                           Without shoes.

                                             Naked feet.

           I walk this path, and feel the stones beneath my feet.The earth touching my skin. I smell the trees, and the living things, hiding under all the decay of autumn.

 I pause and climb a tree, and sit in the branches. Could I sing like a bird, I would call out a song that would echo through the woods, and mountains, and all the places that I have been. A song that called everyone back to their hearts.

I would look over all the roads I have traveled through, and all the places that have led me to this point.

And say, thank you.

I would say thank you for the sunshine, and for the rain.

I would say thank you for the flowers, and weeds.

I would say thank you for the roads, for the resting harbors, and rivers, and streams, and valleys, and meadows.

And I would, from this view, say thank you to those things which were both sweet, and also painful.

I would say thank you to the outcast moments that never had a kind word, or soft heart directed at them.

I would tell them now, what I saw. I would say thank you to all of them. 

I would say thank you to the Mistakes, the broken things, some might call you. Moments in time when someone forgot their lines.

 And someone picked a new word.

 Mistakes.

  Outcasts though you may be.

 Shunned, and unloved, and unseen, except for ridicule.

I have seen you in the back, peering out, and the longer I have observed you, the more I am coming to see, you are not who I thought you to be.

  You are not to be shunned, and pushed away, and hidden.

 As I look into your eyes, I see the truth clearer.

 Though most would shrink back, and call you bad. When I look into you, and step closer, I see a glimmer of gold, a silhouette of something much more beautiful than anything I have ever seen.

Something real, and raw, and honest.

Something wise, and steady, and true.

I step into your woods, and in the darkness I follow your golden threads you have left behind, until I find higher ground, and I see your weaving, a wondrous story, leading us to a place better than the one we have known.            

In this space of higher seeing.  I see all the best parts I love about myself. I see a child, perfect in its imperfectness. Beautiful. Whole. I see love spilling over.

 I see one who tries, and tries again, and does not quit for all that does not work, and how many things break.

I see you, from this perspective of all the years I have lived. And all the years I have loved.  And I realize the wisdom of that which is unplanned, and sometimes broken, and real, and raw, and average, and normal, and unseen, and seen.

 Mistakes, I see why you try to hide. For when you are seen, mostly, you are shamed.

Shamed because we are all so blind. For if we saw perfectly.

We would let you unveil yourself.

 And we would not push you way. We would embrace you. And call you grace in disguise. We would love you better.

We would accept you, because would know that beyond the perceived broken moment.

                                The flat tire.

                                And all those mistakes that happened.

                                That shouldn’t have but did.

                                If we knew the truth, we would know that you were messengers, heralding in something much better than what we thought we wanted.

We would know that you, in whatever form you came in, were angels in disguise----part of God’s beautiful hand, and we would kiss each finger.

                                Each moment that something broke, we would know, God was trying to break through, to our hearts.

                                Mistakes.

                                Love them.

                                For in them hides the code of God.

                                The falling away of our plans, into a greater plan.

                                So I say, tonight, God, Thank you.

                                For I feel myself many times, like a mistake.

                                Somehow.

                                And yet, I know, a deeper truth, as I ponder, and see your messages written on every fold of my life. 

                And know, that someday we will all see the patterns unfold. And when that day comes, every soul will raise their hands in thanks, and say thank you for your beautiful messengers, and protectors that have been surrounding us this entire time. 

 

 

                                               

 

Thanks giving Satsang

Dear blog,

The house is quiet, and peaceful. I am basking in it, hoping its goodness stays with me into the coming weeks. Tomorrow, and the following days family will come, and there will be so many asking for something. Needing something.

Next week and into the next will be filled with so many music sharing events, I will have to direct my energy to many people, and share in many outward ways.

But right now, here, with you, I wanted to pause, and reflect, and write a few words.

So today, I turn inward, to my garden of words, and in this space plant a few seeds of gratitude---for gifts seen, and gifts unseen, for God manifesting in my life, in the spaces, and in the quiet places, and in my soul, and heart, and in the physical world, for clues, and for synchronicities, and for direction, and protection, and truth, and light, and love, and all those things which are most precious.

These are the gems I gather into myself. And send out my own song of praise to the divine force of life, working in every breath of every moment, and my gratitude to know if its undying existence.

My bird, Hato, or Jeromey, is sitting on my lamp, foofing up his feathers, and cleaning each one under the warm glow.

Sophy is somewhere in the house, She’s quite cheeky, and knows how to communicate well. Her eyes are so fun to watch, especially when you talk or sing to her. She will randomly fly into rooms, and listen to music, and ask for a bath when I’m at the sink, and is very much a queen in her own domain.  She’ll find a sunny room, and then plop down on the carpet, and spread her feathers out, and sun herself. Sometimes when my sister and I are doing chiropractor work on each others backs, Sophy will come right up to me on the floor, and play with my hands.

On, Sunday, when I had another terrible headache, I was pacing the house, because I was nauseated, and she followed me from room to room. I felt some comfort, that she knew I was in distress. She followed me into the kitchen, then down the hall, then into my room, and did this a couple times.

Hato my new bird, came to my house a couple months ago, a little while after the my sister’s play. The director who cares for the those who will soon be leaving this world, helped find a home for a dove that the owner needed to rehome.

The bird fell out of tree, in a storm, and broke his foot in several places, and the owner rehabilitated him as best as they knew how.  His foot is still a bit crumpled. They called him Jeromey in French, which means dove. I don't think I'm spelling it right. Hence the new name.

I have a hard time pronouncing his name right, so I call him Japanese Hato, for dove, or pigeon. So he’s French, and Japanese.

He loves listening to koto and any music in general. He’ll sit on my lamp, though he and Sophy are rude to each other, and try to knock each other off the lamp, instead of sharing it.

I’m not too sure how to give them both equal lamp time, and also be a good poop cleaner, because they’ll poop on the lamp, and it will roll down, bloop, right onto the floor, like some weird poo ramp. It’s funny because they watch as it rolls down, and wonder what it was that fell from them.

I tried getting bird diapers, but Sophy hates them so much, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.

So, in my long-winded way, I’m guys I’m saying I’m very happy to be sitting here, like my dove. Foofing up my feathers. Happy, and deliciously grateful for my own space, to spread out, and feel myself.

Glad for my own company.

And so I give thanks for this space. And for the wisdom to stay in my own peace. There are many things I have gathered over the years, and many of them need to be ungathered.

And me, just gathering up my own self.

Here, tonight. I keep what is mine. And feel the restoration of my own self.

And gather, only the truest forms of who I am.

I bless the space, and the feeling of Spirit here.

I give thanks for all my teachers. Small and great.

Thank you.

I thought today, if I was going to re-write thanks giving. And traditions. If I had a group of people I wanted to gather.

I would change a few things. I would gather soul family around.

And have a soul feast.

I would ask everyone who came, to come, after fasting from things that cluttered their soul, and body.

 The holidays should be restored to their original state.

 Holy days.

Days where the veil is thinner. And God is felt easier.

I would call this feast A Thanks-giving Satsang. Where real things were brought to share.

Wisdom that one had learned, words that were beautiful.

And if food was to be cooked, I would ask that people would bring some new recipe they had learned over the year, and liked, and thought was worth sharing.

Things that were real, that God brought into their life, that was worth magnifying with others. It would be a time of sharing those moments of God’s provision.

Times we felt like Pilgrams, and found our own Plymouth rock.

A sharing of heart. Of soul. And if there was food, it would be something good they discovered they liked, a soul food.

We would share our scone recipe, and the flatbreads we’ve been using instead of bread, this year.

We would share our homemade Kombucha tea.

We would probably being an enema bucket, too. And share our wisdom with that.

We would share our harvest of apples, and apricots, and plums, and all the produce that we were given, or harvested some way.

We would share our music, whatever that was, something we had learned.

Things we thought were valuable, and could help the collective.

So that in the coming cold months, this gathering of good things, and wisdom would keep us warm until spring.

It would be a moment in time, to really say, Thank you.

And so, as I come here, and have my own Satsang, here, you, me, my dove, the music, my lamps glowing, my heart warm.

I pause, and bring to the table from fruit my soul garden.

At this table I raise my hands, and say, from my soul to yours, that I am full of gratitude for the feast of love God has spread out before me, like I have never felt before. That God has provided a meal for me, these past few years, one that has taken away the hunger I didn’t know I had.

And filled it with his spirit.

To be thus fed, is priceless. What feast could compare to that?

What gathering would be worth having? If one is full, then I suppose the roll of cook is yours now. And any feast or gathering, is not for you, but for others.

You are just now the table on which you serve the bread God has given you, in whatever form it manifests in.

And so, I bring to the table, my gratitude for God’s love, and goodness, and spread these words out for you to eat.

There are many famished souls, looking for some word to bring them back to their homeland. To the hearth of their own love. Souls looking for that savory soul manna, that can only be gathered and eaten in the now moments.

Shared, in the now moments.

Here, in the cold winter months, trembling hands look for a place to warm their souls.

An ember of heart, to rekindle their flickering light.

A feast, I would bring to my table. To those starved for their own soul’s music. To feed those who haven’t eaten a crust of love in lifetimes. I would bring them the bread of their own light. A mirror for them to look into, and see their souls.

And finally feel satisfied.

A mirror that once you looked into, you never needed any other mirror.

It would be such a feast, we’d all leave, so full, that the harvest of this space would spill over into the next year, and the next.

                                               

                                            

God's pockets

 

 Dear blog,

I had such a headache my last blog post. And my solar plexus area was paining me so much, I'm baffled I had the energy to post anything.

 A week prior to that headache, I had another sizable headache that had me vomiting outside my tent. I think I was going through some cleansing crisis, or am still going through. Either way, I felt awful. I felt zapped of energy. I felt so tired, and so ill, I didn’t want to move from my bed at all.  

Bess and I are now taking some liver pills that have dandelion and milk thistle, which seem to be making both of us feel loads better. And I felt like they gave me back some of myself.  I feel like this song, right now.

 

 

Last month was wonderful, and wonky, and weird, there were some really flaming hot energetic hot potatoes that felt like they landed at my feet, that I had to hold, without tossing back at anyone.

In Bess's words today, it's like people keep trying to stand in front of the sun, and eclipse it, while charging you a fee to stand out of the way for something that should be free for everyone.

Either way, a headache brought me back sleeping inside. I thought it was strange how a headache was the thing that got me sleeping outside in the first place.

My sister, however, said she was going to sleep inside, last night, because it was so cold. She keeps going back outside into her tent, though. She can’t stand sleeping inside, anymore.  When it’s ice and frost outside, it does put a damper on things. Whoot………..Okay, never mind, she just popped her head in my bedroom. With bright, happy eyes, she said she did sleep outside, her nose got cold, but it was lovely. There was frost climbing up her tent walls. She put her dog in her bedroom so it wouldn’t get cold. But she put herself outside. 

Oh heck. I’m laughing now. She loves the energy of the ground. I too, love it. 

Though, I think I might have to move to a warmer climate, because I tried sleeping out on one of those freezing ice nights, and my nose, and throat got sore. So….hmmm. 

I don’t know what kind of fabric my sister is made of, but I think the earth stitched her soul and body together from mountain streams, and great rocks, and all the seven wonders of the world. The great wall of China, the pyramids, and the grand canyon lands, with all the Indians and warriors of old, with the spirit of horses, and fields of grain, and wild berries, and tree spirits, and all the songs of the birds. 

 Someone must have downloaded her with earthy wisdom, because she is like the embodied spirit of the earth.

This was a different sunset, but still beautiful.

The other day we were on a walk, as the sun set. The sky was smokey from farmers lighting their harvested fields on fire. 

And it seemed the theme, as our neighbors were burning weeds. Bess noted that it was wonderfully autumn, unashamedly autumn.  And I had to agree. The smell of rotting apples, and leaves, and smoke was in the air. The earth felt alive even in its dormancy.  It was very hazy, and the sun was peaking out through the smoke, making it red. We passed by our swimming canal of summer, and thanked its empty basin for all the fun we had. It had a few inches of water with piles of brown leaves sticking to it.  

The farmers had just drained all the ditches. So we were officially saying goodbye our long season of swimming. We had kept on dunking ourselves in it to the very last day they emptied it. It had gotten so cold, it felt like we were swimming in fire. And we could only last a little while before our bodies felt like they were turning into ice.  

One very, cold memorable swim, was one evening, when I felt as if I had too much static, and needed some clarity. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going, I just biked to the end of the field, and jumped in, as the evening darkness pushed in. 

The water was so cold, that I felt fire shoot up my spine, and it felt strange, and good, and I felt like I’d been thrust right into that moment, for my body was thinking I might have jumped into the arctic ice, and might perish. My heart was beating fast, but I kept swimming. When I got nearly to the end, I paused. 

There was a great horned owl perched on the head gate. I stopped, and watched it, and it watched me. 

We both stared at each other.  I lingered longer in the icy water than I had intended, because it was such a beautiful moment. The owl silhouetted against the darkening twilight. I wondered if it could teach me what it knew. Before I had a chance to ponder any further, I got out, and it flew off. I was especially cold. I felt the cold seeping into my bones, so I booked it for the house, and jumped into the shower to warm up.  

That was the start of the cold swims. But mostly in the sun. So we didn’t freeze---as much. Our swims grew shorter and shorter the colder it got, until we just jumped in, swished around for a while, and then hopped out, because we could feel our limbs turning into junks of ice. It really made us feel alive, and woke us up when the day felt stale, and our minds needed a reset. 

Anyhow, back to our walk, we thanked the canal for the lovely season and continued walking. 

We walked and talked, and made our way to the river. Where my sister promptly lay on the ground, by some beautiful pampas grass, and grabbed a rock. She lay on it, and said it felt great on her head, she was able to use it for pressure points on her neck, and skull. 

 I did the same, and we both tossed our shoes, and watched the sun set, while using a rock as our pillow, and quite enjoying the sensation of the rock, and pressure it provided on the back of our heads. She was right, you could get various pressure points, and it felt relieving. I liked the rock I had laid on, I wanted to bring it home. But, sadly, my pockets were too small, and I didn’t want to carry the big rock all the way back home. 

I then decided, because I was wearing two jackets to put the rock under my jacket, and grab it through my outside pocket, so that way, my hands wouldn’t get cold. After a while of walking, I realized it was getting heavy, so I let go of the rock, but it stayed right where it was.

         Curious....

 I thought it quite strange, so I lifted my jacket up, and saw, that underneath, I had secret pockets that the rock had found its way into, and it fit  perfectly inside this inside pocket. 

I laughed seeing the rock snuggled there.  

God gave me pockets I didn’t even know about. I was so pleased, I felt like I had a been given a great wonderful gift. Hidden pockets. 

Thank you! 

Pockets that my lovely rock found its way into. 

Sometimes I think this is how God works. You find something, and you have no idea how it’s going to work, so you just pick it up, and carry it for a while, and then, like kangaroo, God gives you exactly what you need. 

Extra pockets you had no idea existed.  

I think God must have hidden pockets everywhere.

A secret space. 

Sanctuaries that no one knows about, until you need to find them. 

Places that are perfect for the rocks you must carry. 

Spacious places that will find you when you need them most. 

And here, as the world seems more chaotic. Do not despair.  

God has pockets. Everywhere.  

Pockets, for his papyrus to be hidden in. 

Places for stones to rest. 

Pockets of light.  

Pockets of truth.  

Pockets of wisdom. 

Pockets of love. 

Pockets in places no one would think of looking. 

Pockets of peace, and pockets of joy. And pockets of laughter. And pockets of goodness. 

Pockets of warm even in winter. 

Pockets of sunshine. 

Pockets of green in the frost. 

They are just hidden---places where egos cannot find them, for good reason. 

 For as darkness pushes in, and twilight shadows are seen, and wars start, and some end.  

We all grope around in the darkness, knowing, somehow, somewhere there are pockets of light to be found.  

Pockets where we remember who we are. 

Pockets that will lighten the load of whatever it is we are required to carry. Pockets holding all the tools we need for our journey, built like a trap door to enter, and exit when needed.  

Pockets where everything God holds dear, is contained.  

Pockets of peace to be found, in chaos and destruction.  

There is nowhere, where God’s pockets are not found. As God is the ultimate seamstress, a perfect weaver of all things. A sewer of all wisdom, and all goodness, and all stories.  

And sewn into every fabric, and in every fold, there is woven a golden thread, with pockets for you to put your hands into anytime you need, to draw out inner strength, and inner light, and inner knowing, and inner truth that cuts right through the ego's illusion.

Pockets to unseen realms.

Pockets of God. 

Pockets even in the most darkest of places. In the middle of battle. 

In crumbled buildings. 

Pause.  

Pick up the load you carry. 

There, you will find the inner place, where all is carried, and held. 

A pocket, hidden within your own Holy land. A place that holds all the relics of God, that can’t ever be pillaged or plundered.  

Pockets filled with soul-stuff.  

A pocket, containing your own Holy city, a golden gate, that wasn’t built by human hands, and only God’s hand can find it.  

Who will stop wondering their wildernesses, and pause, before their own temple mound, and start singing where they are at?

Who will find the pocket of God---a stich in time, a seam, a fold, that if you fall into, you will never forget where it's at.

This holy city. 

This pocket. 

Anyone who tries to strike to take, or plunder, this pocket, takes only from themselves.

If someone comes to take from God's pocket, sparks fly, like steel against flint. And a fire ignites that burns away, and purifies, and transmutes everything that comes against it. And everything is turned back into God’s fabric, into holy energy, God’s metal.   

Darkness ceases before this place. 

Violence is given no more bodies to inhabit.  

War is given no other place to war against. 

Before this place, ignorance vanishes and knocks on no other doors.  

Here it is purified. And before God’s pocket, death dies. 

And peace is inherited as your birthright.  

Inner peace is where we create the grid that will light the world.

Where the only battle to be fought, is one of surrender to the highest king. To the highest element, to the highest power, that does not crumble, and does not age, and does not ever get destroyed. 

No ego can understand this place. 

A kingdom, hidden within every soul. 

A place that is revealed, one pocket of truth at a time. 

As we all make our pilgrimages, searching for this pocket. 

Be still, and pause, even in the chaos of the outside realm, you can find God’s hidden pocket within you.  

And if you can’t find it, wait, it will come. If not now, look for it in words, or books, or nature, or sky, or in music, or in your own eyes. 

It’s been woven there. You will find this thread you when you need it, and it will lead you to your most vast precious pocket. Your heart. And once you claim that space, it claims you.

Peace is your birthright.  As is the pocket is is contained.

It can’t be fought for, only allowed. 

It makes its bunkers in unassuming places, in children’s play, and it hides itself in stories, and music, and any place where it is welcome. 

It takes no sides in politics, nor dwells in any one hut, or house, or country. It owns no land, nor claims no space. 

It is the space, and waits for someone to un-pinch their hearts, to let it in.  

It holds no religion, or claims no practice.  

It only knows union, and those who know that space, that pocket, dwell there, even as the outside world crumbles in on itself. 

And so, as the world reels two and fro, fighting for God’s land, those who know what I’m talking about, gently pause, and know. 

Only, that which is given is yours to keep.  

You just settle into yourself. And God will settle into you. 

That which is inherited, will be as near to you, as hidden pockets within your own jacket.  

They are there, these pockets, sewn into you. You just might have layers that others have added, that you have to let go of, in order to find them. 

 You may be unaware of them. 

But they are still there, and always have been. 

Pockets of peace. 

Pockets filled with beautiful hidden treasures, you forgot about. 

Beautiful, spacious pockets, for you to put your hands into, to keep warm, to hold you, and reveal what they contain, when the world needs it most.

Pockets that eventually take all that is made out of its same fabric back into itself.