Seasons

Dear blog, 

I feel so peculiar. I feel like I keep finding bits of things in buried treasure boxes, from long ago.

From childhood, a time-capsule. With different things inside.

Finding hidden capsules of treasure, and sorrow, within my own chest. And my self of now, is seeing it all. Taking out each thing, stored.

And looking.

And feeling it all. With this knowing.

And wondering, how to be in this world?

How have an open heart, like a child. 

Without flinching?

Or doubting your hearts unchanging goodness. 

And to keep your heart's truth, amid the contrast of the outside world.

Is, at times, acutely painful.   

To know great love, you can feel the dearth of it.

And to feel this contrast, is worth weeping for. 

Mourning the loss of what wasn't allowed.

And may never be felt by some.

And still, love what the truth shows you for in it, the contrast, is, poetically beautiful. 

To an author, to an artist. This is all material. Paint. A canvas. A story.  And everything is used, and recycled into something beautiful.

This past while, there has been so many interesting synchronicities, and events that have me baffled, awed me, that I’m wondering…

And looking around knowing someone totally planned that.

That those events could not have been without some author, peering out smiling as I picked up the message, or gift.

My heart knows that love, most often, in this world, grows through the cracks in the pavement, and it comes through places you least expect it.

And when it’s so perfect.

You hear your heart's own echo, and your heart expands more.

You see your beloved here, and everywhere, appearing in people you thought there wasn’t a glimmer of the divine.

And you…feel humbled. 

You know God is painting.

Writing. 

Recycling.

Renewing. 

Cleaning.

And also, letting.

And...

Sometimes it's so perfect, you know it came from only from the beloved.

And so, I see, love is found.

Here. In this heart.

 First.

And all else is a beautiful gift.

 God is love. And that one love dwells in us all.

And so, it exists everywhere, if allowed. 

Like a flower as my heart unfolds.

It sees itself there.

And there.

And sunlight shines its rays everywhere. 

And the heart opens wider, wondering how it can fit so much inside it. 

And sometimes it’s so beautiful.

And other times, it's so painful. 

You can’t help but wonder…

Oh my heart.

Though.

The painful bit....when my heart wants to be open.

But there appears old boundaries.

 And it seeks to expand past them.

Seeks to unfold, in its own beautiful truth.

And you try to be there for yourself.

And know, that so much of the outside realm, has kept the real from being seen.

That’s why love finds the cracks.

So many gamekeepers have kept the truth hidden, trying to get you to think you are the game board pieces, or the fake currency on the board, or the what you acquire as you play.

Old codes.

And as old codes are confronted.

And transcended. 

The only code worth keeping is love.

And it transcends all codes. All game board pieces. All currency. 

It is the only thing worth acquiring, that can't be acquired. 

Only allowed.

But once the truth knows itself.

It starts to remember that it’s beautiful, and delicious, and expansive, and good, and worthy.

Even if it doesn’t know where it should flow.

Even if it’s seen as childish.

It’s the only sane thing there is.

To be real.

To splash yourself into the world.

To let words spill out, imperfectly perfect.

The cluttered rooms exposed. 

Your hair flying in every direction.

The messy spill on your shirt.

The bit of lunch lingering on your cheek. 

 The worry line in your four head, that tells of your hidden tears.

The imperfect gift, that came from your heart.

The bruise.

These things that come, from living. 

The tired eyes, that have seen so much.

 The workout hands that have held so much.

The tired knees, that have prayed so much.

The crumbly earth, that takes everything in, and makes flowers from the decay.

The trees that grow, straight, or bent, or twisted, with branches that grow as best they can in the direction of the light, however they get there.

They are growing.

And sometimes leafless, and naked. You see how beautiful they are, without anything adorning their branches.

And us too.

Seasons, we have.

And I wish to be that beautiful. There is no hiding your own season.

The temperature.

The distances of the sun.

The coolness, or warmness of the earth.

What the ground grows, shows you the truth of the seasons.

Leaves on the ground.

Leaves on the branches.

Leaves in the earth.

Rain, or wind.

Sun, or shade.

It all shows up.

And the truth of nature is beautiful. No arrogance or shame for its beauty, or decay. It is simply its self.

New, old, young.

It renews itself.

It’s birds sing the truth, of spring.

Its snow song, wintery, and cold, speaks of our own going within, to our core, to find the warmth that sill exists on the inside.

To be beautiful as a horse, with a heart just as big, with strength, and spirit, it has no need to shy away from its form, and its true nature, its speed, and vitality, his beauty, its nature. They are its in inheritance.

It is simply beautiful, because it is itself.

Why then? Is it so difficult to be?

Simply yourself.

Showing up, clean, or messy, decayed, or renewed.

Without apology for your own leaves.

Or your snow.

Or rain.

Or sun.

The only sanity it seems.

Is acceptance.

Surrender.

And presence.

To the weather of yourself.

To know that there is an unchanging core.

And everything else is a dance.

To let your voice flow out, as easily as the sunlight, or the rain.

Or to let it be quiet as the cold earth, in winter.

And let the weather of those worlds around you, be as they are.

With deep compassion.

For the pain, of the decay that comes with the seasons, and the lessons that come with them.

And have compassion on it all.

Without forgetting.

Your own internal spring.

Where God is master of the wheel.

And all of this.

Is play.

A play.

Where we forgot. And are just remembering to have fun.

That in God’s eyes, its perfectly imperfect.

And you, as you show up.

Can give a bit grace to yourself.

To others.

To the seasons that are happening all at once, in everyone around you.

In a room with a handful of people, there can be every season, and every space that is a transition between those seasons.

And to navigate that weather.

And to know your own truth, amid all these weathers, to keep your own heart open, unfolding, and accepting, a glowing ember.

In one corner, you might need a coat.

In another, you might only want shorts, and a jacket.

In another…you might want a swimsuit.

Or an umbrella.

And in one corner, it’s dark, so dark, you need a flashlight. A power source, so if ever the soul in darkness wants out. Your heart is the light that speaks, even in the sorrow, the truth beyond the shadows.

And so…

As we live.

And greet the weather.

And the seasons happening all around us.

The truth of your own spring may confuse someone who is deep in the artic folds of their own winter, with snow and igloos piled all around them.

You hand them a flower, and walk away.

They hand you some snow.

And you allow it.

You may not want your flowerbed to stay too long in frost.

But you see it, and the beauty of the frost clinging to their windows, as it makes frosted patterns, as beautiful as any flower.

And love it, just the same.

And your own snow, when it comes.

Or your own empty branches.

That once held so much.

And maybe that is why we write things down.

Why any of write.

Because, it is our way of saying.

Here is a day.

A season.

A weather.

Maybe someday, you will stumble across someone’s weather that matches yours.

And you understand, for a day, that you were not alone.

And your own loss, or gain.

Your pleasure, or pain.

Was mirrored somewhere.

And maybe your seasons may lengthen, or shorten, depending where you are at in the world.

And your shadows, or sunlight.

Maybe in your sky’s there are auroras,

And maybe in mine there are rainbows.

And maybe, you see, someone’s sunny coast.

And your own rivers with ice.

And you see how one swims, and one uses the ice, and skates.

And makes each season something worth celebrating, while it lasts.

And maybe you can’t celebrate.

Maybe you have to sit, with a storm.

A sun.

It’s here for you.

All to experience and see.

Despite the weather.

That’s all happening all simultaneously.

And one person’s weather, may try to be the only truth in the room.

But the one who knows the deep truth.

Knows that your own weather.

Your own paradise is always.

On the inside.

And it shines out through the cracks.

And leaks out sometimes…even when it tries to be polite.

It has been though every season.

It has seen every shade.

And knows.

That no matter what the weather.

Or the season.

Or how we may draw the blinds, and try to hide the fact that frost has visited.

Or rake the dead leaves.

Or cover our branches in fake ribbons.

A great beauty is knowing the truth of the outside, and inside simultaneously. So we can visit every coast, and season, and mourn, and rejoice with it all.

And keep our hearts open.

To flow in the direction of love as best we can, even in rooms that have an aversion to weather that is real, and not plastic.

To authentically be.

And that's what makes our seasons beautiful---the acceptance that while some places may be raining.

There are other parts, with unflinching sunshine.

And parts that are whole.

And parts that are healing.

And parts that might be broken.

And parts that will have to regrow.

And beauty happens, when we uncover these bits.

That we are ashamed of.

And we see, how much weather we have all been through.

How many storms our boats have weathered.

How beautiful our tattered sails are.

How many times the waves have come, and how many times, you’ve been tossed into the water, and how many times you got back into your little boat.

Those are the things I want to know.

What shaped your mountains?

What floods carved your beautiful canyons?

How did you find the strength to rebuild after what you had once held had been broken?

How did you keep your heart open, in the face of weather that was fierce?

What kept you alive, what kept your heart beating?

What parts of yourself that you love the most, have been hidden?

And why do we hide our scars, and flaws?

Why does our rawness, scare us?

Why do we think love is something we acquire, and earn?

And what are the places, those secret gardens, that have kept your spirit and childlike wonder, always growing, vibrant, and alive?

What wars have you fought, or seen. Or stood by, and could only watch?

What ground within you needs to be seen?

What weather has not been allowed?

And what makes your own heart feel as if it can share, without skipping a beat?