this morning I awoke feeling like I had something huge in my eye and was unable to dislodge it. I finally saw a specialist on emergency call in Windham after a long hairy sight-impaired drive.
We take so much for granted. Sight. hearing. the fact we wake up each day. My body is not the same body that I had in my 20s and I truly miss that body and I miss my energy. What I have exchanged in slowing down is wisdom and peace which I treasure. The perfect me would be both, but since I don't feel that is going to happen, I relish the new me with pull of gravity and middle age spread and aches. Yes all those for they are part of the aging. And I truly love the new me that really does not care what anyone thinks of me. That is huge because I have spent donkey ages worrying about the right outfit and the right words. Now I realize these are not important. AND I so love this place I am in. God bless!
Everything each day is a blessing and I am thankful.
walk the good road to the day of quiet
March 31, 2012
March 29, 2012
to be the crazy ones....
| “ |
Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers.
The round pegs in the square holes.
The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules.
And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them.
About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things.
They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward.
Maybe they have to be crazy.
How else can you stare at an empty canvas and see a work of art?
Or sit in silence and hear a song that’s never been written? Or gaze at a red planet and see a laboratory on wheels?
While some see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do.
| ” |
March 27, 2012
what are shadows?
Like reflections
we can't hold on to them.
They are here and then poof
gone with the light.
March 25, 2012
March 24, 2012
not what it seems
So much going on around us that we miss.
March 22, 2012
invisible
Apparently I am not alone in this. This is a problem of others, particularly over 50 women.
Try this~
The conclusion I came to was that being visible had little to do with youth or sex appeal. It came from a feeling of empowerment, and from a belief that I should be noticed. There’s a commercial on TV now that shows a woman all dressed up, coming down the stairs. The voice over says “It’s the difference between ‘I’m here’ and ‘Here I am.’”
Thus, if I wish to be visible, it is up to me to make my presence known. So the question is now: do I prefer to be quiet or visable?
March 21, 2012
off course
Here we are in midMarch with May weather. I planted peas and spinach in warm dry soil. Usually the garden is still under snow in spite of it officially being spring. I feel out of kilter with the winter not being winter and the spring being HOT.
What have we unleased?
March 18, 2012
Is anyone thinking that all this strange weather is not right and what might be causing it and should we be worried?
I feel like chicken little saying the sky is falling. No one drives less or uses smaller cars or or or seems even slightly concerned, so perhaps I am like chicken little over reacting.
If the sky is falling, in time we will know for sure. By that time it probably a bit late for a fix. In the meantime warm March in Maine thrills my soul. Usually this time of year I have on boots. Today I was barefoot.
March 16, 2012
searching
Who am I beyond the labels and descriptions ~ romantic, wife, friend, Catholic, Independent, passionate, hard worker, gardener.....
what is the true me?
Into the water’s world she looked
to
find where she belonged.
She
found the answer staring back
it was herself she found.
March 12, 2012
color oh my yes
As a treat to myself, I stop at Lilies in Cornish and bring home one stem of something.
She has roses and lilies and the usuals.
She also has strange and unique others like this mimosa.
She suggested I not put it in water, but allow it to dry.
This is one happy making flower.
March 10, 2012
March 9, 2012
March 8, 2012
Morning of the World; a Wild
Soul Moves On
by Tarin Chaplin
by Tarin Chaplin
A week ago today, the last
day of one of Soul Flares workshops, we prepared to exchange gifts. The sweet
things had all been laid out on a table, the directions for the exchange given,
and a gentle music filled the room as we closed our eyes. When the time was
right (ripe) each of us would go select one. Almost immediately, I found myself
getting up, eyes still closed, to be the first. Two thoughts filled my head: I don’t
need any more stuff, I have a home full of stuff, beautiful stuff gathered over
the years, antiques and artifacts and treasures of natural and human hand,
trinkets, beautiful objects of wood and brass and porcelain and leather and
glass, sinew and string, fiber and tin; and in front of me (though I hadn’t
take the time beforehand to look at them all), was more stuff feathers and clay
bowls, drawings and poems, beaded and ribboned and painted and glazed and woven
and dyed and glued and carved and molded and written and fused and waxed and
cast and hammered things, things made from resources mined or grown from or dug
up from this earth, things that required trees for paper or handles or
wrapping, that depended on oil to be converted to plastic for cellophane
packaging and to gasoline to transport them from the raw source to wherever
they were made and from there to be sold, sold as raw material and as value
added products, things to be converted into objects of art and even into things
for spiritual practice that could remind us to honor the earth that they were
mined from in the first place. So I went to the table, my eyes closed, feeling
my way, knowing I would keep them closed, hoping that when I passed my hands
over the objects and intuitively felt it was time to lay my hand down, that it
would land in an empty space, a space between things, and that would be my
gift, the holy emptiness, the sacred nothingness/everythingness of air/breath,
and not only hoping for that, but wanting it, expecting it, fervently desiring
nothingness. I let my hands roam over what I knew was the table, and let my
left one, the intuitive one, float its way blindly down over what I wholly
hoped would be an absence.
But it was far from nothing. It was feathered, and furred, and rough, and hard, and large, and the more I felt, the larger I found it to be, this object that would not fill my desire for nothingness. And I picked it up and took it, knowing it had been given to me, that I had not sought it. Keeping eyes closed, I felt my way back to the circle, to my chair, and stood facing those in the circle. Before opening my eyes, I held it up to show and heard oohs and ahhs and umms.and then chuckles and laughter as the woman who’d brought it said, it’s a dance fan, danced and gifted to me. It was made by a Native American and now its time to pass it on. I understood the irony which was more than a coincidence I am a choreographer, a dancer, and everyone there knew it. I opened my eyes and saw the fan. Fashioned from a curved stag horn handle, a variety of feathers sprouted out a securely bound fur ruff that ringed the bone like a wristlet. In the tradition of the one who made it, this is to be passed forward, the gift giver said.
I wondered how or when or to whom that would happen. It would be sooner than I expected.
Just off the next dirt road where I live is an old gate that opens its elbow onto a worn grass path that rises in a curve into a hillside pasture. On the western slope, just below the highest rise, a few huge old, haggard maples stand sentinel. The fields radiate out in a broad expanse to the east, and atop the knoll, ledge sticks out, crowned by a few firs. The deer come here in the winter; Id often found the melted patches in the snow cover, rounded depressions left from where they’d bedded down, their warm bodies and vaporous breaths melting the snow under them, which had frozen in shallow basins once they woke and picked their way off the safe high spot from which they had their 360o view. Id often comes here to pray, to do my Qi Gong. Only two weeks ago, my daughter had come at dawn to perform a ceremony for some tough things she’s facing; all in my family know and revere it.
But the piece of land has been sold for an exorbitant price -- by the farmer who is bit by bit selling off his land. A few days ago, on one of my morning runs, Id seen a crew of workers at the gate to the rise with their big Caterpillar equipment. They told me they would be blasting for the foundation of the home that was going in.
So it came to me, what to do, and last night I wrote on a piece of joss paper (which is used for prayers in the spiritual traditions of China):
Dear Morning of the World,
for 30 years I’ve been coming to you, standing on you, facing east as you open your wings to another days journey.
many many days, most days, I’ve not been here, but you, you always are.
Now, today, this day, they will blast a hole in your belly; now today, this day, they will rip a scar across your face. I cannot stop that.
But I can gift you. I can hold your hand one last time in the peace and morning murmurings of how you have been for millennium. I can make time for you. I can dance for you.
And I woke early this day and took that dance fan and went out at 5a.m., jogging down the road and up the rise and onto the cusp of that hillside. And I cuddled down in a tuft of grass within the staked out circle of where the charges would be laid. And as the sun rose, I did my dance, my offering not a beautiful swinging, leg and arm graced dance, but a grief dance, bulky and awkward, as though Id never danced before and didn’t know how to do this, an odd-looking dance (if you could even call it that, dressed as I was against the morning frost in a hat with earflaps, an woolen plaid jacket with holes in the elbows and missing buttons, my clumper shoes, and ragged mitts). I moved as I was moved to move, feeling the embarrassment and the craziness of how I might appear to anyone viewing me from afar, this old woman, waving a stout feathered fan about, quaking and spiraling and lying on the ground and rising to face the sun, and suddenly its glint was there, sparking out of a distant mountain like fire from flintstones, and for the 230 seconds it took to fully clear that ridge and begin floating its sphere across the day I witnessed and stared into it and said the prayers and sang the songs and offered my thanks. And then I placed the dance fan down, atop my little letter, placed it into the small dip of earth Id danced within, and without looking back, left, jogged down the hillside and back to my little red schoolhouse.
I leave my eternal home and come into my temporary house, I murmured as I turned the knob of my front door.
The sun is high now, and soon they will be blasting.
But it was far from nothing. It was feathered, and furred, and rough, and hard, and large, and the more I felt, the larger I found it to be, this object that would not fill my desire for nothingness. And I picked it up and took it, knowing it had been given to me, that I had not sought it. Keeping eyes closed, I felt my way back to the circle, to my chair, and stood facing those in the circle. Before opening my eyes, I held it up to show and heard oohs and ahhs and umms.and then chuckles and laughter as the woman who’d brought it said, it’s a dance fan, danced and gifted to me. It was made by a Native American and now its time to pass it on. I understood the irony which was more than a coincidence I am a choreographer, a dancer, and everyone there knew it. I opened my eyes and saw the fan. Fashioned from a curved stag horn handle, a variety of feathers sprouted out a securely bound fur ruff that ringed the bone like a wristlet. In the tradition of the one who made it, this is to be passed forward, the gift giver said.
I wondered how or when or to whom that would happen. It would be sooner than I expected.
Just off the next dirt road where I live is an old gate that opens its elbow onto a worn grass path that rises in a curve into a hillside pasture. On the western slope, just below the highest rise, a few huge old, haggard maples stand sentinel. The fields radiate out in a broad expanse to the east, and atop the knoll, ledge sticks out, crowned by a few firs. The deer come here in the winter; Id often found the melted patches in the snow cover, rounded depressions left from where they’d bedded down, their warm bodies and vaporous breaths melting the snow under them, which had frozen in shallow basins once they woke and picked their way off the safe high spot from which they had their 360o view. Id often comes here to pray, to do my Qi Gong. Only two weeks ago, my daughter had come at dawn to perform a ceremony for some tough things she’s facing; all in my family know and revere it.
But the piece of land has been sold for an exorbitant price -- by the farmer who is bit by bit selling off his land. A few days ago, on one of my morning runs, Id seen a crew of workers at the gate to the rise with their big Caterpillar equipment. They told me they would be blasting for the foundation of the home that was going in.
So it came to me, what to do, and last night I wrote on a piece of joss paper (which is used for prayers in the spiritual traditions of China):
Dear Morning of the World,
for 30 years I’ve been coming to you, standing on you, facing east as you open your wings to another days journey.
many many days, most days, I’ve not been here, but you, you always are.
Now, today, this day, they will blast a hole in your belly; now today, this day, they will rip a scar across your face. I cannot stop that.
But I can gift you. I can hold your hand one last time in the peace and morning murmurings of how you have been for millennium. I can make time for you. I can dance for you.
And I woke early this day and took that dance fan and went out at 5a.m., jogging down the road and up the rise and onto the cusp of that hillside. And I cuddled down in a tuft of grass within the staked out circle of where the charges would be laid. And as the sun rose, I did my dance, my offering not a beautiful swinging, leg and arm graced dance, but a grief dance, bulky and awkward, as though Id never danced before and didn’t know how to do this, an odd-looking dance (if you could even call it that, dressed as I was against the morning frost in a hat with earflaps, an woolen plaid jacket with holes in the elbows and missing buttons, my clumper shoes, and ragged mitts). I moved as I was moved to move, feeling the embarrassment and the craziness of how I might appear to anyone viewing me from afar, this old woman, waving a stout feathered fan about, quaking and spiraling and lying on the ground and rising to face the sun, and suddenly its glint was there, sparking out of a distant mountain like fire from flintstones, and for the 230 seconds it took to fully clear that ridge and begin floating its sphere across the day I witnessed and stared into it and said the prayers and sang the songs and offered my thanks. And then I placed the dance fan down, atop my little letter, placed it into the small dip of earth Id danced within, and without looking back, left, jogged down the hillside and back to my little red schoolhouse.
I leave my eternal home and come into my temporary house, I murmured as I turned the knob of my front door.
The sun is high now, and soon they will be blasting.
In Memorium: l. tarin chaplin (1941-2009)
It is with profound sadness that
we announce the death of our beloved flame-haired beauty, our mama, l. tarin
chaplin who died of cancer May 25, 2009. Born in 1941 in A life-long “eco-choreographer,” activist, writer and dancer, tarin sought to connect people to the earth, the elements, and the sentient and non-sentient beings that share this universe with us in all their magnificent manifestations. Embodying this perspective, her art, which was performed on both proscenium stages and in site-specific venues, was known for its piercing imagery and rich symbolism. This past winter, for example, she brought her community the twelfth annual "Ice on Fire", an outdoor event that tarin conceived and directed in which she draws on storytelling and myth to celebrate the ferocious beauty of deep winter.
March 7, 2012
 |
| The Gunniwolf retold by Wilhelmina Harper |
There was once a little girl who lived with her mother very close to a dense woods. Each day the mother would caution Little Girl to be most careful and never enter the wood, because- if she did- the Gunniwolf might get her! Little Girl always promised that she would never, NEVER even go NEAR the woods.
One day the mother had to go away for a while. Her last words were to caution Little Girl that whatever else she did she must keep far away from the woods! And Little Girl was very sure she would not go anywhere NEAR it.
The mother was hardly out of sight, however, when Little Girl noticed some beautiful white flowers growing at the very edge of the woods. "Oh," she thought, "wouldn't I love to have some of those- I'll pick just a few."
Then, forgetting all about the warning, she began to gather the white flowers, all the while singing happily to herself:
Kum-Kwa, Khi-wa
Kum-kwa, Khi waAll of a sudden she noticed, a little further in the woods, some beautiful PINK flowers growing. "Oh," she thought, "I must surely gather some of those too!" On she tripped, farther into the woods, and began picking the pink flowers, all the while singing happily her song....
Kum-Kwa,
Khi-wKum-Kwa, Khi-wa
When she had her arms full of white and pink flowers, she peeped a little further, and way in the middle of the woods she saw some beautiful ORANGE flowers growing. "Oh," she thought, "I'll take just a few of those, and what a pretty bouquet I'll have to show my mother!"
So she gathered the orange flowers too, singing to herself all the while: (song)
When SUDDENLY- up rose the GUNNIWOLF!!!!!
He said, "Little Girl, why for you move?"
Tremblingly she answered, "I no move."
The Gunniwolf said, "Then you sing that guten sweeten song again!"
So she sang: (song)
and then- the old Gunniwolf nodded his head and fell fast asleep.
Away ran Little Girl as fast as ever she could:
Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat pit-patThen the Gunniwolf woke up! Away he ran:
Hunker-cha hunker-cha hunker-cha----Until he caught up to her.
And he said, "Little Girl, why for you move?"
"I no move," she answered.
"Then you sing that guten, sweeten song again!"
Timidly she sang: (song)
Then the old Gunniwolf nodded, nodded, and went sound asleep.
Away ran Little Girl just as fast as ever she could:
pit-pat pit-patAnd again the Gunniwolf woke up! Away he ran:
hunker-cha hunker-cha
pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat
hunker-cha hunker-chauntil he caught up to her and said,
"Little Girl, why for you move?"
"I no move."
"then you sing that guten, sweeten song again!"
So she sang:(song)
Until the old Gunniwolf again nodded, nodded, and fell asleep.
Then AWAY ran Little Girl:
pit-pat...until she came almost to the edge of the jungle!
pit-pat...
until she got away OUT of the woods!
pit-pat pitty-pat
until she reached her very own door!
From that day to this, Little Girl has never,
NEVER gone into the woods again.The end!
March 6, 2012
 |
| “There is strong shadow where there is much light.” ― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Götz von Berlichingen |
March 5, 2012
from Katherine Muth in Maryland
"I Rise"
I rise, as the morning of my day has also done.
Light seeps through the window shade, no sun,
that I have seen as of yet,
but the coming of rose before it, in anticipation.
Song of Spring's beginning came forth days ago,
early is it not? But then, Mother Nature has been rather mysterious lately
in her weather pattern. What have we done to Her.
I rise to a crisp, cool morning.
Birds greet the day, trees budding in a wake
that should not be as of yet.
What is to become of the months of Spring we knew from yesterday.
The calender will have to change its celebration dates.
And we will either have to move faster, to keep up with what we've created
or start re-creating our future in hopes that it is still there.
I rise, as the morning of my day has also done....WHEW!!
I rise, as the morning of my day has also done.
Light seeps through the window shade, no sun,
that I have seen as of yet,
Song of Spring's beginning came forth days ago,
early is it not? But then, Mother Nature has been rather mysterious lately
in her weather pattern. What have we done to Her.
I rise to a crisp, cool morning.
Birds greet the day, trees budding in a wake
that should not be as of yet.
What is to become of the months of Spring we knew from yesterday.
The calender will have to change its celebration dates.
And we will either have to move faster, to keep up with what we've created
or start re-creating our future in hopes that it is still there.
March 4, 2012
 |
| black elk, Lakota |
Grandfather,
Great Mysterious One,
You have been always and before you nothing has been.
There is nothing to pray to but you. The
star nations all over the heavens are yours, and yours are the grasses of the
earth.
You are older than all need,
older than all pain and prayer.
Day
in, day out, you are the life of things.
Look upon
your children, with children in their arms,
that they may face the winds and
walk the good road to the day of quiet.
Teach me
to walk the soft earth, a relative to all that live. Give me the strength to understand and the
eyes to see.
Help me,
for without you I am nothing.
~
this is the prayer that named our land.
We tried for years to find the name. It would not come and then one day it was there~
face the winds
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