tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13545464601962619822024-02-19T08:06:17.106-08:00SilvermoonfrogActs of Faith in Reverence to Beauty
by Honor WoodardHonor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.comBlogger271125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-48768975842196502152023-02-16T12:23:00.001-08:002023-02-17T13:05:54.448-08:00Reflecting <p><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;">The last time I came to Cumberland Island was nothing but magic, so this time I let go of any expectation in the way of knowing nothing could match the previous experience. While I gladly and blissfully receive bits of magic along most paths I walk, I never expect any of it. I return to many places again and again and again, but never the same place twice. Like the river…</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"> </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">The last time was just before embarking on an epic journey deeper into healing (massage school) and after a difficult period of dwindling resources. Well, I guess you could say things aren’t that different this time, though 12 years have passed and so much richness along the way. This time it is after a few years of pandemic, and the ensuing struggle to start over from scratch with my business that had only in 2019 finally plateaued at a level I found sustaining. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">Last time here, I thought there would be harsh weather and deep solitude in relative wilderness (of place and self), and was met with a depth of family and familiars I rarely see much less experience. See <a href="http://silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com/2011/02/magic.html?m=0"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none;">http://silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com/2011/02/magic.html?m=0</span></a></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">This time I came with a friend and enjoyed much milder weather, although it was the same days of the year. I intended to greet the island with the friendliness with which one meets a kindred acquaintance the second time for deeper communing. And I had received so much from the island before that this time I was leaning in the direction of offering myself to the island - my presence and anything else I could come up with in the moment. At the very least a soft and loving gaze and tender soles. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">This time, what I came home with was a continuous stream of deep and soul-stirring moments - images in time and space that seemed to resonate between worlds. In spite of the increase in human disturbance and the din of machinery, near and far, I was able to feel into the wild gentleness of this place. Gifts more fleeting than material, and more cumulative than iconic. Ironically, though I came over with a friend, I found more solitude and less camaraderie than before. Seems like life so often happens contrary to logic - or as my friend JH says, "<i>contra natura"</i>. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">So this time, what I carry with me into the days ahead are these reflections...</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the lone loon, drifting between long dives at the ferry landing. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the lumpy, winding path of detour for those who take signs too literally. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the old silver haired mare, staring out across the ocean </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">as if mourning a long lost love.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxRX_dZW4Ak33z7pbzzqy4AuEK7poAOopOZG3YJiMAzjsY0SSP5oswDicOe_t5eDuuXNZRxoAaixs7__q8pZoo60zxxZfrMHWIijTBfGie4n-PfmbDy6lA2JaVrIuRhSF-z-drOEiyrLESkyEuNIydOc99KXFSUs8M_KFgrMlMBYVE6QYGzpRFbDi/s1440/FA0B7473-46FA-4945-82CF-F87E5219214C.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkxRX_dZW4Ak33z7pbzzqy4AuEK7poAOopOZG3YJiMAzjsY0SSP5oswDicOe_t5eDuuXNZRxoAaixs7__q8pZoo60zxxZfrMHWIijTBfGie4n-PfmbDy6lA2JaVrIuRhSF-z-drOEiyrLESkyEuNIydOc99KXFSUs8M_KFgrMlMBYVE6QYGzpRFbDi/s320/FA0B7473-46FA-4945-82CF-F87E5219214C.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the one who startles a white doe, crossing the dune with her young piebald buck. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">What does it mean to be white?</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the dusky lavender haze, looking toward the golden sunset </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">from more miles away than I can count.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the dark horse grazing the dune grasses before dawn. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the surprise of a constellation of black birds, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">riffling the air like tiny flags in a mini murmuration overhead.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am soft feet, making trails through rough woods, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">saw palmetto clacking nearby.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQKmoSL4OiAlu5QUpaclopS4Z1mXMR7P27vPCxsjCulCodIqiECgqSG9Wd_DlByaqERnPBtroP7IEcQEYOaUNSbNNAR12NmUaCrcoavyi01HznBMmXoDW-cCRls11iv_HurIHaJq_pkbOqayzMrQdya_pmC7Y3JcDhGuomXKSCv1tOqy4bYjf-sot/s4032/IMG_3712.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfQKmoSL4OiAlu5QUpaclopS4Z1mXMR7P27vPCxsjCulCodIqiECgqSG9Wd_DlByaqERnPBtroP7IEcQEYOaUNSbNNAR12NmUaCrcoavyi01HznBMmXoDW-cCRls11iv_HurIHaJq_pkbOqayzMrQdya_pmC7Y3JcDhGuomXKSCv1tOqy4bYjf-sot/s320/IMG_3712.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am an ancient oak, heavy with centuries, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">shells littered about my trunk from those who rest and eat here. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the wild orange, bursting with juice at the first cut, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">so seedy, so delicious and so sour it almost hurts.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am four small boars, trotting merrily along, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">singing a creaky song about nothing, and everything. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am a fragment of horse jaw, still holding molars.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the tall vertebra that was the withers of the wild horse </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">who had no cause to be measured. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am an aged cedar, long fallen down on the riverbank, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">roots still reaching for soil, still giving fruit and shade to the birds.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYwpN2dILzlXMOvbsKcK5gaNhOOemlrdU94UZhuoZ3EJP_iYi7D3p3qZvdA2ZlGR_DeSbl0HFKW79PzoRzwx2pH45iHoMwBhrV1qXYnklfMzUkQ-v_1jT_SSi1LnBPoufHi-3dHcBHXDUzJJFCRZ4Ws2022aZjqMgEg6cHtGk9F57jUzXmNqp1qLu/s4096/EC6A8B6A-47F7-40F1-9479-677439AF983F.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2144" data-original-width="4096" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpYwpN2dILzlXMOvbsKcK5gaNhOOemlrdU94UZhuoZ3EJP_iYi7D3p3qZvdA2ZlGR_DeSbl0HFKW79PzoRzwx2pH45iHoMwBhrV1qXYnklfMzUkQ-v_1jT_SSi1LnBPoufHi-3dHcBHXDUzJJFCRZ4Ws2022aZjqMgEg6cHtGk9F57jUzXmNqp1qLu/s320/EC6A8B6A-47F7-40F1-9479-677439AF983F.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><p></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the sulfur shelf mushroom, drawing people together to share.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the blessing of a grape vine basket, made by an elder’s hands, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">offered in generous reciprocity.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the little wild horse, bringing up the rear along the northbound trail.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the armadillo, making holes in the world.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the wild dunes, white as snow, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">and the myriad trails of all who pass in the night, unseen.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the puffy and wispy clouds, sliding out to sea, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">as if pulled by the outgoing tide. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the moon, waxing three quarters, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">pulling the tide back in. </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am two species, adapted to grow as one, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">in a lifelong embrace.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_QjF3aZ89xQvN4dyoI-PND3aahfvrc76e-LuALtNYLKn8vBYjTjE_vmFztwTkFfmWemelbLkQCVfIrEvfJ3Tr5RCbc_1i2qSO5zPOfZ40yd_kSb6Zh6nvRVSRFzhWxeRoh2vB7WoSNQGLl_W2yPitCAoEFLJDfib3U5QeyIUHLZjglu4BSK-o2JN/s1800/53D18A86-ECBD-471E-8362-25AF203C28E5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_QjF3aZ89xQvN4dyoI-PND3aahfvrc76e-LuALtNYLKn8vBYjTjE_vmFztwTkFfmWemelbLkQCVfIrEvfJ3Tr5RCbc_1i2qSO5zPOfZ40yd_kSb6Zh6nvRVSRFzhWxeRoh2vB7WoSNQGLl_W2yPitCAoEFLJDfib3U5QeyIUHLZjglu4BSK-o2JN/s320/53D18A86-ECBD-471E-8362-25AF203C28E5.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /><p></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the lonely screech owl, purring overhead, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">crickets keeping lopsided time down below in the bushes.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the muffled roar of the surf, carried in moist droplets across the broad dunes in the cooling before sunrise.</span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am the glistening porpoise, breaking the surface near the wake as the ferry pushes carefully into the blanket of fog enshrouding the wild island, </span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">as if to acknowledge what delicate magic remains</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">across this riverine threshold from the everyday “civilized” world. </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">I am that same lone loon sounding his plaintive call from the blind of fog, </span></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;">remembering us to primordial truth.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxfk8d8XxxEMGlEj7_teOchS48Zp0SaCR854SINbQAG3GjtzGJ9NbIKAzUMJyfPOSxEuSRT0fubRMGUACASxBLSAYLhROZF-5ixw0CTFnHPCsF1MLxUx2Eq5eewIj6JxyGdWxS8-c-WEMVwXvOCL2_dhqtIcsh4MpVJVujjZF6PjUFzIL8ygMKBFq/s3780/2C5DA5F3-F64F-46F2-861D-2DBBB143A5E8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxfk8d8XxxEMGlEj7_teOchS48Zp0SaCR854SINbQAG3GjtzGJ9NbIKAzUMJyfPOSxEuSRT0fubRMGUACASxBLSAYLhROZF-5ixw0CTFnHPCsF1MLxUx2Eq5eewIj6JxyGdWxS8-c-WEMVwXvOCL2_dhqtIcsh4MpVJVujjZF6PjUFzIL8ygMKBFq/s320/2C5DA5F3-F64F-46F2-861D-2DBBB143A5E8.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="font-kerning: none;"><br /></span><p></p>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-57034718576218050792021-12-31T15:09:00.012-08:002022-01-03T08:59:52.663-08:00Moments of Starlight<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieuLwyiWFkwRlUNNDLXHYLFr-t5sPOll9hzXAH_PyPKQ3ZFCOXfU0R_lLA50soeAD7yyrDLTgFe2y7Q3s304wkIHgya-1d5Yk8ZO2ilsJFeIr9PiFxBuB8vZrzV0nVS4WbU9bunkHrLquPV56LC0ufZyfhnRXgpNt_9l7sqVqB8-qEQ8HxrZ6_u6zq=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEieuLwyiWFkwRlUNNDLXHYLFr-t5sPOll9hzXAH_PyPKQ3ZFCOXfU0R_lLA50soeAD7yyrDLTgFe2y7Q3s304wkIHgya-1d5Yk8ZO2ilsJFeIr9PiFxBuB8vZrzV0nVS4WbU9bunkHrLquPV56LC0ufZyfhnRXgpNt_9l7sqVqB8-qEQ8HxrZ6_u6zq=s320" width="320" /></a></div><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;">I’ve been thinking lately about how so many of us have lost dear ones in recent times. Of course this is always the case, but it feels like not only have we lost our dear friends, but we have been losing some very special heavy lifters lately - respected elders of an ilk that don’t come along very often and seem rare in any generation. Those who seem to have so fully embodied and embraced their true callings, and with joy and grit throughout generous lifetimes of service. I think of people like Barry Lopez, whom we lost this time last year, and more recently Robert Bly, Malidoma Some, Desmond Tutu, E. O. Wilson. There are of course many others, but these are just on my recent radar. People who served the world community by answering their own deeply personal callings, or should I say destinies. Something was clearly written in their souls the way it is written in salmon to swim back to their source waters. And somehow the stars aligned and circumstances allowed for them to follow the stories written into them.</span><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-family: inherit; font-kerning: none;">I am reminded of a lesson I learned by making images as a young artist. That the more personal our message is - the more deeply we are able to share it - the more universal it is. Only when we reveal our true selves do we see the truth in others, and how deeply we are all related. An image comes to mind now. If we each dig down as far as we can, we will reach the center of the earth together. To dig deep is to really search one’s soul. We reach up in search of God. We reach down to find ourselves, and in doing so find the essentials of all our brothers and sisters. We can meet each other there. </span><div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Are we reaching up toward God to escape our brothers and sisters - and ourselves? Maybe our ancestors are “out there” with God. Maybe we reach into the river of time that has always existed in the cosmos, looking for them. But to reach down is to reach into what is only becoming. In all its messiness it is only just coming into being. This makes it unsteady, awkward, sometimes horribly difficult and yet extremely vast with the potential that exists inside of a tiny seed of the largest tree in the forest. </span><p></p><p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKtfIsHEz0hnY33J5f2N32lxp11r2BNGfRk1blO7oc1IM5S_fZSywbHEcG72xxTDGB0WGovnFQJLRJN31SYN3g6i1LBDAdQ7h-ZSAAhBNsLFRjdiay5ktHBnKGpLAaM8-xCmuQ6ucHU1ozrxZ10Bweo7g_wXDLYxLRI90n7CAqIhPb7-TwzTKHFaKZ=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKtfIsHEz0hnY33J5f2N32lxp11r2BNGfRk1blO7oc1IM5S_fZSywbHEcG72xxTDGB0WGovnFQJLRJN31SYN3g6i1LBDAdQ7h-ZSAAhBNsLFRjdiay5ktHBnKGpLAaM8-xCmuQ6ucHU1ozrxZ10Bweo7g_wXDLYxLRI90n7CAqIhPb7-TwzTKHFaKZ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>I am a simple person - a lazy one at that - and so I marvel at these elders. How they had the courage and resolve to persevere with such depth of heart, to carry out and carry forward with grace, and in so doing to allow their deepest ambitions to reach the broadness of the universe. That without concerning themselves with an outcome, they took every step in the direction of their calls and steadfastly carved paths to true elderhood and being world-changers. I marvel at them because while people could see their greatness, they never seemed concerned with it at all. They simply went about their authentic work in the world. I don’t know what kinds of things challenged their resolves, but I imagine they weren’t small. How do these kinds of people make greatness look so simple. What draws them along their threads? What makes their vision so singular? Because of them, I want to do better, to be better. As they leave the planet, so precarious at this time, there are no replacements for them. </span></div>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px; text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">But this isn’t quite right to imply there are only a handful. There are so many of these people on the planet. We just don’t ever become aware of most of them. I am aware of those I am inspired by who are in the view of my personal story. Maybe someone I look to as an elder has been closely tied to some of them, maybe I have just oriented to their starshine. But there are countless among us. We just haven’t learned their stories. I think of my father, who was a pioneer in his field but so humble I never knew until a colleague of his said to me, “you know he’s the best in the world, don’t you?” I think of a friend who gave a kidney to a stranger in need. I think of a number of quiet healers whom you’d never notice, of children who burn brightly and leave too soon, a wake of awakened hearts behind them. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpDYmi-uqNRFYZ5Y6EC7-U-_8rQJKHugJKH8jaUwiSJZ41rLT-VUtVYqzQ_E0XTPkjkE1kq0z2RDmDsa8OpfnvA16rtApULkm9MRC9pRA6HI4l00HR7x027jSTV4SlMLz1dpfpJ9TqCcLpskgorMBmmq1teNeqPIAZ4fid6PRV1t0bkSN-Eb7b0ak_=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgpDYmi-uqNRFYZ5Y6EC7-U-_8rQJKHugJKH8jaUwiSJZ41rLT-VUtVYqzQ_E0XTPkjkE1kq0z2RDmDsa8OpfnvA16rtApULkm9MRC9pRA6HI4l00HR7x027jSTV4SlMLz1dpfpJ9TqCcLpskgorMBmmq1teNeqPIAZ4fid6PRV1t0bkSN-Eb7b0ak_=w200-h200" width="200" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">
I was thinking about those dear souls who have recently left us here, to our own devices. There is something that happens when they go that somehow focuses us with some degree of potency. It can be only a fleeting potency and it seems to me it should be acted upon. They were larger than life and we looked up to them, as well we should have, and saw them somehow as uniquely extraordinary, visionary - irreplaceable. And now what? How can we not lose hope as they will not carry on? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">And what I feel is a deep reaching tingle of awakening responsibility - not a need to carry on their work, but to be more deeply committed to courageously carrying on my own. It is cowardice and smallness that imagines or believes I don’t have a worthy calling and tries to let me off the hook from showing up as wholly as I can in the world. No, it’s not too late, ever. As Michael Meade often says, “the calling keeps calling” all the way to our last moment here. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">Time being what it is, we should never underestimate the magnitude of a single moment fully inhabited. An atomic bomb detonation happens in a moment and so small in its beginnings. Falling in love comes out of nowhere and takes us over for a lifetime. An idea born in a dream can change the world. What if in each moment any of these is not only possible but only depends on our willingness to imagine, to take a deep breath - an inspiration - and relax into it. I think it is a great letting go that allows grace in. A letting go of rigid beliefs and stories. A letting go of the shore and allowing ourselves the gift of flowing freely down the river of grief that would deliver us to a warm ocean of remembering, to a shore where the sun would dry us off and light the way, illuminating others who are emerging and things that washed up with us as reminders and tools for the way ahead. What remains? What do you see around you? Who are your people? What is remembering itself to you? For what is your moment alive?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>If we are especially lucky, we get to glimpse the unique soul signatures in the people who grace our lives. Losing personal friends, especially soul friends, I am even more keenly aware of the unique qualities I admired and valued in them. And then I slowly realize that they were teaching me. I find myself wanting to be better because of knowing them. To cherish the gift they were in the world - in <i>my</i> world - I must nurture and tend to these places in myself. I can grow a garden in my soul, planted with their seeds. I can nurture these unique seeds and in fact I can do this with all those I love, not just those who have departed this world, but those who simply walked through a season of my life. Maybe they left a depression in me - perfect for planting a seed to be watered with the tears of grief. Only to notice after some time passes that it is in myself I can let them flourish. </div><div><p></p>
<p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px; min-height: 12px;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje71zjtJcIrptpbOPneW2xW_LPgVezZw6eGYN27MoHTkhH2TfmIqftCHSSpoNDtYRiqAProe3KYmLRKuUTbZRyY8_rHL2tEvTiHuw-DTKgkjMrzPUEERq6FR6ws2PoYxUXN6gCnKFcv6OfonxX5bmh2Cpaf0wUmnJX8SoXu2OXG8FDB16F09i_nw6i=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEje71zjtJcIrptpbOPneW2xW_LPgVezZw6eGYN27MoHTkhH2TfmIqftCHSSpoNDtYRiqAProe3KYmLRKuUTbZRyY8_rHL2tEvTiHuw-DTKgkjMrzPUEERq6FR6ws2PoYxUXN6gCnKFcv6OfonxX5bmh2Cpaf0wUmnJX8SoXu2OXG8FDB16F09i_nw6i=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></div><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"></span><br /><p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">One of my closest friends left last summer. It was unexpected and just after I had returned from a long journey that I was looking forward to telling him about. We shared our soul threads with each other, dreams and stories and art, and reminded each other from time to time of pieces we each lost track of. I came to appreciate how He tended and cared for my threads, and to depend on him for that. Even started to imagine that he would help me gather them into a proper collection of stories someday not too far off. He was a good editor, and I was counting on that. But I will have to endeavor to tend my own threads with such care and love in the ways I learned from him, a gentle, quiet witness, a generous vessel. People aren’t meant to serve roles in our lives, but to remind us of our own many roles we would be well served to tend. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><br /></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuiBreCCe2SlJkraKVSWHJ4FFl-eESyYDKreajp541qf9Xatc2I7Q6hrdDCO7cNW85fE_G0Y2lgOWQRWpNiw8RNP_0UOxpbgpLsPrFgrKgyVnVOtZPrf9Y_G6_bvNWXJEkRfvD2pitetkZf6x5FRnq3a2v4Tlzc24JbaPmmurlUNvnobLUJosADACI=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiuiBreCCe2SlJkraKVSWHJ4FFl-eESyYDKreajp541qf9Xatc2I7Q6hrdDCO7cNW85fE_G0Y2lgOWQRWpNiw8RNP_0UOxpbgpLsPrFgrKgyVnVOtZPrf9Y_G6_bvNWXJEkRfvD2pitetkZf6x5FRnq3a2v4Tlzc24JbaPmmurlUNvnobLUJosADACI=s320" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I’m only in my 50s, but I have already lost too many close friends in my life. And although none of them was a famous, they each changed the world remarkably, especially mine. Each one made me want to be a better person, made me better. Because the truth is, that soul code written into each of us is perfectly and uniquely meant for us. We are all world-changers. Here to bring our essence into the world in a way that only we can, without which the world suffers. So many of us fumble around trying to do what seems right or hoping to figure out definitively what the heck we are doing here for what feels like far too long. Seems the lucky ones just know where they are pointed and go about getting there, and yet I know this is only an illusion. Only they know the steps that forged those glistening paths. </span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;">No matter what, I am digging deep with my brothers and sisters. I am giving way to the grief. I will see you there. We will know each other by the dirt under our nails and the sun warming our tired bodies. We will love each other for the signature twinkles of the souls looking out through our wide open eyes toward the horizon. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><span style="-webkit-font-kerning: none; font-kerning: none;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-6Ix0cqF3uGr64l1kA9q0Z9O74KxBGKCiQ-LU496N0M2wkXAJ-2Bl3NQWNaMWEb8meyngoqC8sZQ65MiGAlntGPeUSSS2ZO8ouCt6-PAGLogmbaFYrvwFT_uXYjL4Ebd-oCAU-s_GIwLLW9j65J-LUiO9ci4Td8Ybv4mwzsDIYKPMQ_2oPGK7JrmM=s3024" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-6Ix0cqF3uGr64l1kA9q0Z9O74KxBGKCiQ-LU496N0M2wkXAJ-2Bl3NQWNaMWEb8meyngoqC8sZQ65MiGAlntGPeUSSS2ZO8ouCt6-PAGLogmbaFYrvwFT_uXYjL4Ebd-oCAU-s_GIwLLW9j65J-LUiO9ci4Td8Ybv4mwzsDIYKPMQ_2oPGK7JrmM=w400-h400" width="400" /></a></div></span></div>
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<br /><br /><p style="-webkit-text-stroke-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-stroke-width: initial; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11px; font-stretch: normal; line-height: normal; margin: 0px;"><br /></p></div>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-85961094032305051662020-08-07T09:35:00.012-07:002020-08-07T14:15:47.628-07:00Sensing Forward<span style="font-size: x-large;">I could smell the Carolina lilies before I could see them. Just the day before, hiking along the Bartram trail upslope from Martin creek, I had been taken by surprise and wonder to find a single lone beauty standing left of the path, where never before I had seen one. I bent to meet her and soaked her fragrance into my whole body. I could feel the core of my being drinking in that sweet melody. I felt the honey slide down from nose to tail, infusing secret places I had forgotten were there. Now, along the winding switchbacks between Otto, NC and Standing Indian campground, the rocky dirt road is bejeweled with the look alike Turk’s Cap lilies and the bright almost quinacra violet-red seed structures of umbrella plants in moist places under black boulders. I pause many times along the way to get closer looks and whiffs of a variety of wildflowers. </span><div><br />
<div class="separator"><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmvH-9PR_PUWmLlMbnacyBEN01zmD4xkw-3ASuZng_jC_pHgwldX08BPASCMPjhNWcstLClYkK9TQY2Ii6Ab5u1ARSYye6CLXkRNiXbnTPzd43NGvTSVlfhVXmzKDVu6mBoWqk5kUGes/w210-h210/IMG_4110.jpg" width="210" /><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYBRBgjktktAHDCNtBuXqc3-DyQ6FEGoHtiK2GW8e0T6ibZ5FsUmF9r_6zbrhjnrdZ3F9fJz_us0LgbeF75ImX3KqZc0khlUdnLQWzeTiHA7oCImrqU4TNyHYPyfuUjjQif8S1qyOY_kg/w210-h210/IMG_3493.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="210" /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><b style="font-style: italic;">The </b><i><b>deeply fragrant </b></i><i><b>Carolina or Michaud's Lily (Lilium michauxii) </b></i><i><b>(looks very similar to the Turk's Cap) </b></i></div><div style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><div></div><div><b><i>and the Umbrella Leaf</i></b><b><i>(Diph</i></b><b><i>ylleia Cymosa)</i></b><b><i> with seed berries</i></b></div></div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div></div><span><a name='more'></a></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5S6skZfg-UW5_wNOYJaalUNUc6fjUI1jO1Ce9Fzrw2P3v230Dcel5rt_J48RLkKvViJYEvDQ-bfdi6HWmFa8cHOS17NeIFB2tqMB6nqaZ4o2vlHcvXDF_OPQkQ-aXvtQTCIno1lTsT0/w512-h512/IMG_3624.jpg" style="text-align: start;" width="512" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">
Last night, arriving at Standing Indian, I chose a site I wouldn’t have picked if not for being stuck waiting on a truck and trailer in front of me unable to back into their reserved spot. A little while later, after a rich though brief time in the woods up slope, where dancing vines move between trunks approaching old growth near boulders that appear to have been dropped there as if from a passing star, I made my way back down the trail. As dusk was enveloping my campsite, violin and banjo voices threaded through the trees as I looked skyward from my hammock and felt the solid embrace of cucumber tree and birch with rhododendron reaching over and under me. </span><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span><div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;">
I felt such a deep sensation of welcome. The tall trees above and the trunk my hammock had to lean against felt so solid an embrace and so accepting of my presence. And the soft string music finding me there made this welcome complete. Then I remembered noticing the rock someone had left on the picnic table here with just that word written on it, “welcome." Never underestimate the magic of the word - spoken or written. I remember now<a href=" https://silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com/2008/05/words.html " target="_blank"> the time I was in Charleston</a> and came upon some words left in a public space. </span></div><div><br /><div><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMT4mdu42WamNctUwj8f36WsAQe4cvD61bGUf613Tc0ikyoOxkV32NI0O3AWh_UrFd8dtdJ67CTHD6qYsMCAM4cutyr5RmR4bvnO5GL9KYzwGS73QuVi6SAmPjRZ1yTw5j9-NQgBe1-Gc/w512-h512/IMG_3691.jpg" width="512" /></div><div><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">
This morning, as I sit by burning remnants of wood from trees like these, warming my oatmeal and Earl Grey, I am thinking about the tall trees standing around me. They are not ancient, but some of them are older than I am or twice my age, which makes a century. That is nothing to a tree. If only I could see the forest as it should be, as it would be if we hadn’t turned so much of it to lumber and fire and if not so many of the big ones had fallen to disease. I can scarcely begin to imagine the chestnuts in their girth who left such blossoms it looked like snow cover to people who inhabited this place but a couple hundred years before now. </span></div><div>
<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCV8U7wnZpfjj4Whyjcf6PZ1BNjCqKXDmC7rc_LchCWnpMzt573JIsWEMTMYygyTTzBO385BMfeMu-Lcc_hhyphenhyphenECB3aaFoQhcF8xZKMWT6wBJbaoGgSMgSH4WDNjpMwYDspy9L9Ev5JeE/w320-h320/IMG_4010.jpg" width="320" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">
As the sun burns away morning fog, I feel a certain quality of peace under these tall beings - each nearly a hundred feet into the sky - old enough to know that we will come and go, to witness our folly so many times and still feed us the oxygen our lives depend on. I like to think they feel the love from those who bring it to them. But while I know they do appreciate conscious, intentional acknowledgement and interaction, I imagine that what they know is simply the truth of what surrounds them, all that they bear witness to, and we are but a blip. </span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
Imagine standing in place - in someone else’s place, in a beautiful place, in a place where everyone around you is dying, in a place where everyone is being cut down. You just want to stand and breathe and drink in the seasons and the elements, and provide for your friends and family, and stretch and wave about from time to time. And still, people come through from near and far for a millionth of a second and do the damnedest things then just leave you a moment later - like a woman raped, left with a crying baby, a slave left used up and broken, another other, beaten with a stick and left for dead. Some call it “dominion” and credit the Bible for saying it’s ours. </span></div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/J4kbSK_HIBw" width="320" youtube-src-id="J4kbSK_HIBw"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i>(you'll need your speaker turned all the way up to hear the fragile melody)</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><br /><span style="font-size: x-large;">
But I, I arrived last evening to the sounds of a fiddle and a banjo - no words, just nourishment of my most delicate and hidden body - the place where the deepest thread remains, still somehow intact. The place in me that knows what is important and the river of grief and longing that is touched by just such a sweet and fragile melody. I am only a visitor here in this great forest. With no cause, it treats me with welcome and grace - respect I have not earned. And it would provide for me whatever I could need. I bristle (or worse) as some who pass through are so injurious to this place and clearly don’t know what’s important. But the forest will see us all come and and go, all the same.
<br /></span><div><span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: x-large;">I thought my life was not so different during this time of pandemic. It’s normally very simple, somewhat spare and relatively isolated. I enjoy the nature I am blessed to inhabit, and I love the work I am privileged to be able to do. During this time my work has been almost entirely curtailed, and so I do not have much human interaction where before I had just a little more. But we have all been through several traumas in recent months. The onset of a pandemic with all the fears and concerns we don’t normally have to consider, followed by yet another senseless murder of an “other,” this one so brazenly in our faces that we finally have begun to feel it into our own bodies. For how could we not? And by grace we are finally beginning to respond as a body of people and maybe finding ways to reach toward making repair. <br /><br />
What I’m noticing here is - maybe because we all slowed to a halt for just long enough to remember how to feel at all - that things that are normally felt with one or another sensing organ can now be felt into our bodies. When I bent to drink in the fragrance of the Carolina lily by the path, the fragrance came into me in a wholly new way, so deep into my core. When the fiddle and banjo music threaded through the trees that evening deep in the Appalachian woods, my soul was deeply and bodily moved in a way I’ve not felt before. This gives me hope. Hope that as a collective, maybe we can wake up to the truth of what is around us - as those trees who stand in place know so well what is around them. Just maybe, one day soon we can wake up to sensing bodily as the earth, as Earth. And with that thought, I take a deep breath and feel rooted. Grateful. Hopeful.</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbyoui0iqh9o59a09ILa8EXjTviiXUBRtj6NkU50_w5IRdh2mdxUW6vjXc3J3Mm185JzClD-U-UmFlnCXBerB0mqG1AcR5oOqKn4sOnIO_79eDT2MsDM6dBbyxwJLJTjRcgsLGC05Q4uE/s2048/IMG_3755.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbyoui0iqh9o59a09ILa8EXjTviiXUBRtj6NkU50_w5IRdh2mdxUW6vjXc3J3Mm185JzClD-U-UmFlnCXBerB0mqG1AcR5oOqKn4sOnIO_79eDT2MsDM6dBbyxwJLJTjRcgsLGC05Q4uE/w512-h512/IMG_3755.jpg" width="512" /></a></div></div></div></div></div></div></div><br /></div>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-80413459946114360092020-03-13T11:30:00.001-07:002020-03-14T14:05:04.617-07:00Uncharted Territory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbQCsSt6Nh-hsqn0QEbs_sA64gFBq9HQuRCKKGJFeb02ky9PvKdIJoDKuvxXV2CrUxU2d8Yw-wOdwzuGNo6RqkQHHMparPJ6ei9LZ3pqAjC0yutYSgFcmXPkMJZ-VYE4WaBqL8oYzLnA/s1600/89712822_1118473518491450_3205913411078586368_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbQCsSt6Nh-hsqn0QEbs_sA64gFBq9HQuRCKKGJFeb02ky9PvKdIJoDKuvxXV2CrUxU2d8Yw-wOdwzuGNo6RqkQHHMparPJ6ei9LZ3pqAjC0yutYSgFcmXPkMJZ-VYE4WaBqL8oYzLnA/s320/89712822_1118473518491450_3205913411078586368_o.jpg" width="320" height="240" data-original-width="1440" data-original-height="1080" /></a></div><br><br>I had started writing something a week or two ago, and so I am beginning with it, even though it starts on a different branch...
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For several years now, in my practice, I have been honored by women bringing their mothers and/or their daughters to me. I would have a long time client whose daughter visits every so often and she would become a repeat client. Or a woman would bring her mother in to treat her in such a sweet gesture. And come to think of it, several families have come in three generations, and I love working with the young people - teenagers are so much fun, and seem to be at once surprised and amused by having their limbs moved about by another and coming to a new awareness in their own bodies.
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I have always felt the added sacredness of someone entrusting the care of a loved one to me, first and foremost. And there is the gift of witness to what transfers from one generation to the next. I am always amazed at what gets passed down - physically, emotionally, spiritually, energetically. Even when the third generation is adopted (and from a starkly different ethnicity), I see the same physical manifestations in the body. We are made from the inside out and then the outside in. What we think, what we do, how we do what we do and how we feel about all of these show up in the body. It is inevitable.
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Often it is not until we age past midlife that we truly realize how much we embody our ancestors. We see resemblances early on, and appreciate them, then sometimes we attach ourselves to the story of an elder - on occasional an unfavorable story about health issues - and then finally we gain a deeper felt sense and understanding later in life when we begin to manifest similar or identical conditions to our parents or grandparents. To me, this emphasizes the value of coming into a unique body-felt-sense awareness in our own bodies.
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We have the opportunity to acknowledge and let go of our storied associations with our ancestry as they pertain to our physical and even emotional or psycho-spiritual lives. A beautiful way of doing this is to come present in the physical ground of our own being - our own bodies. To let this be the ground from which our unique expression emerges with greater clarity. In each moment, I have the opportunity to feel where I am, what I am, who I am. It’s so easy to get into the stream of busy-ness, work, family, chores, etc., and yet we can get carried away in that stream before we know it and become defined solely by our activities. This is where some kind of practice comes in handy.
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Such a practice can be to address any aspect of our being - from inner, physical self to emotional, psycho-spiritual. To me, a practice can be utterly simple. It is something we do with regularity (let’s just say several days a week or on a schedule of one’s choosing). When I say utterly simple, I mean it. If there is one thing I have learned about personal growth and transformation, it’s the power of keeping a promise to one’s self. It matters not how challenging the action is, and it matters fully that we follow through on doing it.
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SO, it can be as simple as walking around my house three times on waking. I firmly believe and know that the power of keeping promises to one’s self is tenfold the to honoring of commitments to others (which seems so much easier to most of us, but only becomes as powerful when paired with accountability to self). Each morning when I rise, I cook breakfast for myself - real breakfast. Yes, I rise hungry in general, but it is also a ritual I do for myself that involves all of my senses, and a certain amount of care to nourish myself.
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I take the opportunity to move my body as I prepare breakfast. I’ve always been shy to dance, but for whatever reason, in the mornings, my body takes the opportunity to move about the kitchen in something that looks like a dance. We cannot underestimate the value of movement to our general health. If nothing else, our internal organs deeply depend on such movement. Vibration, swinging, bouncing, turning - all these mobilize our viscera in ways they need to function properly. Especially as we age, things tend to stick together if we don’t move enough, and it is vitally important that our organs can slide and glide as we move. So I bring my conscious awareness and attention into this movement and really feel the places where I can stretch a little farther in a bend at the gut and think about opening space for things inside to move. Conscious awareness and attention - these are what transforms a normal activity into a practice. As such, if I decide to notice my breath at certain intervals throughout a day, this would also become a practice. Simple. Easy. Effective. And quite transformative.
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One of my favorite practices is dream work, in which I am tracking and learning to understand the language of my soul. This language is coded into my world since before I arrived, and there are clues in every direction in which I look. Yet I must pay attention, follow along and experiment with the elements and signs and symbols to learn this language and how to navigate by it. Over the years of writing dreams and working with them - in small groups, one on one and by myself - I have come to learn more and more how all life becomes more navigable. Waking life and dreaming life have a way of merging or becoming less differentiated - more integrated and complementary, actually.
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Here we are in a time when we are all being asked in some way to isolate ourselves. We are doing this to protect ourselves and each other, at the chance of mitigating the influx of a global pandemic. So many challenging emotions and reactions are coming to the surface and will continue to increase in frequency and intensity. It’s scary for each and every one of us, except maybe for those who feel ready to leave the planet. I’m not saying that in a flip way. I know of one person who publicly wrote about how his poverty has made him feel ready to be taken by the bug, although he is not suicidal. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t had a moment of fear of having already been infected at this moment. We are coming into allergy season and still in flu season and how do we know at the onset of any of these what is really happening. And really, it hasn’t even begun yet where we are locally. <br><br>
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I want to talk about some ways to calm this fear and desperation. I know many people are busy with work and family and so many obligations and not accustomed to down time or being stuck at home. These people don’t even stay home when they do fall ill, but choose to power through because they don’t feel they have another option. But right now we are being asked to pull in, retreat and isolate, not because this will stop the whole thing from happening, but because it is what will make the best outcome for the highest number of people, minimizing the death toll and ensuring that affected populations will be more likely to have access to appropriate care. And we should heed this precaution.
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I was writing a couple of weeks ago about what makes a practice. And I was saying how making it very simple and approachable is a good way to begin. I cited a silly example of walking around one’s house three times upon waking and before attending to anything else. I was making the point that it is arbitrary what the practice is and essential that we follow through with it reliably. In the days following, I decided to begin walking that talk. I know the effectiveness of this in theory and in other practices, but on a lark, I just decided to take up this practice. And then today, as I was chatting with a friend on the phone over breakfast, and she was hearing the birds in my yard, it hit me. I had just started a practice that is perfect for this time we are in, when many of us may be by choice or command stuck at home or very close to home for longer periods than normal.
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Don’t laugh. Or yes, by all means, LAUGH! You, too, can take up this practice. Look, we can feel stuck at home or we can begin to explore the world we’ve been passing right by. I live down in a hollow and so walking around my house three times gives me the opportunity to go up and down a hill and some stairs in a variety of combinations. I can hear the birds and the creek, I can see all the stuff that needs doing around the yard and remember projects I left unfinished. I can be caught by the beauty of the sunrise light that will soon be obscured by fresh new leaves but is now as bright as it gets in this north facing hollow. I can also feel my body getting a little extra movement, breath, and grounding. And as I circle my home I give thanks for such a wonderful place that supports me. <br><br>
There are other ways we can explore being right where we are. How we connect to the land, the house itself, the others who inhabit them - people or animals, what elements surrounds us and affect us. We can also learn to inhabit ourselves in new ways. Are you dreaming? What are your thoughts and emotions like in this moment? How is your body feeling? Are you breathing fully or holding your breath in suspense or fear? Are you eating well, nourishing yourself to stay strong? Not eating enough or overeating for comfort? Are there any habits you want to change or begin during this time? I’m sure we’re all a little more keen to wash our hands more frequently now (although as a body worker it’s about normal for me). I don’t know about you, but I need to moisturize more than normal this time of year with all the extra handwashing, and this can be a ritual itself. I also plan to take time to write some letters, especially as the people I love are more than ever in my heart and mind. I'm thinking a letter a day might be a nice cadence and that means each day I can spend time thinking about one person in particular and how they are important in my life.
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Keep returning to what is close and what is simple. A cup of tea. Bare feet on the moist earth. Fresh air in my lungs. Sunshine on my skin. My heart connecting to a nearby tree. Recognizing the resources I already have all around me, and how I know them and how to utilize them. The books I’ve been meaning to start reading but haven’t had time for. Longer phone conversations with far away friends. My dreams and how they inform me about what’s been churning under the radar and also caution me about what is coming. How my dreams and my days are always interweaving. The creatures in nature around me and how they meet each moment ready and respond to the environment only in real time. What it means to fully digest what is happening before I have to respond in any way. Which leads me to internal guidance systems.
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We all have an internal guidance system. Many of us disregard it unless all bells and whistles blare at once under extreme crisis. It can sometimes be referred to as the “still, small voice within” or the “little voice” or “a gut feeling.” And we can learn to be fluent with it. We can learn to hear it more clearly. All we have to do is begin engaging it. There are some simple ways to learn to hear it and you can begin today with some simple practices and it will become more clearly a tool for navigating daily life I use it for things as simple as which item to buy at the grocery store, which route to take on a journey, whether or not to attend something I’m not sure about, etc. If you can find your way to a yes or no question, you can use this simple guidance system to discern your inner yes or no. I can talk you through this process.
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I will be trusting my internal guidance system while I take all the precautions I know how to take to protect myself and those I come into contact with throughout this challenging time. I am here to help you in any way that I can, whether lending an ear, providing dream consultations, helping you to create some daily practices for yourself, providing some cranial work or body work that is safe and effective to help bring you home in your body. There is plenty of work that I can do with the client fully clothed, and I’m considering meeting with clients in an outdoor location so that we can minimize vectors of transmission of any pathogens. Please feel free to comment with notes about what you are doing during this time to keep healthy and strong in body mind and spirit. Wishing you all continuing robust health and peace wherever you can find it. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-18331582541751696262020-01-14T10:21:00.002-08:002020-04-07T07:42:52.400-07:00Giving thanks...It feels like forever and a day since I have posted anything here.
This morning, as I was looking for a document on my Mac (and not finding it), I stumbled across some words I wrote back in 2014 around Thanksgiving. I'm not sure if I ever did anything with them, but they felt poignant to me, especially as I come up on a big birthday in a couple of weeks. They are words it will be good to revisit often and add to from time to time.
These words, like a letter I wrote to myself five years ago: <br><br>
<I>I think about nature, always, and the beauty and grace and infinite wisdom I find in her. I think of the miracle that is my body, which - even oft abused - ever heals and supports my consciousness along the way. I think of the suffering in my life that has honed my eye for beauty in such a way that only a heart broken wide open so many times can let in the love and light in such spectacular ways.
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Too, I think of the disenfranchised among us - those who are adrift in a world too busy to notice, and those who have shut themselves off from others in their desperate self-punishment for not measuring up to expectations they have assumed.
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I think of those who cannot recognize the beauty and blessings in their lives - whose eyes are so shrouded by need, fear and grief, say nothing of those trapped in war zones.
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I think of parents grieving their children and lonely old ladies. Of children so spoiled with riches they know nothing of value.
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Each year into my life, I feel less and less want for things, for possessions, for stuff. Each year into my life, I feel more grateful for beauty, for grace, for fresh air and clean water (harder and harder to find, as the world is polluted more and more with pesticides and pollution).
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Each year into my life I find more depth and meaning in the fewer friendships that really stick around for the duration.
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Each day into my life I am grateful to the bottom of my being for the earth kissing my feet, the sky inviting me to stand tall, the waters offering to cleanse my spirit, the sun warming my heart. I am ever grateful for the beauty that graces all of it so long as my vision is clear. I am grateful for the grace of time, containing all possibilities at once, leaving nothing out. I am thankful for the moon and stars, who tell us about our ancestors and guide us home, for trees who have always listened to me and offered steady embrace. I am thankful for the winged ones who effortlessly shift my perspective to the clouds and back down, the furry critters who call me home even though they see all of me. I am grateful for the deep, authentic connections I call gravity between myself and all that is. </i>
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This last Thanksgiving, 2019, I was blessed to spend a full day on my favorite wild and scenic river, in slow time of nature. Arriving at the river, Grandmother Beech gifted us with a shower of gold. <br><br>
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In thinking on love this morning, I realize that the only authentic love is the one that is all pervasive. I cannot truly love without realizing that I, too, contain these disparate factions within me and until I can embrace them fully, my love is incomplete.
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What is LOVE? It is not a relationship, though in our culture we tend to equate the two. It is not need or obligation. It is not a showering of affection or a calling one home. It is a feeling no, the reality of sharing ONE consciousness. When I am awake to this ONE consciousness and all that is, there can be nothing but love. And then it is what we call unconditional love. But then what we forget is that there can not be unconditional love that is exclusive for only one being. If we can indeed experience authentic, conscious love, then we are in effect IN UNCONDITIONAL LOVE WITH THE ONE CONSCIOUSNESS WE COMPRISE. It is a FIELD we all exist in and love is the sensation of the field, when felt with our body/mind. It is resonance with the ONENESS.
Then there was a whole world of learning about love from my feathered friend this last summer. I have still not been able to sit down and write about that gift. I hope I will be able to get some things down while I can still access them. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-67570733468712998942019-08-20T13:00:00.002-07:002019-08-21T06:00:48.298-07:00Of us and "others"You'll have to forgive me. This is neither finished nor polished. This last few months I really haven't had the luxury of time to write, as I've been busy relocating my business, catching up on clients and, well, learning about another species. Anyway, I jotted down a few things the other day...<br><br>
In this culture, we have a problem with cowardly racism, laziness and greed. And there’s an unfortunate sense of dominion that somehow got implanted a long time ago - dominion over other creatures deemed lesser, dominion over “other” humans deemed lesser. There is apparently a sense that if someone or something seems inconvenient then it should be removed away, or removed by killing if deemed necessary by someone who decides such things.<br><br>
Weeds, insects, rodents, indigenous peoples and so on. It doesn’t even seem to matter to the perpetrators of poisoning or displacing the unwelcome visitors that they poison their own wells make their own homes toxic, grow crops with insecticide built in (carcinogenic to humans in food) destroy our only life support system we call earth. Leaving an impossible equation for their - our - grandchildren. “They” are us. There is no other. Search your self, seek out all the ways you are lazy, take advantage of situations that make things easier in order to indulge a complacent and self entitled laziness. We call it “convenience,” “fast food,” “conventional and factory farming,” “the help,” “out of sight, out of mind.”
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I had the unexpected good fortune to raise a wild goose this spring and summer. No idea that raising a goose would be so much like raising a baby all the way to adolescence in a very short period time. Albeit one who produces more poop per pound than any human baby.
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When I was young our family had a cabin on a lake, and I remember when the Canada geese arrived and decided it was a nice enough place in the world to stay and call home. My dad hated those geese because they pooped all over the dock. I reckon he didn’t realize that a bucket of water would so easily have removed the partially digested grasses. I can still hear my mother in the upstairs window barking like a little yippie dog to run them off. She really put a lot of gusto into that. No harm, no fowl.
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At some point, I learned that a wild goose might require some kind of permit, and I began researching. Everywhere I looked to find out about how to have a permit to care for this creature, all I could find were permits for killing them. It seems people don’t like goose poop. And although these birds are protected federally, it seems that one can simply say they are a nuisance because of their (quite benign) feces, comprised of grass that easily melts away with water or rain. It is also said that they cause depredation of crops. And so permits are issued for culling these birds in fairly large numbers for four months out of the year, which happen to be during the breeding season, when many adult birds molt and so are also not flying. So, while I may be breaking the law caring for this wild animal that was orphaned when it fell out of the nest and drifted down a river, it would be easier for me to get a permit to kill “it” than to raise him.
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But not being much of a rule breaker, and not knowing how to proceed with this unexpected endeavor, I recently delivered this goose to a licensed rescue and rehabilitation facility in a bordering state. Believe me, this was not going to be an easy thing no matter what. When he was physically assaulted and manhandled by the person receiving him, it was off to a bad start. Then he was placed in a small pen in a very hot place full with other birds - injured ducks, orphaned geese, a couple of peacocks, all on a dirt floor with no grass, no room to roam, no water to get into. The nearest small pen just 15 feet away held a pacing wolf, no doubt dreaming of a duck dinner.
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Now surely these folks care about critters and are putting a lot of time and money and efforts into helping them. And yet this man treated this goose inappropriately, and the environment he was put into was actually not appropriate either.
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I’m not an expert about anything. I watch the world around me, spending a fair amount of time in the woods, along the river. And during the last three months, raising this Goose, I’ve observed quite a lot during the countless hours of grazing, napping, preening and, yes, pooping. I had never heard the phrase “like poop through a goose” until recently, but I surely know what it means. In fact, I know a lot about goose poop now. I know about the dark and runny acrid morning poop (that I could smell from 30 feet away), and the watery poop with white film. I know about the grainy, tan poop from eating feed, and the quite beautiful pthalo blue-green poop from high quality weeds. And yes, I also know about the dark and runny poop that happens when there’s stress in the environment. Come to think of it, not so different from ours.
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I know that the poop, so widely disliked by humans, if it’s coming from wild geese in their natural habitat, is mostly grass. That it is excellent fertilizer, and I hear it doesn’t need to be composted, because it does not burn when placed on a growing crop. I am guessing that this is because it has already fermented in the belly of the goose. I also imagine that crop depredation is not as common as implied.
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Wild Canada geese do congregate in growing numbers, as their communities are comprised of extended family. And they do create quite a lot of noise at times. As long as I remember them being in the Southeast – seems like since the 80s – I have felt the general dislike of Canada geese in people. It is a nebulous thing, not grounded in any particular experience of them. I think maybe it’s even an unconscious response to a foreign population moving into a territory where it didn’t exist before, and this being a beautiful place in the world with a generally mild climate, they decided to stay. No different from many of us who have chosen this as our home. Why on earth would we want to go anywhere else? There is the most amazing and diverse natural beauty here, and a plethora of resource in the form of wild forests and clean, running waters, open spaces along a short chain of man-made lakes (made to create electricity for our convenience).
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In other lands, the creatures make great garden helpers, pulling weeds with ultimate agility while effortlessly applying fertilizer. They take excellent care of their amazing and powerful bodies, preening an impressive collection of hundreds of feathers, using oil from a built-in gland to make them impervious to water, unzipping then zipping closed each and every feather until they are all perfectly in order, discarding worn feathers and debris as they go. Their feet are delicate, soft like fine Italian leather, and yet durable for navigating water and land, rock and soil, taking off and landing on a variety of terrains. We don’t consider (why would we?) the astounding proprioceptive abilities of birds, much less those who inhabit both water and air - and land, of course. Can you imagine flying 1500 miles in a day, or bodily reaching up to 9000 feet above the earth and being able to see where you are going from the air? Say nothing of navigating air and water currents in that body.
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I scarcely think that we humans consider the tip of a proverbial iceberg about a group of people or creatures we have not lived among enough to intimately understand their habits and character. We don’t ask ourselves what is beautiful and miraculous about them - what truly unique and necessary gifts they bring into the world. We shun them and bar the doors to our comfortable worlds. If they seem useful, we find a way to capitalize on their skills, but without incorporating them into our community - we point to an area we wouldn’t choose to inhabit and say, “there, look, there is a place you can have for your people, all just for you. Isn’t that nice?” A reservation. An up and coming neighborhood. Probably across the tracks on the south side of town. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-6283293263450175252016-10-03T07:31:00.002-07:002016-10-31T21:29:53.554-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9bdWfOop84PNinEOSskMWdIRAKxulopUR3qIM3fZl06522qEQy4TsgnwGwPZwkXS2-vpi4ktTC_aWvw8jPRbxtni-let4ViTSSHmMJXxWY3aF_OwsNTApG2NV7xh9l_uBw2zamyAcac/s1600/IMG_7815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9bdWfOop84PNinEOSskMWdIRAKxulopUR3qIM3fZl06522qEQy4TsgnwGwPZwkXS2-vpi4ktTC_aWvw8jPRbxtni-let4ViTSSHmMJXxWY3aF_OwsNTApG2NV7xh9l_uBw2zamyAcac/s320/IMG_7815.jpg" width="320" height="320" /></a></div><br><br>
About a year ago, I was watching the change of seasons and taking a notion from the trees up near a place called Rattlesnake Lodge, above the Blue Ridge Parkway. I learned a lot just thinking with those trees.
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When the trees loose their leaves going in to winter, they do not fight with gravity. They dress up in their finest richly hued vestments and then scatter jewels all about. They make an offering of the most stunningly beautiful objects they can create, and then effortlessly let them go to the breeze, dancing their way to the ground with the gifts from all their neighbors where they’ll become a nourishing carpet to feed the roots of the neighborhood.
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Just imagine that first letting go by the young tree. What did it think when it started losing its first foliage? And saw all its friends and family losing things? Did it think it would die? How many lettings go would it take to feel safe and confident going into winter’s season of harsh freezes and terrific winds - and threadbare? How many friends fell over in the ice storms? Maybe loss gets easier to bear over time. Some connections, though, seem so much more profound than others, and it seems they will not be bearable. And so I must pause and consider - how can i make the most beautiful offering to the universe at this juncture? What do I have to give to my surroundings in faith to the future nourishment of those around me?
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Now I see a sign across the road that says: “God’s in control.” Two days ago I started the morning with a float and ended up lost, driving through hidden hills, towns called Luck and Trust, and up to the mountaintop of 360 degree views. Once I was clearly not on the road I intended to be on, not even going in the direction I intended to go in, I simply trusted the free falling and was led gently to a place I had been wanting to get to for a while but had no idea where it was. I had not consulted a map to see what direction I would have had to go in to get there. And now here I was, albeit ever farther from home than when I had set out toward my house. I had just lost a dear friend and was spending time in unexplored territory.
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Now, I am just returned from a longer journey on which I lost another dear friend, quite unexpectedly and not in the best of circumstances. It is not for me to know all the hows and whys of this, yet I must decide how to walk forward along my own path, however invisible it may appear, and how to do this in a way that honors my friends who are gone, along with all the others, and the rest of the world I walk through. Perhaps if I were a tree it would be simpler - all my processes would be inherent and in concert with the movements of the celestial beings and in response to the terrestrial conditions. I wouldn’t have to think about where to go, what kind of work to do, how to interact with far away people and places. And yet, like the tree, fluids run by miraculous nature through my vessels and something animates me with the spark of life. In fact, if I think about it, that tree is as sentient as I am, even if it doesn’t communicate or travel in the ways that I do. I’ve had conversations with trees and learned profound truths. In spite of our disruption of their territories, trees communicate over great distances and have much to say. I remind myself often of how long they have been watching over me and I imagine how much they have seen, unable to look away. Our lives are inextricable from theirs. Were they not on the earth, we would not be breathing.
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So as I prepare to embark on the next leg of my path ahead, taking me to new territories and peoples, I take another look at the trees about to drop their foliage. What do I really need to carry with me along the way? What process will support me where I am going? Best I polish all the gold I have and let it drop effortlessly away to dance in the currents about me, that I may be unencumbered to weather the next season. That I may carry in my heart of hearts those I hold dear, to walk with me; that I may learn to expand my heart space to learn with them how to travel the unseen worlds that are always right here with me.
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And so perhaps today I can make this letting go a celebration by decorating and feeding the land around me with the treasures I have been holding onto. Perhaps I can celebrate my dear lost loved ones by polishing the gold they have left in my soul, as I am reminded by the golden falling leaves all around me. <br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbqoFkFVRKgEz5I6dJH_QPQxyuCDzRvpXEbex-boSrwMhuWADJCXtHEq_NCExkxRc42t11SX8TP2DUIg9Musqk4D-6HgU44MnyyFY4dQF6YYc5FBGn40gNjtgn-Y0s19U8dOFioUBUa2I/s1600/IMG_0119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbqoFkFVRKgEz5I6dJH_QPQxyuCDzRvpXEbex-boSrwMhuWADJCXtHEq_NCExkxRc42t11SX8TP2DUIg9Musqk4D-6HgU44MnyyFY4dQF6YYc5FBGn40gNjtgn-Y0s19U8dOFioUBUa2I/s320/IMG_0119.JPG" width="320" height="320" /></a></div><br><br>
After putting this post together, I came across this rich post on the <a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/?s=trees">Brainpickings</a> site. Now I will dive deeper into the secret life of trees in following the Brainpickings thread. <br><br>
I am grateful for the many gifts of synchronicity.
Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-1646451930529668502016-08-03T20:16:00.001-07:002016-08-03T20:57:28.757-07:00New Website!In the midst of my busiest season yet, I have been building a new website for my various offerings in the world. I hope you will enjoy checking it out at: <a href="http://www.honorwoodard.com">www.honorwoodard.com</a>. I am still in process with it, and will be adding more resources to the site in coming weeks, but I think it's coming along. Thanks for taking a look. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-41470432005003123372016-06-09T06:30:00.000-07:002016-08-03T20:23:32.468-07:00Recent Photographic Works on Display in June and JulyRecent photographic works were on display during June and July at Noble Wine Cellar in downtown Clayton, GA. Big thanks to all those who came out and supported Noble Wine Cellar and enjoyed tasting Georgia grown wines and Georgia made craft beers! Thanks to Jabe and Barbara Hilson for welcoming me into their beautiful space, and special thanks to those who purchased photos! It was such a pleasure meeting and getting to know the lovely folks who came and made the show a success. <br><br>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJGyXhNY5eSLcr-yoeD1zPjEcC-d_o4cm3ifdu-xWptRcrMuZYsT_336Xrf6MBc_5f6lipq0MyG7qA9NUgrR4QQI7p8V188J47nm118c2-iDdf4dC_dccYc_Av7gsb9mWjky3cUN5Jx8/s1600/2016+bio.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvJGyXhNY5eSLcr-yoeD1zPjEcC-d_o4cm3ifdu-xWptRcrMuZYsT_336Xrf6MBc_5f6lipq0MyG7qA9NUgrR4QQI7p8V188J47nm118c2-iDdf4dC_dccYc_Av7gsb9mWjky3cUN5Jx8/s400/2016+bio.jpg" /></a></div>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-9248837838255836142015-12-28T08:56:00.000-08:002016-01-06T10:38:32.446-08:00Love Wins
There seems to be a consensus among many that God is Love. And yet, I have never heard anyone say that Love is God. I was thinking last year about the term “in love with,” and what it really means. Of course it is a feeling, rather than a thinking, term. But for some reason I got to thinking about it one day. I was feeling that it’s not about a person, per se. Really, I began to feel a sense of it meaning “in God.” And yet of course it is, and if only we were to treat it as such and realize this fully, how different the world would be. In this case, to love someone is to God them - in other words, as I love you, I treat you as God does. I am not looking for what I can get from you or how I can patronize you or idolize you. I am simply embracing you in your wholeness which is simply you. I have no wish to take from you because I am here to simply allow you to be your most complete and compelling self. I am here to nurture your inspirations, to give wind to your sails so you can navigate the waters of your life. I am here to inspire you with the beauty that is naturally emerging. <br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dcjkeUlaHM_vZYc9yWBE6GDknrkNSCgrOYFc79b4xFzbztS9ZuMZUNrq-Y39I9al09yGFAEOTlB7S6PGy450lmf_-9MEMohOWK10PCKLYahJFAJhtlbWL0P-5vtdV9sQBHiN5IAIrdw/s1600/IMG_1238.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dcjkeUlaHM_vZYc9yWBE6GDknrkNSCgrOYFc79b4xFzbztS9ZuMZUNrq-Y39I9al09yGFAEOTlB7S6PGy450lmf_-9MEMohOWK10PCKLYahJFAJhtlbWL0P-5vtdV9sQBHiN5IAIrdw/s320/IMG_1238.JPG" /></a></div>
<br><br>And, too, I am here to hold space for your heartache and disappointment when they come ‘round. I am gentle and kind, yet stern when you must know where your edges are. I don’t set or create rules to govern your world, rather I reflect back to you those you have created for yourself. This can get confusing because as we project our own rules onto the world, the world adheres to them and sometimes we forget we have projected them first. Coming back to us these rules are not always fair, and yet they originated with us. In Love and in God, for you I must be Grace. If in fact I am being my best self, this is my job in regard to others - and ultimately to my self. And so if I find myself grasping and sliding into drama, I realize that a) I have lost my Grace of the moment and b) I have projected my small self onto you and am not recognizing the Grace of God in you as an expression of Love.
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There are those people around whom we feel most “in God.” I just saw something on social media talking about how we “love people.” But I don’t think it’s that we love people as an act. We don’t. There are simply those people around whom our barriers to the love that we are tend to fall away or dissolve more readily. I am simply a unit of pure consciousness/God/Love walking around with a body. Over time, I have built up, shall we say, armor around my “self” - one mask for this, another for that, a whole costume for certain situations. And all these leave residue around my spark of existence, thus making me seem like a separate, more heavy, solid thing - like a crystal that has been coated with layers of clay and dirt and seems of a different quality due to the weight and heft, when in fact there is a clear, bright crystal inside. Sometimes, though, I can find myself around a group of people or a person, or in a place, that acts as a warm bath of water or vibration that causes the dirt and clay to fall away, melt or slough off of the crystalline structure, and then light shines through and reflects and beams.
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To love, to truly love someone, is to treat them as God would/does treat them. And so a worthy exercise might be to come to awareness around how we behave toward those we love and are in love with. Am I acting as God in Loving you?
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Never think your love is wasted. People may say your love was wasted on the wrong person, the wrong cause or the wrong whatever. It is not for us to know why or how our love is evoked. Forgetting for the moment that all creatures deserve to receive love, however wretched they may seem, try to remember that love is coming forth. What a gift to find ourselves expressing that which we are divinely tuned to transmit into the world via our humble flesh vehicles.
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When I think about my biggest love (even sometimes unrequited) what I feel most clearly is the impulse to create, offer and share of myself in so many forms and ways. The impulse to transmit the beauty I find and see and make in response to the frequency of another, the impulse to share the breathtaking awe and excitement exactly as it arises - without even a thought - simply a pure impulse to share to one with whom I feel a sense of the kindred godness.
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The beloved may or may not know of this impulse in me, may or may not seem to deserve such a sharing, may or may not feel anything remotely similar, and may or may not even feel the gifts arriving. And yet, here I am with the divine spark leaping forth in my heart. And here is the spark of life erupting from my hands, my mouth, my being. Now I can work with this.
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I can work with it in the name of the Beloved, or in the name of the Divine, or in the name of a nameless, homeless, formless being of my choosing - I can work with it in the name of that which I rest within, the boundless field of the One Consciousness, which I both inhabit and contain. Which brings me to the place where I can release and receive and make offerings all at once. What I do to one I do to all, what I do for one I do for all, what I take from one I take from all, what I receive from one I receive from all and so on. And really what does it matter what or whom evokes this impulse in me?
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<br><br><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=edte2pArhcg&feature=youtu.be"></a>
For quite some time now, I have been seeing heart shapes in the most unexpected ways and places. I have begun documenting them with photographs. Now you must know that for many an artist, things like this are very off limits. In art school it felt drummed into us that as artists we are not to focus on the sappy sweet stuff of kitty cats and hearts and sparkles. It’s just not done. And yet here I am, a year or so into actually photographing all these hearts. There have been hearts in the water, hearts in the sky, hearts on trees and hearts on the pavement. Nowadays everywhere I cast my gaze, it seems I am to receive one of these hearts. I can hardly believe that I have shared countless of these images on social media. It is so highly unlikely. And yet here I am, sharing about the hearts. One of my favorites was two hearts conjoined at the base of a mature Beech tree - somehow part of the trunk leading to the roots had formed these “siamese hearts.” Or the heart shaped opening in the clouds as reflected on water that I was photographing to capture the rain circles - only in the reflection was it facing me so perfectly.
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So a couple of days ago - the day after Christmas and the first day the sun shone after many days of many inches of rain - I went for a walk in the woods. I had a clear destination in mind (a couple miles each way) along the river - Otter Rock (another story for another time). This day was so warm and beautiful, though, and the river was so swollen from all the rain that I didn’t stop at Otter Rock. After days of inactivity, I just wanted to keep on moving and feel my body working this day.
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And so I continued along the way, welcoming Nature to give me a message of guidance, as I often do. Many times this guidance comes from a critter of some kind - a snake or a deer or a spider, say, once a snake eating a toad - or some feature in the landscape. Along this particular walk, I was called by a small creek in one place, startled a deer to blow in another and witnessed a strange, small four-legged creature dive into the bushes by the trail ahead of me (I’m still not sure what it was). And now I was on a stretch of trail I’ve never been on before. I had already passed by a small waterfall that Laurence and I had picnicked on years ago. Now I was about 3.5 miles out and knowing there would soon be the place I am looking for to sit in silence for some moments before turning back.
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Just before reaching the place where I would turn back, I came upon a tree with a very (loud and) clear message on it. It is a dead pine tree, succumbed to the southern pine beetle, of considerable heft. On it someone has painted a message in the most vivid cadmium hue, replete with heart shaped O, "LOVE WINS.”
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Related previous posts: <a href="https://silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com/search?q=let+everything+be+love">Let Everything Be Love</a> and <a href="http://silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com/search?q=sending+forth">Sending Forth </a>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-35535197110660690082015-03-03T16:02:00.000-08:002015-03-17T12:45:16.098-07:00Mitigation (a poem)Mitigation <br><br>
In sanguine chador,<br>
with a hint of cerulean<br>
sky on her brow,<br>
here is a girl<br>
whose horrific suffering <br>
is offset by her reflection. <br>
She models the grace <br>
we all doubt but long for,<br>
that we can dare to keep our innocence<br>
in the presence of our tragic wounding;<br>
that our courage could be so great<br>
as to look ourselves<br>
in the face of our deepest pain<br>
and remain standing,<br>
remain whole, with our compassion intact.<br>
With the divine spark in us<br>
still capable of igniting<br>
our deepest hidden ambition<br>
to incarnate uniquely<br>
here in this place,<br>
here in this time,<br>
leaning into that which we cannot feel<br>
any other way than by crashing into it.<br>
And the poet, silently bearing witness<br>
from an earth-colored bed,<br>
catches in a glimpse,<br>
that ephemeral spark<br>
dancing its lightning-fast,<br>
almost imperceptible jig<br>
between the implicate<br>
hidden urge to exist<br>
and the quiet blooming of life<br>
emerging as this being comes of age.<br>
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This poem comes from a recent dream. It feels very potent, poignant and important to share in the form of a poem that describes the image received in a dream contained in a poem. This gives me hope and added faith that by making art and poetry, we may somehow, by grace, mitigate even horrific suffering in the world while maintaining the innocence we must embody in order to keep seeing the world whole anew in spite of great challenges to our faith and in the presence of continuing tragedy. Perhaps an image will follow. In the meantime, I will include the image nearest to my body while dreaming all of this. <br><br>
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<br>Bearing ©Honor Woodard 2006Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-89049192595352927162014-09-05T14:41:00.002-07:002014-09-06T19:59:12.359-07:00Emerging into Grace and Beauty
On Tuesday, I worked late up on the mountain and then grabbed a bite to eat. As I left the Ugly Dog pub and picked up a chocolate bar at the market, the sun was just setting. There is a place up in Highlands I’ve heard folks call “sunset rock,” and I thought to myself, if I head on up there, even if the sun has already just set, it will be beautiful because we’ve been having the best clouds ever this summer and tonight is no exception. So I followed the road that goes to “sunset rock” or so I thought. Instead, I was on a wild goose chase that ended me at a locked gate and so I turned back, trying to remember what turns I had taken. I made my way back down into town and passed on through to head on down the Dillard road toward home. Now it was just starting to fall darker dusk. As I wound down the mountain through Scaly I could see the bright half moon high in the sky which was still a bit blue. And when I arrived at the overlook to Blue Valley, night was falling and in the distance was a puffy long cloud, sparking with lightning. I pulled in, took a breath of awe at the sight of electrical energy lighting up the cloud like a flashing lightbulb and thought, “boy it’d be nice to sit and watch this with someone.” It didn’t take a moment for me to correct myself. I am a perfectly good someone to sit with and how many times in how many places have I had my breath taken away by the humbling beauty of nature? More than I can count.
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I remember when I drove across the country and around it some to look at schools for Acupuncture - back in 2001 after I was laid off from my last magazine job in New York. There were times I was driving west when the setting sun seemed to be falling past an ocean, but I was only halfway across the country and this was just the illusion from being high in the mountains looking down on flatlands with a dust-filled cadmium sunset. There were so many times like this when tears of gratitude just fell right out of my eyes as my heart opened up wide. And it opened just like this to the cloud full of lightning. I was reminded of how this life is a journey into beauty for me. Much of it has been solitary - not by design, but more by chance, I think. And that’s perfectly ok. There will be a time I am sharing these experiences of transcendent beauty with another, and it will be all the richer (or it won’t and that’s ok). We live in the midst of so many myths - about love, success, what’s important, what is of value, what we’re supposed to do, what we’re not supposed to do, and so on. One of the hardest ones for many of us, I think, is the one that says that we have to be paired up to enjoy life.
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It is at times when I am immersed in the achingly perfect beauty of nature that the myth is shattered. At these times, I feel myself melt into this all that is-ness. It is here that the lightning filled cloud is also my heart full with joy, and the fading charcoal-blue light is my breath. There is no wish to capture it on film and no desire unmet to share the experience because the experience fills me more completely than any other I’ve met so far. It fills me to the edges of the universe (if there were edges).
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And so it is that over the last decades of my life I have become more and more permeable to nature, to beauty, to all that is. There are times I feel breathed by a boulder, drunken in by the river, made steam by the sun and spread thin by the wind.
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On another recent Tuesday after work up the mountain - about a month back - I was in the place where I received the inspiration for the “<a href="http://silvermoonfrog.blogspot.com/2014/07/blessing.html">Blessing</a>” post. Down the Glen Falls trail at the bottom, where the big salamander watches over the lower creek, the air was different. I found myself whispering almost silently there, and more of a speaking in breath than a whisper. More sacred than a whisper, my breath was a softening into a thick world of magnetic space. My words felt as though thick vapor merging with slow liquid, just hovering in the air. I noticed this as something profound. Where normally I go about talking to myself aloud with no compunction, here in this place it was as if the atmosphere let itself be known to me with a gentle force of presence, all encompassing. This was the place where the boulder I had rested upon had breathed me, and now I felt the place - this particular stretch of woods where water that pours vigorously over Glenn Falls slows into a gently laughing creek before cascading once again - was now also breathing me, and I could feel it in my hands, my mouth, my bare feet. I could feel it in my heart - in my whole essence of being, where I rest in God. And of course this is what it is to rest in God, as we do.
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So as I was sharing with a friend about the cloud full of lightning the other day, and how I spent half an hour just watching in awe, I found myself saying that this, of course, is what it’s all about, for me anyway. I am here to, as deeply and profoundly as I can, engage the unfathomable beauty here on this gentle planet. And as it happens, this friend and I for as long as we have been alive have loved this place and its beauty and it has made us in large part what we are. We live in a place where every day we hear ourselves say out loud, “it just doesn’t get any better than this.”
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Having said this, as luck or chance or Grace would have it, I have been able to say this whether I am here or just about anywhere else. In Florida for massage school I was in such a place, by the amazing Payne’s Prairie, and even the pasture where I lived behind a horse farm, and so many points in between.
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After a while of engaging the beauty - I’ve been doing it consciously for more than a decade (and probably way longer) - it grows easier and easier to see.
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Now, I find my self at the edge of the Mystery, diving back into her void as I embark in a month or so on the next leg of my journey to points unimagined. And to mark this time for me, this morning on my pond a great dragonfly emerged from her naiad shell, dangled a while with her fine glass wings still glued together, gave a flutter and took flight after an hour or so - right out into the big wild world. Such grace and poise - solitarily finding balance, breathing new air, testing out wings only dreamed of and never yet unfolded. Feeling her way up through gravity and into the air, into the light of morning in this little hollow where she was an egg not so long ago.
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I felt so in awe of her transformation - one I cannot even begin to fathom. And, perhaps like dragonfly, my dreams have been guiding me so clearly that I, too, will know the flight path, the lay of the land that has been calling me across time and dreams. It’s such a big beautiful bright wild world out there - so much more beauty to be engaged and reflected - so much beauty to be transmitted through the unique lens that I am. There is much to do, and I am ready to test the air. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-86971259111293190412014-08-15T19:03:00.000-07:002014-08-16T06:18:08.688-07:00The Darkness InsideThe Darkness Inside
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It’s been an intense and heavy week, with the suicide of one of the most ebullient, brilliant funny people ever to walk the planet and the senseless killing of a young man by a so-called “lawman.” Of course there’s always plenty of difficult stuff going on at any given moment, but this week, for whatever reason, it feels like there is even more of a call to action around these happenings.
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We can never know what was in Mr. Williams’ thoughts and feelings that caused him to lose all hope or will to go on living, and we can certainly not imagine what was going through the mind of the officer who shot the young man in Ferguson, MO. What we do have to work with, though, is our own shadow. So many of us wrestle with our shadows throughout our entire lives.
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Of course if we kill our shadow, we cease to exist. Yes, this, if we kill our shadow, we cease to exist. And this, right now, seems the ultimate challenge we are facing in the world (and maybe always). There is an historical fear of the darkness inside and outside of us. And of course the darkness outside of us is merely a reflection of the darkness inside. As Carl Jung said, “Until you make the unconscious conscious, it will direct your life and you will call it fate.” And on one level, I interpret this to apply to what I am saying - that our shadow, our darkness, our inner demons will appear to us in our “outer world” if we fail to address them within us.
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Of course we project our own darkness on all manner of scapegoats “out there.” And of course it is the imagination that fuels the fires of fear. When we truly meet ourselves and each other we can only always come back to God. Our own true essence is merely that. And we really are all the same in that way. It is only in our imaginations that we stray so far from balance and become separate, unhappy, better than, lesser than, afraid of, angry at, anxious about, fearful of and so on. So long as we keep drawing a line in the sand around us or our family, our property, our territory, our country, our….. So long as we keep this imaginary line around whatever it is we call “us,” we are feeding the fires of war - internal, external, local and worldly.
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And it seems the more smug the masks we wear, the more extraordinarily out of balance we become. If I am struggling with my inner shadow in a locked embrace of war and I wear a painted face that presents a wholly different visage, then I am only adding powder to the keg with a long fuse. The consequence becomes more dire because I must overcompensate for the image I am trying to portray.
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So in the case of those like the “lawman,” perhaps we externalize our shadow so we can take aim and shoot it down, only to find out that now there are even more shadows everywhere we look and this continues a viciously dangerous cycle. And in those of us with depression, we keep trying to kill off the parts of ourselves that keep stirring up the trouble, and in some cases that becomes suicide. The problem is, these places that we are trying to kill off are the wounds that most need our love and acceptance. And it is only in learning to love these hurt places, these scary shadows that we have any hope to survive moderately intact.
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I was talking with a friend in St. Louis last night after hearing about looting and riots and SWAT teams and tear gas in Ferguson, and all I could think was that if only the police department’s first response to what happened was to gather the community in grief and support of each other, some kind of healing could begin to occur and there could be some grace. This morning I am happy to see that a captain from their state patrol (i think) was walking with the protesters. And we begin again.
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In my own life, lately, I have been embracing those with whom I have had strained relationship in recent times. I came to the realization that it is up to me how I want to be in the world and no matter the cause of dissonance, it is to me to reset the harmony and create resonance in some higher or more neutral vibration.
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We all have shadows to struggle with, and many of us are always seeking escape from them. We can keep running from our shadows our whole lives long, and we can keep attacking them when we cast them onto others. But again, killing our shadows - be they the shadows we cast in our souls or those we project onto others - we are killing our selves. Each murdered child is me, each soul who falls to suicide is me, each fallen soldier is me, each innocent murdered by police is me, each civilian killed in a senseless war is me - and so are all the killers, me.
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And so I must remember, shadows are cast by light - that ephemeral thing we are all made from - and if we can remember that there is texture and detail in the shadows (just ask any seasoned photographer) and that it can be quite beautiful if we learn to explore it more deeply, and in fact all we need is to adjust our lighting or focus to better see it.
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This reminds me of a poem I wrote the day I received a call from my late friend Joe, telling me he had been diagnosed with the cancer. Joe, of course, had many demons that he was managing quite nicely by growing organic vegetables, throwing pots and working tirelessly for our environment. The poem is in an earlier blog post:
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It is light that defines us<br>
shadow refines us<br>
solidity is only an illusion<br>
we can only see our shadow <br>
from our delusion of self<br>
our true Self contains us<br>
while the ego just claims us<br>
as different, as separate, as whole<br>
our Oneness becomes us<br>
as we see the wholeness<br>
that mostly eludes us<br>
when we look as from loneness<br>
we’ll continue this dance <br>
with our shadows <br>
as long as we walk in the light<br>
and just as we dream <br>
in the nights in between<br>
it’s ours to keep our life bright<br>
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Thoughts to walk away with...
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The brighter the light, the darker the shadow.
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The length of a shadow depends on the angle of the light source.
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Our shadows move when we do, and sometimes they pass us by.
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We can appear to disappear when covered by the shadow of another. The temperature changes and everything feels different, but we don't have to change unless we let our imaginations get the better of us and throw us into fear.
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Our shadows can be diminished by additional light from other sources that act as "fill."
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AND SO, please, let's keep shining our lights for ourselves, for each other, for our precious planet hurtling through space. And let's try something different with our darkness inside - how about we make shadow puppets and give voice to the darkness made visible. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-60574236930483602552014-07-30T08:48:00.000-07:002014-09-29T19:02:25.663-07:00BlessingOn a recent evening, after a long day of work up the mountain, I stopped along my commute back down and hiked down along Glen Falls. I found a perfect spot on a perfect boulder by the mouth of a lower stretch of the falls, watched over by a lone newt.
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The depression in the boulder fit my body perfectly, exactly in the way I needed to bend and stretch to relieve my stiff neck and stretch my trunk. My connection to nature, as often happens, deepened once again to my core of being. And so on my way back up the trail I was inspired anew. On that boulder I was breathed. I sank deeper into the stone, merging with it, and I felt its breath through my being. On the way down the trail, I had stopped many times to greet formidable trees. Ancient, knobby Black Gum, Grandmother Hemlock, Great Pine, curvy Chestnut Oak, Maple... thanking them along the way, loving them.
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In recent times I have occasionally felt that I have fallen out of grace with myself and in this way, too, come to feel out of grace with the world. There are many reasons for this, but those don't matter. Always, again, I return to nature. Always, again, nature returns to me. Always, again, I find in nature my nature, which can never be lost. And so I am reminded and I receive, once again, from the woods and waters an invitation.
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(Blessing in progress)
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May your every footfall<br>
be a blessing unto the Earth.<br>
May you recognize the love<br>
that comes in every form you meet.<br>
May each breath inspire your heart<br>
with the fullness of receiving.<br>
May your softening glance be answered<br>
by growing astonishment deep in your brain.<br>
May your every word<br>
fall with kindness into a ready world.<br>
May your ears extend to meet <br>
the quietest birdsong and whispers in the wind.<br>
May you rest upon the earth <br>
with featherlike ease.<br>
May melodious crickets and tree frogs<br>
sing you to sleep even under noise of traffic and barking dogs.
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...to be continued.
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Along the trail back up to continue my commute home, I was inspired to a new practice, which now in retrospect seems utterly obvious to me as a natural extension of much of the work I have been doing. It also feels like it might be an aspect of my Dharma, if I understand this concept appropriately.
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I began to even more consciously and slowly bless the Earth with my feet. Each step a slow and deliberate sweet meeting with the Mother of us all. A deep connection of love and gratitude. A welcoming in both directions. Grounding myself to the earth, kissing her with my soul via my feet. Anchoring whatever I bring down through the vessel that I am in whatever capacity I have to hold Spirit in a sacred way.
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I have said casually many times over recent years that I often consider that I might just leave stuff behind and walk the planet. I have always meant it, but in the way of stating "someday" things. Once I came to this practice, however, it seems so right, especially as these last couple of years I have shed my shoes to better meet the earth and expand this connection.
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Of course it would be my practice. <br><br>
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In the weeks since I had this inspiration and have been making it a practice, I have experienced a deepening of the gentle connection I feel as I walk in the woods, along the river. I even feel it as I bring the practice into the car with me and imagine that I am still walking and blessing as I drive the mountain roads.
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As I walked back up that trail, that day, I also had the feeling that I was laying trails for other selves. That coming and going throughout time, there are so very many "me's" and that I am establishing paths for my other selves to follow. And this makes it more profoundly sacred to me and at the same time mundane. Of course I am doing this throughout time and space. Surely I am led to this practice by the footprints of other "me's" over time-space. And of course if I make it important and give my larger self to it, it is bigger and wider and resounds or ripples out through time-space.
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Just as importantly, it brings me unerringly into the moment at hand, in communion with all the trees, plants, waters and creatures around me; in clearer touch with all the elements - the sun's warmth on my skin, the gentle breeze dancing in my hair, the feint birdsong, the floating petals, the bee just buzzed past my ear, the coolness in the shadows, the fragrance of sourwood blossoms and the earthy damp mushroomy air. <br><br>
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And so for now, I continue this practice of blessing the Earth with my feet. It feels so utterly right to me and is a strong and steady practice to keep me on my path. It is a powerful way to return to now, to return to presence and feeling and sensing. It humbles me in just the right way without punishment and with grace.
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One day more recently, I experimented with mantras as my feet met the Earth. "I love you" a step, "Thank you" a step, etc. What I discovered is that the Earth is not concerned with my voicing my love, but she welcomes my gratitude. And this was an interesting lesson to me. it is not important that we let people know (by telling, anyway) that we love them. It is very important, however, that we show pure gratitude for all beings - JUST AS THEY ARE. For though we think we long to be LOVED. What we deeply long for and truly require is to be received, seen, acknowledged - NOT for being good, or beautiful, or special - for just simply what and who we ARE.
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Thank you.
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Thank you for taking the time and care to read these words that come from my heart, from me, simply as I am.
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Thank you for being simply you, just as you are.
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Thank you for blessing my life with your feet as you have walked through it in your very own way.
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Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-6163688432678222742014-07-21T14:27:00.000-07:002014-07-22T05:27:56.118-07:00The Light Inside<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekEURsn2w_OetjCrLok4OSZFySxkmjuiTs2ahjufWaksV_sB0x7-MbllLDN_Y78e0v1RfdHbL2xu87jUkQatQtzaE6SM4UeF9LiWQt96lCx4U8lPECMSj6zM-jY2cLDoc_R_e9W53jX8/s1600/IMG_4468.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhekEURsn2w_OetjCrLok4OSZFySxkmjuiTs2ahjufWaksV_sB0x7-MbllLDN_Y78e0v1RfdHbL2xu87jUkQatQtzaE6SM4UeF9LiWQt96lCx4U8lPECMSj6zM-jY2cLDoc_R_e9W53jX8/s320/IMG_4468.jpg" /></a></div>(I wrote this post on May 17, 2014.)
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I have recently noticed that certain kinds of comments or ideas shared on social networks spark interesting conversations. Sometimes they are completely passed over, but sometimes they seem to hit a nerve or three. One of these is a truth I have held for quite some time, and not one I would have expected to hit a nerve, and yet it did - I shared my personal belief that “there is no place that is not sacred.”
<br><br>Because it struck a nerve for at least one person whose eyes rested on it, I gave a little background as to why I came to this truth. There are probably too many reasons to list that led me to this truth and in many contexts. In any case, this has caused me once more to rest in thinking about what makes places sacred. It’s funny, I can’t say that without almost suggesting that not all places are sacred, and yet they are, and of course that was my original point. It’s like God, really. And of course if we start down this vein, we’ll end up at the place where ALL THAT IS IS SACRED. And so why is there even a word, sacred. If all is sacred, doesn’t that mean there is no need for such a word? And yet we have a word for God. If God is everywhere and everything, why do we name God? And why are we differentiated from God?
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It can become so confusing once we start thinking about it.
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I don’t think it is so much that something IS sacred as much as that WE DEEM or MAKE something sacred - that we treat it as such for a particular reason. And why would we do that?
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What is sacred in our culture (that of the USA) as far as I can see, is money, guns, freedom (which means many different things to many diverse peoples) private properties and ownership and the power that those allow us to wield over others.
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In response to the fragment that I posted, a friend replied, “Come back to Atlanta. I can think of a few places that may change your mind.” Granted, for those of us who grew up in Atlanta and have watched it change in so many ways over the years, this is not an unreasonable response, and yet it opened a question for me. What makes it seem not sacred to this person? Is it the place or the way people have treated it? And I replied to the friend, “I have lived in St. Louis, Brooklyn, Atlanta, etc. It's not about where I am. It's about how I see. It is also about remembering the truth of my observation that all places are sacred. The sooner we remember this, the sooner we might remember to take better care of this beautiful planet that we are meant to steward.”
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Over the years when I lived in (or visited) cities, there have been moments when all of a sudden something shifted for me and I had an overwhelming felt sense of what was in a place before it became industrialized - when I could almost see and feel the landscape as it was (or maybe will be when we are no longer here). It is a strange sensation, and a gentle reminder of the impermanence of things (and people), for sure. It is also a gift to be considered - an invitation to hold space for that which was and can be - and somehow is, underneath the surface of things.
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And when this happens in me, I tend to take some moments and just look and listen and feel what is there. I imagine just a little bit what the shape of the earth, the quality of the woods, the sounds of the birds and breeze in this place is like in some other dimension of time, when people are not here or are here differently. It is a fleeting feeling sensing, and it is very real. It always leaves a deep impression in me. And so yes, I sense the sacred underneath the industrialized places. I sense the gentle beauty of the landscape as it may exist in another time. And I think to myself that there is an energy in a place that exists throughout time and space - perhaps an implicit order or imprint or blueprint for what is. And I sense that it is here all along. Just as I am aware that there is peace underneath all the busy, noisy-ness in our world.
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Somehow it is like in meditation, we must simply keep letting the thoughts pass by, the noises be what they are until we rest in the peace underneath it all - with all the noise still present. And so it becomes an iteration of a vibration. Matter is simply energy, slowed down until it becomes solid, and so perhaps meditation reminds us that matter sped up returns to being simply energy. And so perhaps as we speed up our vibration, the world will regain its original order and harmony. If you have never seen <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cymatics">cymatics</a> - this is a great illustration. When sound frequencies are introduced to particulate matter, it reorganizes into more complex and beautiful designs - like sacred geometry.
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I have heard about how certain lizards and maybe some other critters are able to <a href="http://www.hhmi.org/biointeractive/newt-limb-regeneration">re-grow</a> tails and/or limbs that they lose along the way. And I have seen images made with special kinds of photography that capture the energy of, say, a leaf - where some part of it has been removed. In these images, the energy of the whole leaf appears, even where the part is missing. So we see that energetically the whole leaf is still present. The lizards take this a step forward, creating a part where only the energy remained after it was removed. So this leads me to think that there is some kind of implicit order in the energetic imprint that brings things into being to begin with.
Which leads me to wonder, was my energetic blueprint here before I came into being? And what can I do with it - how does it work, really?
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When it comes to these places in the world that have been so abused by mankind (and sometimes the weather), what can we do to restore them to their original way of being? How can we aid their energetic blueprint back into material being?
<br><br>
I built a <a href="http://perfectnowworld.blogspot.com">blog</a> several years ago that was pointing to one possible answer, though I wasn’t thinking of it until just now, as I write this. So maybe this blog post will also go there. Hmmm.
What we can do is first do our best at whatever it takes for us to become fully present in the authentic moment we inhabit, in order to be able to see the world clearly as it is. Once we can see it truly (and we may have to ‘fake it till we make it’ or take hints from those who are clear seers), our job becomes holding the image deeply in our beings, (and here is the important piece) COLLECTIVELY. Now this may seem a daunting task. Afterall, our culture has worked hard to make us a fractured, ‘every man for himself’ society. But if we take a hint from indigenous cultures, we see that they operated (especially during celebrations and important rituals) as a whole - all-inclusive. And there was a reason for this.
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It will be by the deeply held vision of so many peoples that the world is restored to some semblance of harmony and health - if this is to happen while we are still here. I have believed for quite some time that up until now in recent centuries, it is due to the strenuous efforts of the world’s many religious and spiritual traditions that focus quite a lot of energy on keeping things whole - specifically or especially those who spend multitudes of time in meditation, that we are still able to inhabit the earth.
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What appeals to so many of us in the Indigenous traditions of the world (I can only speak for myself, so am making an assumption here) is the inherent “making sacred” of all things/places/peoples. Indigenous cultures make rituals for all kinds of things. To welcome a new life into the world (human, animal, plant, etc.); to mark certain transitions in life/death; to honor the elements and ancestors who provide wisdom and sustenance; for healing; for traveling; for growing crops and harvesting food in the form of plants and animals. In indigenous cultures, all things are alive with spirit in some way - even rocks.
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And so, what I have been thinking this morning is that it is our job - those of us who can or intend to perceive the implicit order of things, i.e. the light inside, the beauty underneath the mess, the peace underneath the noise - to hold the vision. To SEE each other in bright wholeness and to SEE the earth in it’s bright wholeness, too. Not so easy when the river is full of black oil, the mountaintops are removed for coal, the ice caps are melting, the air is dirty, the waters are fouled, the animals are going extinct, your lover is dying, our children are ill. But this is our most important job. It just is.
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And then interestingly, as I was just soaking in the tub to try to get warm on this cold, rainy spring morning, I was listening to “On Being” and Krista Tippet on the topic of Kabbalistic connection between Ein Sof and human moral action,
playing a recording of Rachel Naomi Remen reciting what her grandfather had shared with her about <i>Ein Sof</i> and <i>“tikkun olam,”</i> and I think this is exactly what I have been trying to convey in my ramblings this morning. What a beautiful synchronicity for me to hear this just this morning.
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<blockquote>“In the beginning there was only the holy darkness, the Ein Sof, the source of life. And then, in the course of history, at a moment in time, this world, the world of a thousand, thousand things, emerged from the heart of the holy darkness as a great ray of light. And then, perhaps because this is a Jewish story, there was an accident, and the vessels containing the light of the world, the wholeness of the world, broke. And the wholeness of the world, the light of the world was scattered into a thousand, thousand fragments of light, and they fell into all events and all people, where they remain deeply hidden until this very day. Now, according to my grandfather, the whole human race is a response to this accident. We are here because we are born with the capacity to find the hidden light in all events and all people, to lift it up and make it visible once again and thereby to restore the innate wholeness of the world. It’s a very important story for our times. And this task is called <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tikkun_olam">tikkun olam</a></i> in Hebrew. It’s the restoration of the world.“</blockquote>
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<a href="http://www.onbeing.org/program/lawrence-kushner-kabbalah-and-the-inner-life-of-god/6309">On Being Program</a>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-78603393049748903622014-06-12T15:51:00.000-07:002014-06-12T15:53:10.283-07:00All My Relations (a poem in progress)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZdU08S133KGx7Re6s2mYW3coZUCrzqLYe2R57kvfk0lvpHLjbtwlOnHDDpczxHuhi87P31s64cNRtPmFT3lk7VDxKCNjlEu8TUv3k8-On7l2DTybKcPkoANBhlvfaEnRnAqtPPMMwTo/s1600/IMG_2304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDZdU08S133KGx7Re6s2mYW3coZUCrzqLYe2R57kvfk0lvpHLjbtwlOnHDDpczxHuhi87P31s64cNRtPmFT3lk7VDxKCNjlEu8TUv3k8-On7l2DTybKcPkoANBhlvfaEnRnAqtPPMMwTo/s320/IMG_2304.jpg" /></a></div><br><br>
All My Relations
<br><br>I am the fading hemlock,<br>
flayed orange by woolly adelgid.<br>
I am the soft creek, <br>
sneaking past the mossy rock.<br>
I am the bright bubble,<br>
bouncing along the surface.<br>
I am the cobalt sky,<br>
reflected in the caught pool.<br>
I am the broken giant,<br>
cut short by careless campers.<br>
I am the hearty moss,<br>
clinging to decay.<br>
I am the worn path,<br>
kept soft by loving soles.<br>
I am the cool winter breeze,<br>
rattling leaves and coaxing trees to moan.<br>
I am the nervous wren,<br>
flitting across the brushy floor.<br>
I am the hawk,<br>
calling, arcing high above.<br>
I am the woodpecker,<br>
wheezing as I glide between trees.<br><br/>
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Too, I am the din of airplane,<br>
laying trails across the sky.<br>
I am the coal ash, <br>
dumped foul into the river.<br>
I am the oil spill,<br>
slicking the ocean and its floor.<br>
I am the choking albatross,<br>
full with unnecessary plastic objects.<br>
I am the starving child,<br>
in too many places to count.<br>
I am the tired mother,<br>
running circles around the sun.<br>
I am the greedy banker,<br>
collecting, collecting, collecting.<br>
I am the addicted teenager,<br>
searching for what cannot be found.<br>
I am the abandoned slums,<br>
left to nature to transform.<br>
I am the contaminated water,<br>
where creatures adapt or die.<br>
I am the one whose greed <br>
has disrupted the balance of nature.<br>
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I am the one who has come to make it right.
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words and images ©Honor Woodard 2014Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-6082897115844777322014-03-14T11:23:00.000-07:002014-03-14T11:27:22.011-07:00In Transit
as i stand<br>
as this column of light<br>
as i move<br>
through this nature<br>
through this place<br>
through this time<br>
this leaning <br>
into what I cannot see<br>
informs me<br>
this feeling what my eyes see<br>
so deep in my being<br>
press of air against me<br>
expansion of sound inside of me<br>
pooling of spirits<br>
at unrest in my heart space<br>
watery feelings<br>
feathery sensations <br>
reach outward<br>
through my grasping<br>
connecting inwardly<br>
with the skin <br>
of this tree<br>
of this stone<br>
of this stream<br>
where my sole makes contact<br>
with the mother of all things<br>
joining us together all ways<br>
uniting us <br>
beyond our capacity to choose<br>
beyond our discomfort <br>
against each other<br>
in spite of our sensitive skins<br>
our cold feet running<br>
like the clear water <br>
still finding its way <br>
downward, always downward<br>
against the mother<br>
into the womb<br>
of the sea<br><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAli5zB8jAhn50bMGyY8dCulHjmfbOkDCNZWOKK5EGsSTM6VnWqcD9xTbq7t0C-S75vYk0onvqTJ_MtSSMdBUwFWXgKgemvo_hnhYPKmI_YIDS61OYEC5pVZzMzWjRM8f1tzojX9Xy3E/s1600/IMG_0148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMAli5zB8jAhn50bMGyY8dCulHjmfbOkDCNZWOKK5EGsSTM6VnWqcD9xTbq7t0C-S75vYk0onvqTJ_MtSSMdBUwFWXgKgemvo_hnhYPKmI_YIDS61OYEC5pVZzMzWjRM8f1tzojX9Xy3E/s320/IMG_0148.jpg" /></a></div>
(One of many faces along the Trail of Tears, this one along the Mantle Rock Trail in Kentucky)Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-85485217699161339472014-03-09T15:49:00.004-07:002014-03-09T15:53:33.949-07:00An InvitationAn invitation<br>
to this rock<br>
to this now<br>
leads me across<br>
the gentle water<br>
diverted from the river<br>
by a boulder island<br>
to this diurnal bat<br>
grazing the air<br>
drinking from the river<br>
and finding suspended perch<br>
in the sap green boughs<br>
of a surviving hemlock<br>
to this nest-building Raven<br>
patrolling the corridor overhead<br>
keeping watch of passing vultures<br>
along Raven Rock<br>
to this trickle<br>
over moss covered stone<br>
glistened with wet silt<br>
to this garden of shade<br>
where cool, damp air<br>
brings me home<br>
to my skin<br>
where the weight of me <br>
resting on this flat, sunken<br>
garnet-studded ancient being<br>
is pulled as by a magnet<br>
merged, matching coolness<br>
meeting texture of skins<br>
mosses, glint of mica in late sun<br>
and this River
keeps sliding byHonor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-38074434818144576932013-10-24T09:18:00.000-07:002013-10-24T15:01:34.570-07:00Deepening Hues of the Season<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0Bi01ZLjCewU_evzptw09A_SgBbdMlHRwiyAslfEba11vfX2zIPWFnajfKAppFmlmzpLYFU51JalNJALfsgVqv9ecMWym1ZhYgRXvQA7wTKkuKjuLtnr-HUyCXVdX5eI67mkEaqyYNk/s1600/SM+IMG_2597.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU0Bi01ZLjCewU_evzptw09A_SgBbdMlHRwiyAslfEba11vfX2zIPWFnajfKAppFmlmzpLYFU51JalNJALfsgVqv9ecMWym1ZhYgRXvQA7wTKkuKjuLtnr-HUyCXVdX5eI67mkEaqyYNk/s320/SM+IMG_2597.jpg" /></a></div><br/>Wow, it’s been quite some time since I posted. Summer has gone and Autumn is falling fast into Winter, as we had our first freeze just this morning. Beautiful bright days here, if shorter and shorter.
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There were several topics I thought to post about this Summer, though, and perhaps I can capture some of that here.
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Blackberries! There was a stretch of several weeks when I was walking to the river almost daily - mostly to Raven Rock in my bare feet. Each afternoon, after working, I would amble on down the soft slopes, passing poison ivy, multicolored mushrooms, slithering King Snake (rattling her tail at me!), happy patch of wild Ginger - down to the place where water and light and stone creates a lively golden world of endless inspiration for me.
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I continue to fall in love each time I come to the river (or any other body of water, really). Sometimes when I think of sharing my images, I wonder if anyone might think to wonder, “why is this girl taking the same photos over and over and over again?” And yet I never tire of looking in the same places. I find new life, new light, new inspiration each and every time. It hardly seems possible.
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Of course there are times it is not about capturing images. Those times I rest on the great hemlock or an ancient boulder, or I set about balancing stones on each other. It is so easy to fall into FLOW and forget all about time and most everything else, for that matter. With my feet plugged into the great mother and my head in the heavens, what thoughts do I need? What energy flows through my being? What kind of vessel am I? What can I possibly contain? Or must I, like the river, let life pass simply through me - my shape guiding and directing it, but loosely and without force as it makes its own way.
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The blackberries, yes, that was what I started to talk about. After each of these walks down to the bright river, returning as the sun began to sink behind the foothills, I would walk along the forest service road and pick and eat blackberries. The bears had clearly been nibbling on some of them (I saw a mama and two teeny weeny cubs one afternoon), but there were always enough to enjoy and a few more to throw into my jar, along with some blueberries (or what some call “huckleberries”). Each day, though, there were more blackberries - on the same plants.
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What I noticed and appreciated about these blackberry plants was that they provided little by little over time. It seemed to me that this is how they provide for the bears - that they ripen little by little so as to provide berries over a period of several weeks, ongoing. I was charmed to be able to enjoy them daily. Of course the same was true of the raspberries along my driveway and the delectable Chanterelle mushrooms in my yard. <br/><br/>
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<br/><br/>This dose of deep grounding with my feet on the path, cleansing in the river’s clear water and nourishment directly from the hands of nature left me feeling more at peace than I ever remember feeling. Nor did I feel hungry afterward. It was like I had been cleansed and fed so wholly that sleep was the only remaining piece for the day.
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Last Summer I lost my best furry companion of all time and then a good friend in the Fall. I learned a lot about grief and how it comes and goes and about where our friends and loved ones go within us. I learned about the cold silence that fills in the space that was once warm and lively. I learned that we are so much bigger in spirit than we are in body. I knew this already from the inside, but not from the outside.
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I know for myself that just as I am at home in all that is, I am also home <i>to</i> all that is. And yet I did not anticipate the expansiveness of the cold emptiness that follows the death of a loved one. Not to say that they do not fill this same expanse, which they do, but that at first losing them there seemed a great nothingness where I must have thought they would still feel present. My friend and I spent most of our time together in the woods, so when I am in the woods, I feel his presence more and talk to him there (of course he is everywhere, but that just makes sense for me). My furry companion resides in my heart. When she was living, I called her my little “heart expander” because she elicited more love from me than anything or any person ever has, so I should not have been surprised to find her body nested inside of me, her heart next to mine. When I remember her, I feel her inside of me. It is a comfort to know she remains here.
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Why am I still talking about these losses? This Summer a friend called on me to help with a hawk he was trying to rescue, that had been hit by a car. He had had the hawk and had been feeding and caring for it for several days and wanted me to help him release it. We set the cage out in his back yard and the regal bird walked and jumped and hopped into the yard, but try as he may, he could not make flight. Now we had to capture him again. This time to go and find someone who could rehabilitate him.
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My friend lives just a couple of miles from me, and it turns out the hawk was hit even closer to my home. Right about this time, two adult hawks (the injured hawk was young) had begun calling and calling for him. For whatever reason, they did this most right around my home. Some days I would drive in my driveway to find momma hawk perched in the great white oak that reaches above my cabin, just screaming and crying away. Many mornings I was awakened by this calling, which would resume again around mid-day and then again in the evening, if not all afternoon. This went on for days, then weeks - more than a month (maybe two). And the calls grew more and more constant, more and more desperate.
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I remember when Honeybear disappeared and I was calling and calling for her, begging for her return to me. Praying for her well-being. There is always that hovering question of how long to keep searching and calling. In Honeybear’s case, there came a time when I so clearly felt her absence, I knew she was gone from this world. But these birds must have felt that their baby was still alive, which he is as far as I know. They did not give up. Each day I was awed by how much time they spent searching for their baby. So often we think, “it’s nature, the cycle of life and death” and this thought comforts us when we see something dead on the road and the vultures are coming. And maybe we think that the other animals have some kind of built-in acceptance for this kind of loss.
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I learned this Summer from these hawks that loss is loss, family is family, and the pain is as deep as the connection. For this reason, it feels even more imperative that we should never judge the relationships of others, for whom and how they love is sacred. And that we should never judge how others grieve or celebrate, for we cannot know the depth of another’s connections - only our own.
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This Summer I learned just a little bit about how deep is my connection to the Mother and how each day she provides for me. And I continued my learning about how the depth of our connections to each other extend in all directions, and to all relations and in all dimensions.
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Thoughts on Family...<br/>
I was thinking about family and traditions and stories this morning. As the holidays approach and we are all in our separate worlds - seeming to slide further and farther from each other over time - my wish is that we can find ways to meet each other and strengthen our connections. I hope that we can find ways to establish traditions and ongoing stories in our lives to carry though all of our days. That we can remember how much blood we share in spite of our economic and emotional differences, and that we can find our ways up that ferrous river to where we are all related in spirit and ancestry. Our stories and places we gathered are the places that contained us all and all together at once - let us endeavor to find and create new ways to contain and nurture our connections going forward with some regularity. <br/><br/>
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Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-54584471781237882902013-06-28T08:38:00.000-07:002013-06-29T09:33:06.259-07:00Summer and Family...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGLbkgmJUijRGwxdMZ8YRwrkblvDZNTLPEVRpSuAoXk7v1NRIBBJgaWh9vaPtffQ50JXag1spuAtnihXjYU92obVhAvQJ0fACy8uxKehieT7C4nJItvwf3TcQsWOUfPCnf3-3JmDs5BQ/s576/SM+IMG_8935.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGLbkgmJUijRGwxdMZ8YRwrkblvDZNTLPEVRpSuAoXk7v1NRIBBJgaWh9vaPtffQ50JXag1spuAtnihXjYU92obVhAvQJ0fACy8uxKehieT7C4nJItvwf3TcQsWOUfPCnf3-3JmDs5BQ/s576/SM+IMG_8935.jpg" /></a></div><br/><br/>So far, Summer has been rich. The last couple of weeks I got to spend time with nephews I only get to see once every year or two. They grow so fast and grow up, too. And yet there is the same essence inside that has been there since the beginning. It’s so interesting to see how the layers of life add to that core - to see where interests branch off and make sharp turns or simply carry on and deepen. To see what changes, what remains, what is on the edge of becoming.
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I feel lucky (in the absence of having a family of my own) to have these little guys in my life. There are pieces and parts of me that got left behind somehow, and it gives me an opportunity to explore with them. And at the same time I get a chance to share whatever wisdom I have gained this time around in whatever way I can transmit that. Most often it is by simply being with them, or taking them to the forest, the river, the sky. I try to open up a space where there can be wonder, or a voice can emerge of its own accord. How many of us are too busy to let our real voice bubble up and out of us?
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While they were visiting, one night we did something I don’t do often - we all sat in front of the tv. Everyone was excited to watch Nik Wallenda walk across the Grand Canyon. This brought up all kinds of questions and feelings and speculations. Over dinner, folks seemed to want to wager about how he would fare, and this felt wholly wrong, yet was natural. Inside of me was the question of whether it was appropriate for children to watch this, considering that certain death was one possible outcome and to watch that would open up something that could not be simply closed back up again till maybe a later more convenient time (or never).
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And there we all sat - a couple of us hiding our eyes from time to time, my hands and feet sweating and me wishing I hadn’t eaten so much at dinner. And then there was what people were saying. I was struck, again and again, by this man’s faith and the conversation between him and his father that was the sole sound on the tv (other than background noise of the helicopter and wind reports). Mostly, it was either Wallenda praising and thanking Jesus and God and his other father giving him words of encouragement and support. It looked (and felt) like he was having a terrible time of it - heavy winds coming through and the challenge of seeing things in perspective, with the wires and the visual effects of looking across such a great divide with texture and color and so many horizontals as to confuse the matter completely.
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Mr. Wallenda would stop and crouch at times to try and settle the movement in the wire and regain a manageable rhythm. I can’t comprehend or imagine what it might be like to be crouched on a wire in the midpoint of a 1/2 mile stretch over a 1400 foot deep canyon, can you? Nor what it would take to stand back up and walk across it. Again, while my mother kept saying, “God wouldn’t want him to do this!” What an interesting response to this man’s action and prayer. And it begs the question, really, what DOES God want us to do? With our lives, our time, our money, our essence.
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I kept being struck by this man’s faith and prayer as he went. I could relate to it on some deep level. It felt, to me, not unlike the humility I feel in the presence of beauty, and in the place in my work (both Art and Therapeutic Massage) where I know I must invite something other than myself to come through me - or rather become one with something greater than myself - in order to be authentically present and with an appropriate degree of pure faith that surpasses any notion of ego.
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Some time ago, I had a line in my head that I wanted to work with - for a blog entry or some kind of writing exploration. It went something like this, “we are each of us, always, standing at a precipice” and would go on to talk about how each moment in time is an important point of choice that shapes us so powerfully. How none of these moments is insignificant. Not the moment I decide to linger a little longer in bed to keep feeling the hue of a dream, nor the moment I am pulling a weed in the yard or listening to a friend who needs to process something out loud along his path. Not only do our choices in these moments shape us, they shape the WORLD.
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And so among my many thoughts and feelings about this whole Wallenda canyon crossing, was the question of what purpose it serves for a nation or a world to watch such an event. What does it do to us, individually? What does it do to the world? Is this a spectator sport? What if he had fallen to his death? What then? What does God want US to do?
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I don’t know anything about Nick Wallenda, so I use my imagination and my logic and whatever accumulation of authentic wisdom I have come to up until now. I imagine that he is carrying on a family tradition that has powerfully imprinted his blood, his DNA. Imagine what those feelings on those wires does to one’s blood - the beauty, the powerful places crossed over, the rush of so many things all together, the required faith to balance the fear with love. I imagine this kind of experience surely must blur the boundary of self and universe or self and God. I imagine this must be his passion and the way he has learned to navigate the world, the way he finds his edges and where he knows how to grow.
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I ask myself, what on earth am I here to do that would take all of my courage to do? I think, perhaps, this is the question I am getting at. I talked with some folks who thought it was stupid for this man to do these crossings with such risk - without purpose. But I think that sometimes it is the most powerful gift we can bear, to lean right into faith and do what we know is both possible and impossible in order to meet ourselves on the other side of it - to find a part of ourselves that will be entirely new from the experience.
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And it reminds me that when I was recently considering a call (of the calling sort) I was feeling, a friend simply asked, “what is the most courageous thing you can do right now?”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_a7ERkDT71Iplx6_uUNQh9iAkcxC5tkGbGFD1s_3Vp9Cu5VaSEP-VQ6eQEIPsxU5-JifDMPhJZ1OmYWOtOpo3V1KCvC6R8OHEP5UFlOojc-xxXKkWu2hOSy7Pet4L5SaJtL0Ldy2AUCQ/s576/SM+IMG_8893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_a7ERkDT71Iplx6_uUNQh9iAkcxC5tkGbGFD1s_3Vp9Cu5VaSEP-VQ6eQEIPsxU5-JifDMPhJZ1OmYWOtOpo3V1KCvC6R8OHEP5UFlOojc-xxXKkWu2hOSy7Pet4L5SaJtL0Ldy2AUCQ/s576/SM+IMG_8893.jpg" /></a></div>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-29537595056193584562013-06-19T10:48:00.001-07:002013-06-19T20:15:05.976-07:00Let Everything Be LoveLET EVERYTHING BE LOVE!
<br/><br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWnaBCO8c0NDsHssyPI7YDwSmSPOYvQRuJpv3dYQVuQVZSwilS2gxMCKwnHosjyebbQw5uDDNGOck7cRGsUDaBE13EnT5GZu-lrcRtkP_HBbug3d4mEU1cfuzqT4hRy7wHk3RrI9N_rJo/s1600/IMG_8036.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWnaBCO8c0NDsHssyPI7YDwSmSPOYvQRuJpv3dYQVuQVZSwilS2gxMCKwnHosjyebbQw5uDDNGOck7cRGsUDaBE13EnT5GZu-lrcRtkP_HBbug3d4mEU1cfuzqT4hRy7wHk3RrI9N_rJo/s320/IMG_8036.JPG" /></a><br/><br/>
I was noticing the other day that I was beginning to grasp at something. Every now and then there is something I want that is not my everyday occurrence in life. Something nice or new and different. So last week I encountered something that attracted my spirit. It was exciting to know that my spirit can still be engaged in this way, and that I can interact in this energy. And as I felt this I noticed that I was becoming anxious and beginning to grasp. I was beginning to feel some kind of attachment to outcome.
So I checked myself, and invited my awareness to be fully with the grasping and to shift around it, to let it go and be more receptive or simply be. It served to open me some, but after all, the grasping was still present. It is great to be in a state of not desiring or not feeling attached to things and people in general, but then sometimes this feeling serves a purpose - to let us know that we still have feelings and desires and that’s a good thing. It can orient us in the world to where we are growing or still need to grow.
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I looked into myself for guidance a few days ago and I came back with a very clear message that is proving useful in surprising ways. That message was “let everything be love.” To look into the world with the awareness that everything we meet is love. It is, of course. This way, if I am looking for this thing or that thing, or seeking love from this person or that person, I can slow down, look around and know that love is all around me - in each tree, each flower, each snake, bear, hawk, neighbor, each stone, every drop of water (and so on).
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How welcoming this feels! I can stop grasping. I need not be looking for anything. I can simply welcome with each glance, every step, each new breath, the light breeze, the cool raindrop. Of course this is something that I have come to learn to do in my massage work and in my art work, but when it comes to attachments to things and people, there is a different sort of challenge - one that is not always so easy to move through gracefully.
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But now I have a new tool. I can pause. And then I can refocus my awareness to receiving that which is all around me right now. I can become even more present to the air, the ground, the next person I meet.
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Last night I was hiking with a friend. I have been hiking barefoot lately, and this is a hike that is not the most inviting for bare feet. In places it is full of sharp, rough, loose rocks and uneven footing. And it was getting dark. At some point, though, I reminded myself, “let everything be love” and I just had to laugh. My foot could now gracefully wrap around those rocks, as if accepting a gift of loving touch. They were greeting me to support me along the way. And each step became a meeting - in fact a joyful exchange.
<br/><br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMx6cnA1PG9jO115Gw00hnDLhEH9ta5vshstgdgJopXxjH7_KWwVrbrzAchWBy0rmowgOXSHsxnXEZjbE_1Utr6FbzuqMb15Z8lSnWkIxy5OZtoGoUepZeaY1J2zKV_15Zk3ggOL6nLus/s1600/SM+IMG_8774.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMx6cnA1PG9jO115Gw00hnDLhEH9ta5vshstgdgJopXxjH7_KWwVrbrzAchWBy0rmowgOXSHsxnXEZjbE_1Utr6FbzuqMb15Z8lSnWkIxy5OZtoGoUepZeaY1J2zKV_15Zk3ggOL6nLus/s320/SM+IMG_8774.jpg" /></a><br/><br/>
No sooner had I fully absorbed and experimented with this lesson, then I walked squarely into a fresh, very gluey spider web. My head and hair were covered with this sticky silk glue and I started to flail and seek help to remove it (and hopefully its maker). And then, again, I just had to laugh. Here was another chance to learn this lesson. I walked right into this web and could now see that it did the only thing it could do - changed its shape to fit my head, as I destroyed it. It gave way and embraced me. As I was grasping at web, pulling it from my hair, I could only think, what a wonderful teaching, and it was not as yucky feeling when I looked at it this way. I just had to laugh. <br/><br/>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILSrlRfMwKRXck7o3PpUZ2RO9pMTqq_taNromlxokzKXHTq4arBqXG-vurfWB8cqmZOot8p8cIb0bfpAHxJ61WG3hpuHPBEXzMckpo59YodSeRGYtZzYfmjMvAwtzu66PIva6aE54Viw/s1600/IMG_8792.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjILSrlRfMwKRXck7o3PpUZ2RO9pMTqq_taNromlxokzKXHTq4arBqXG-vurfWB8cqmZOot8p8cIb0bfpAHxJ61WG3hpuHPBEXzMckpo59YodSeRGYtZzYfmjMvAwtzu66PIva6aE54Viw/s320/IMG_8792.JPG" /></a><br/><br/>
Now I look forward to all the many more opportunities surely coming my way to learn each time, uniquely, how everything is love. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-53987571791645809382013-06-15T12:10:00.000-07:002013-06-15T12:16:08.440-07:00Gathering of Self<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzx57KO9Fe0If1lsbi9CDV80DJovMzO7HN0F6dcFt7RzTg2mghlHJdkwaV1tvYLPgfj9iSzwnCjNtWC1JctJsczqlXbRkGMUHBTAYBpsA4_ub_TQi1Wf4vL888GbUMrJsNeENpg_iu38/s1600/blogIMG_8648.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFzx57KO9Fe0If1lsbi9CDV80DJovMzO7HN0F6dcFt7RzTg2mghlHJdkwaV1tvYLPgfj9iSzwnCjNtWC1JctJsczqlXbRkGMUHBTAYBpsA4_ub_TQi1Wf4vL888GbUMrJsNeENpg_iu38/s320/blogIMG_8648.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
It’s been a busy Spring so far. Whew. I have really enjoyed working with some new folks in new places, and just when I had worked harder than ever and was looking forward to a few days off, I had an unexpected visitor who needed sanctuary and rest. Turns out they were also looking to meditate and as luck had it, a meditation retreat was just about to start over at CSA. So in fact it was a busy week, after a busy week - albeit a different kind of busy.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpfqZfWLrVIPTHjgQG3Cd9FpxLWqh_3XdaxWWQeKVa2CfdSUQbHwIfBC64xGTa17zcGXMP_2TBez0dGlFB4bracYVuvFyPK23-o2ZvwcEpcJPABd5VRseYzvwRU6CSkl9MT2WmhlsoGk/s1600/blogIMG_8644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpfqZfWLrVIPTHjgQG3Cd9FpxLWqh_3XdaxWWQeKVa2CfdSUQbHwIfBC64xGTa17zcGXMP_2TBez0dGlFB4bracYVuvFyPK23-o2ZvwcEpcJPABd5VRseYzvwRU6CSkl9MT2WmhlsoGk/s320/blogIMG_8644.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br/><br/>
I’ve noticed in recent times what feels like a shift in the world of interpersonal dynamics, primarily in groups. The last few gatherings I have attended - a dream workshop in Big Sur, a massage workshop in Florida and this meditation retreat week - have all had a unique quality of equanimity and flow that feels new to me. In my prior experiences, I do not recall the same kind of grace in the interactions and flow. In all 3 of these, perhaps the difference was the quality of the presenters (all of whom feel enlightened, to me, and are working in both ordinary reality and at the level of higher consciousness). Perhaps it was the quality of the attendees. In all of these it could also be the energy of place. And of course in all of these, there is a new quality in my self. These are all true. These are all interdependent.
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The uniqueness, to me, is the calm, clear, resonant quality running through it all. There is “flow” I spoke of in the previous post. People flow effortlessly together and seem to gracefully move amongst the group freely rather than in clique-like forms. Each participant appeared to connect deeply with each of the others whom they met with. I made deep connections with a few folks new to me who felt like old friends and/or family. I recognized them clearly and instantly as parts of me. Not as parts of my self, but as parts of the Self. I could see the calm, authentic clarity we reflected - each to the other. What a deliciously comforting sensation - to sit in an energy that resonates with one’s own and at the same time creates space in which to elevate it.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8ve7raMimtIaR9BIW4hnvIkDADIvHjw0uk-Bg1eE81GizUYBWqkOFt6K7eXkafy9cDy7z_lHOa3_Iu9Or96RxLxR0Ns4fLNDVVj3fEUXoy2teEDkDzXBexv0QhhyphenhyphenVwkG-0QPmFVerXo/s1600/blogIMG_8587.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG8ve7raMimtIaR9BIW4hnvIkDADIvHjw0uk-Bg1eE81GizUYBWqkOFt6K7eXkafy9cDy7z_lHOa3_Iu9Or96RxLxR0Ns4fLNDVVj3fEUXoy2teEDkDzXBexv0QhhyphenhyphenVwkG-0QPmFVerXo/s320/blogIMG_8587.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br/><br/>
At the end of the first gathering - the Way of the Dreamer workshop, with <a href="http://www.mossdreams.com">Robert Moss</a>, many attendees were saying how close they felt to each other and the group - so much so that the group decided to make a community online to stay in touch. There were deep connections made in an authentic way.
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At the end of the second - the Resistance Release work, with <a href="http://www.jobsbody.com">Deane Juhan</a>, we circled up. Usually at that time, people chime in with final thoughts and feedback and questions. We just all sat there in what felt like a gentle ocean of blissful satisfaction (a feeling that stayed with me even as I drove across northern Florida to see my mother that night for Mother’s Day).
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R-AD7TqmkByK8Ye9fV1csSYhQHsZvLbpsJDiSyDgOQ2s33k-e9cN-lAue7_RMk_eUQoNi8Ajgc7nr-8l07O0HWkw7JSOhrdHK0zRcANe2u77Fnq1TlCFiwJmAF6o0fNuNu8U-8g3wmU/s1600/blogIMG_8540.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0R-AD7TqmkByK8Ye9fV1csSYhQHsZvLbpsJDiSyDgOQ2s33k-e9cN-lAue7_RMk_eUQoNi8Ajgc7nr-8l07O0HWkw7JSOhrdHK0zRcANe2u77Fnq1TlCFiwJmAF6o0fNuNu8U-8g3wmU/s320/blogIMG_8540.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br/><br/>
At the end of the third - the Kriya Meditation Retreat, with <a href="http://www.csa-davis.org">Roy Eugene Davis</a>, people were sharing long hugs with such a strong felt sense of deep appreciation for each other’s spirits and companionship along the path, it was palpable.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQ2_IQjZTqjwDxfuXGAbkPSS-ZF15cXfT2yUDpGh3IYsTSKBCo9vQfc4FaoKs02Z7v8SKnUxiyaHlYHJsBf_nCLfWCrqLolk01zYv0t2A0uJMZCbaB10wgnolJqWVPdKy-CrtWkeDt3o/s1600/blogIMG_8488.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFQ2_IQjZTqjwDxfuXGAbkPSS-ZF15cXfT2yUDpGh3IYsTSKBCo9vQfc4FaoKs02Z7v8SKnUxiyaHlYHJsBf_nCLfWCrqLolk01zYv0t2A0uJMZCbaB10wgnolJqWVPdKy-CrtWkeDt3o/s320/blogIMG_8488.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br/><br/>
I guess, to me, this must represent that we are all coming this much closer to ourselves. That our level of comfort and wholeness within ourselves is evolving to a more complete love and acceptance and as we each and all approach this, we create more and more space in which to further the process and encourage it along.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzBmxXNGPBY7KeOj0SUqQrcGaqiz_aNh-umwMtNoGRUdpqUGoySEhavBid-YxX-JMZNOcEaUkmMUf83kzcVEdm3q_zXdRf4jd9LDrzmxmYwdwtdGMFKs7joPrt0ZmlV8HqMJHyM52rKJ0/s1600/blogIMG_8476.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzBmxXNGPBY7KeOj0SUqQrcGaqiz_aNh-umwMtNoGRUdpqUGoySEhavBid-YxX-JMZNOcEaUkmMUf83kzcVEdm3q_zXdRf4jd9LDrzmxmYwdwtdGMFKs7joPrt0ZmlV8HqMJHyM52rKJ0/s320/blogIMG_8476.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br/><br/>
And to me, it is always also the Beauty way. For it is the beauty in the world and in each other that holds the most open and encouraging frequency in which to experience natural, authentic expansion and spiritual unfoldment.
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Speaking of unfoldment, I have continued to derive peace and pleasure from the lotus flowers in my little pond, so am including some more recent shots of these here, along with some shadow and water images from the last week or so. <br/><br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQhdhLQPMg9pSp5XdOwD1NSX_JBwJOmAO1ie5JJ2byREN8d3RgNU6LRA8xlu6qrYuAZp8YHBkgCwM409mtwN7Uz-mjJoX54JPpmp2rkavzA2FoBzWClLqfIyVnOl-kr30103QSJ73zPk/s1600/blogIMG_8430.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiQhdhLQPMg9pSp5XdOwD1NSX_JBwJOmAO1ie5JJ2byREN8d3RgNU6LRA8xlu6qrYuAZp8YHBkgCwM409mtwN7Uz-mjJoX54JPpmp2rkavzA2FoBzWClLqfIyVnOl-kr30103QSJ73zPk/s320/blogIMG_8430.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GiTLsSvGXAIB3E7urRyZMsedQaIYmfzsdJhhfgNd58ErwbxNKf6Pj4cSti-q54Yy06dTRz1PiDDxZeUgQbaToSB9Un5r7b1QFUCkxY8DCpTpTyW2ymU45pEhskuacUfSCVQ5PpW6w5w/s1600/blogIMG_8413.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1GiTLsSvGXAIB3E7urRyZMsedQaIYmfzsdJhhfgNd58ErwbxNKf6Pj4cSti-q54Yy06dTRz1PiDDxZeUgQbaToSB9Un5r7b1QFUCkxY8DCpTpTyW2ymU45pEhskuacUfSCVQ5PpW6w5w/s320/blogIMG_8413.jpg" /></a></div>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-19577935256803405592013-05-25T19:06:00.000-07:002013-05-25T19:11:05.176-07:00What transforms us?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9QE9lAOqEi8gt-lwvZEy-ll7lQmjhAvOYed2mHitm_owAHTEPGOINTTXcMltY4MpJwxacl6F1g7m5ipbRrg7pEHUxEvasKKqdFSxhIfzVuIYN6K06fj50PB39sQPhiiMivozOUO7JUA/s1600/SM+IMG_8089.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm9QE9lAOqEi8gt-lwvZEy-ll7lQmjhAvOYed2mHitm_owAHTEPGOINTTXcMltY4MpJwxacl6F1g7m5ipbRrg7pEHUxEvasKKqdFSxhIfzVuIYN6K06fj50PB39sQPhiiMivozOUO7JUA/s320/SM+IMG_8089.jpg" /></a>
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It has been a long couple of days for me. I've been starting with new positions a little farther from home, and I've been working hard. I love my work, mind you, so it's definitely a pleasure, but it is hard labor nonetheless. To top it off, something I ate today has had me feeling, this afternoon, like, well, like a ticking bomb. Sorry. Too much information, I know.
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Then I went to meet a good friend for a meal and a nice visit to catch up a bit on each other's worlds. After dinner the sun had already set, but it was still plenty light, so we walked in the local community garden, where she had started working a plot and I recently inherited one that desperately needs my attention to get it up to speed. I was walking uncomfortably around the garden - I have never experienced quite this type of sensation before so it was fairly distracting, and I couldn't help thinking how I would really not want to have to go to an ER on a holiday weekend (ok, I have a hypochondria streak).
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOy7mBMvN4CfL_2nLqKeYxDibmQw6YC0bbzQMDl2vEy9V0hAWl-jMc16FE6WllesZQYavTg0CQcHtYok2YA9wxvN0d-Laru86ijThElpEXMZ9ZE9kCwZzKn89UndM5XuzfsNEgTAurHg/s1600/SM+IMG_8077.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOy7mBMvN4CfL_2nLqKeYxDibmQw6YC0bbzQMDl2vEy9V0hAWl-jMc16FE6WllesZQYavTg0CQcHtYok2YA9wxvN0d-Laru86ijThElpEXMZ9ZE9kCwZzKn89UndM5XuzfsNEgTAurHg/s320/SM+IMG_8077.jpg" /></a>
As I was turning the car around to take my friend back to her car, I noticed the wall up the hill from where we were. I had to get out of the car and go take some photos. "These," I told her, "are the photos I started with," meaning the first photos I ever took. In the beginning it was all about the transformation of decay in various forms. This has always be the case. I imagine it always will be, in various iterations and of various stages of transformation and decay.
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After I captured these images, I got back into my car and realized that I wasn't thinking about my guts at all. Isn't it funny what art can do. Getting into the state of "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flow_(psychology)">flow</a>"- as Mihály Csíkszentmihályi coined it - is so powerful. It is one of many ways to inspire our bodies to slip into parasympathetic nervous system state (which massage also invites). It's amazing how simple that is. Completely the opposite of what my body did as I sat at the dinner table trying to figure out just what exactly was going on inside all my tubes and organs. Just taking some photographs, riveted by beauty, turned my system around.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIpTH1iRcTi_k4Af6lx6ND9UlEqoPDrfsocGeGRWR3g6eApOB4jYzCoFdDrRYycCtxGYFmoNa21rqtr5tQe54TRC0Qln7tTMYZ8LVog2iw9tpoV3dFL4NXB9j15s_BUGDm-_gJMpCgg4/s1600/SM+IMG_8085.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIpTH1iRcTi_k4Af6lx6ND9UlEqoPDrfsocGeGRWR3g6eApOB4jYzCoFdDrRYycCtxGYFmoNa21rqtr5tQe54TRC0Qln7tTMYZ8LVog2iw9tpoV3dFL4NXB9j15s_BUGDm-_gJMpCgg4/s320/SM+IMG_8085.jpg" /></a>
On the way home, the last pink and dark violet wisps of clouds were barely illuminated by the already set sun. They looked a lot like some of these photos.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ni1k8XXN6qXKdZg_eIw-JUucx0DMUj6u2zopuhMRPOQfctz-iLaF1ARNyG-gk5zo9l-Y7rrmRpTPdCyUXdRN-sRK3zPDYUB-NdmxWmj0knOlxBaDKJarDZUzDfr0l8JUKH9TZiUuenw/s1600/SM+IMG_8090.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-Ni1k8XXN6qXKdZg_eIw-JUucx0DMUj6u2zopuhMRPOQfctz-iLaF1ARNyG-gk5zo9l-Y7rrmRpTPdCyUXdRN-sRK3zPDYUB-NdmxWmj0knOlxBaDKJarDZUzDfr0l8JUKH9TZiUuenw/s320/SM+IMG_8090.jpg" /></a>Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-58066578439421820752013-05-19T08:22:00.000-07:002013-05-19T08:25:00.006-07:00Take off your shoes...Three days after my recent post, I came across this image on Facebook (I really hope I can find a way to post it here). I was struck by the image that also conveyed something that I was addressing in my post. I did in no way plan the post. I sat down to write about my afternoon and how it struck me, and the post is simply what flowed. <br/><br/>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxlZ64JhL9HZVcBuRQkx6OCGjIiIlbVE6-RGskFRdvzt6S84_d1eGKprW-jqsB3Fi8iY7_cTpj5dFL6RigaPiMe57NlCHjvMB_c5ZgjYLqF7f45fnl6xo6xGhYYe04A4gwaCQkzjLxk4/s1600/972118_417865188321318_145352388_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYxlZ64JhL9HZVcBuRQkx6OCGjIiIlbVE6-RGskFRdvzt6S84_d1eGKprW-jqsB3Fi8iY7_cTpj5dFL6RigaPiMe57NlCHjvMB_c5ZgjYLqF7f45fnl6xo6xGhYYe04A4gwaCQkzjLxk4/s320/972118_417865188321318_145352388_n.jpg" /></a><br/><br/>
Then, days later, I saw this image. I saw the little shoes there, just outside of the line demarcating "Mother." The sacredness this child (perhaps subconsciously) attributed to the idea/image/representation of her mother. Our mother. How can we separate these? She removed her shoes before entering the container of the mother she has never met, and lay down to rest in the imaginal womb, in the place of the Heart. <br/><br/>Only the wisdom that is simply natural within our spirit would know how to do this. We cannot claim this wisdom as our own. We can simply feel the reverence and fall into it. I am so grateful to feel this just enough to fall into it - on occasion. Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1354546460196261982.post-30070844495235087132013-05-16T09:03:00.001-07:002014-03-28T19:54:24.183-07:00Walking the Sacred Cove<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCFimfspAc-ojC4ldaFIQQAXAMk_44VAnCCNmtBdz4qnjT-ggGufL1nk4EMv9_ffNolg8UKu2dRxICH4MTTXxGnUguGDbZYF1L7SI2ekOxsgiR1JxQQPjVLF5ctXiZlDYfYtgYkQloxI/s1600/IMG_7602.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCFimfspAc-ojC4ldaFIQQAXAMk_44VAnCCNmtBdz4qnjT-ggGufL1nk4EMv9_ffNolg8UKu2dRxICH4MTTXxGnUguGDbZYF1L7SI2ekOxsgiR1JxQQPjVLF5ctXiZlDYfYtgYkQloxI/s320/IMG_7602.JPG" /></a>
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I take off my shoes and socks before alighting on the trail into the sacred forest. Today this forest is almost overwhelmingly fragrant. It is so very quiet around me, save for birdsong and the occasional mysterious wail of one tree’s rubbing against another, both shifting in gravity’s pull. Joe would always get excited and exclaim, “sounds just like a woman moaning!” But I hear something else in it - something more like a gentle sigh or a stretching creak. Sometimes it’s a sharper sound, like a squeaky door.
<br/><br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiyx38ferg5YO5yFYVzddzXdj4nwTlUgxfBaRLLp2z9AgI-QBj2tD5rBanONwSkoA5La2glSE-k-7TsBgiIbhWDIQ0qbGrxak7nCAQdm1MbE06AWuXc17BpHHLnGVftjX7WjtNyJ0DYk/s1600/IMG_7645.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaiyx38ferg5YO5yFYVzddzXdj4nwTlUgxfBaRLLp2z9AgI-QBj2tD5rBanONwSkoA5La2glSE-k-7TsBgiIbhWDIQ0qbGrxak7nCAQdm1MbE06AWuXc17BpHHLnGVftjX7WjtNyJ0DYk/s320/IMG_7645.JPG" /></a>
<br/>(It was this tree, for whom Joe lovingly scraped paint off of its bark. When I am here, I remember Joe, and sharing chocolate and oranges. I remember taking his photo one year ago right in front of this tree.)<br/>
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The only other sounds I am noticing come from underfoot. The soft crinkle of papery leaf litter and duff, the muffled crunch of tiny twigs under those leaves under my footfalls. I feel the soft clay, firm but not quite granular and just cool enough to differentiate from the warmth of my feet.
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As my soles meet this clay it’s more like meeting the flesh of another. We meet each other. I am not walking on the ground. The clay and I are greeting each other. We welcome each other with some vague knowing that we are related - deeply so.
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I move slowly through the forest, deliberately and gently. I allow myself to be called by the beauty - by the pink Trillium, fading fast, its cousin whose burgundy hue is so dark as to appear black in contrast. I am called by the gently flowing water, right over the path. My feet find clay under the water - black clay. The soil in this cove is rich and dark - the blackest brown I know. The water surprises my feet with its fresh coolness, flowing across my toes in ripples.<br/>
<br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp-gMYs5FLw1K4-ZaXzJh4r9atDa1MNGaDtCjKtgzpVlCKjNk1zgmajmEyjNBvDVKteuErXjG_zAdvP-ZwsvJRgvNmQamreO1qvOH2JVcvd5uuvwK1V6QKDk09aHS17gcnt6Aq6oFR_Y/s1600/IMG_7584.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAp-gMYs5FLw1K4-ZaXzJh4r9atDa1MNGaDtCjKtgzpVlCKjNk1zgmajmEyjNBvDVKteuErXjG_zAdvP-ZwsvJRgvNmQamreO1qvOH2JVcvd5uuvwK1V6QKDk09aHS17gcnt6Aq6oFR_Y/s320/IMG_7584.JPG" /></a>
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I step off the trail up into the spring ephemerals, sinking into the loose earth. I imagine this rich dark soil is a result of the graceful decay of a natural forest, largely left alone and unmolested by the hands of men. Each time I return, resting logs have melted further into the earth, acorns resting around and on top, litter of the little critters of the wood. Each time new deadfall and this time a young black cherry laid open in a storm, bright with shades of warm fire in its flesh.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpN46YRJdF74yYlv0Vgti_37fTZWmuaNFbaQ_9TcjIjMSizWg026nnKY4ny0DRn2_TdQYwMhBtOScq0GXWMG8MclyVOti1DthjzKPp5kCWvirjgRVEEmHAlx8B-11xU3e4H86yxSLm8g/s1600/IMG_7601.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZpN46YRJdF74yYlv0Vgti_37fTZWmuaNFbaQ_9TcjIjMSizWg026nnKY4ny0DRn2_TdQYwMhBtOScq0GXWMG8MclyVOti1DthjzKPp5kCWvirjgRVEEmHAlx8B-11xU3e4H86yxSLm8g/s320/IMG_7601.JPG" /></a>
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My favorite ancient Black Gum tree lives along this trail, a spry youngster standing close in reverence. He is so old that clumps of bark have dropped away, leaving smooth expanses accentuating just how deep and thick is the bark that remains. <br/><br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5JHYPXM6qW011fKSDjleIfadNvaLJifW7csSGK_ZQrxLvJRYW48gO5cwHHe4ij27pkfrtejioEpB7OtpniGsdSVmCZPRxzXEI4Wfi8mAb0JmY8CgPUXm0FKdF_zHYg8pWM1890dOtDA/s1600/IMG_7663.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5JHYPXM6qW011fKSDjleIfadNvaLJifW7csSGK_ZQrxLvJRYW48gO5cwHHe4ij27pkfrtejioEpB7OtpniGsdSVmCZPRxzXEI4Wfi8mAb0JmY8CgPUXm0FKdF_zHYg8pWM1890dOtDA/s320/IMG_7663.JPG" /></a>
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Meandering through the soft filtered light of the end of day, I make my way to dinosaur rocks who feel like ancient beings to me - sometimes whales, sometimes the spine of an unnameable creature, alive and breathing so slowly as to appear stone still. I walk out on the narrow bridge of this boulder, its aliveness meeting my feet - almost as if it reaches up through me just to look out through my eyes - maybe even to show me things. <br/><br/>
As the sun is dipping lower behind the ridge, chartreuse and vibrant greens shift toward muddy grey, and I know I should begin my return back down the mountain. I make my way down below these silent giants, through the slightly drier, more westerly slope, back north toward the trail. <br/><br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nwjvi2vo10vXLn_I2pxPd8c4iv27t5nr97qYrj-P0nQc9_fciBUqi_i8IefEXdht5yai8VXgbXXKOsCqPHFQJ2HDaiVeCIBz2zT6XSdE9chXmV7WkNGnb79S8q3ZMgzfN_q47U6F7Y4/s1600/IMG_7587.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nwjvi2vo10vXLn_I2pxPd8c4iv27t5nr97qYrj-P0nQc9_fciBUqi_i8IefEXdht5yai8VXgbXXKOsCqPHFQJ2HDaiVeCIBz2zT6XSdE9chXmV7WkNGnb79S8q3ZMgzfN_q47U6F7Y4/s320/IMG_7587.JPG" /></a>
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I had hoped to glimpse a Yellow Lady’s Slipper today, among the Foam Flowers, Umbrella Plants, blooming Blue Cohosh, Trillium of various colors, white Clintonia just opening, Blood Root leaves still standing and not yet blooming native Geraniums. I wonder if something has eaten them or if someone has taken some away, but having been away so much this Spring, I figure I have simply missed them. Of course sometimes they simply hide there in plain sight, how I think some species, people, places find a simple grace of protective invisibility.
<br/><br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO6EBc19-DML81LWVrCCCYjuT8GtAC30W1_T4qNsPHCnJvJFdpD96plmefU61G9GJwGbygRRjcNQOxU4MaFI_z6HUCN7mqCtJLEbqfVY7zXRfzKgIurIUq5B-8BBih7Q7rovR1ipQ420c/s1600/IMG_7595.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO6EBc19-DML81LWVrCCCYjuT8GtAC30W1_T4qNsPHCnJvJFdpD96plmefU61G9GJwGbygRRjcNQOxU4MaFI_z6HUCN7mqCtJLEbqfVY7zXRfzKgIurIUq5B-8BBih7Q7rovR1ipQ420c/s320/IMG_7595.JPG" /></a>
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I look further across the wildflowers and decide to step lightly back up to the trail. I don’t want to disturb any more delicate plants, as even in my bare feet I know I can. As soon as I shift my gaze back toward the trail, there she is. This lonely lady with long tresses and an intensely cadmium yellow slipper. She greets me as if to say “thank you for caring where you step - now you may see me.” I turn and look back down the slope and see a plant I don’t remember ever seeing before. It shows up like a trillium, but without a flower and with 10 instead of 3 leaves. I wonder if this is a fluke of nature or maybe a rare plant. Continuing along, now I am called by a Showy Orchis with 5 flowers on its stalk where I usually only see one. <br/>
<br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWan9nY6Z3jDmRcpv22VpByAhSBCn26ErB7LnoAWST6KJigWaaz_5gQ6dXwAkdVu68mDGPu-Cwut1ZRKqJBJq9dfUO3uIk7uJClzQ0ibsT7jXvfNYe569rGWqRTiVKCl-bS-yoTixOQQ/s1600/IMG_7629.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioWan9nY6Z3jDmRcpv22VpByAhSBCn26ErB7LnoAWST6KJigWaaz_5gQ6dXwAkdVu68mDGPu-Cwut1ZRKqJBJq9dfUO3uIk7uJClzQ0ibsT7jXvfNYe569rGWqRTiVKCl-bS-yoTixOQQ/s320/IMG_7629.JPG" /></a>
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<br/><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjXYWO1p0YCEb0H_apT00mLd5UbetasldmTGxvtYmjjNHepat9grTLEk3Y-OE0diQ3OQJIZpNUONWcnssiQm5HsTExsUCXPAs7BNt84iBaY7SduOgB0o70N6vJr3a8kZ5FVEojvu-v2E/s1600/IMG_7634.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjXYWO1p0YCEb0H_apT00mLd5UbetasldmTGxvtYmjjNHepat9grTLEk3Y-OE0diQ3OQJIZpNUONWcnssiQm5HsTExsUCXPAs7BNt84iBaY7SduOgB0o70N6vJr3a8kZ5FVEojvu-v2E/s320/IMG_7634.JPG" /></a>
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There are other treasures on the way back to the trail, and I gently step back onto the path out of this sanctuary, through the sweet fragrance and melodious birdsong, past the sighing trees, down past the rushing branch - full with recent rains - and into the warmer air on the southeastern slope back down to the car.
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There are truly no words or images to convey this experience, so I heartily encourage you to slow down. Take off your shoes and socks. Let your toes find the earth - if tentatively - and remember what else these feet are for.
Honor Woodardhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09225885448233277573noreply@blogger.com3