Her Marrakesh

Do yourself a favor. Click on this link: http://moroccanmaryam.typepad.com/my_marrakesh/. From there you will find the most tantalizing glimpse into the world of Morocco, from the design-savvy viewpoint of an American woman living and blogging in Marrakesh.

Maryam and her sweet family are building their dreams in the form of a guest house in Marrakesh. It will be known as Peacock Pavilions when the dream has fully manifested. I plan to be a guest in that realized dream because Maryam and her camera have enticed me to fall in love with a land I've never been to. A land filled with colors. A land filled with beauty. A land I can't stop thinking about. All because of Maryam. Her artistic eye and willingness to share the bounty of her adopted home keeps me visiting her blog on a regular basis.

Now, please do me a favor. Maryam's blog has been nominated as a 2007 Weblog Award finalist for Best Middle East/African blog. I want her to win. She inspires me and helps me dream in brighter colors. Votes are needed to accomplish this. Please click on this link to cast a favored vote for My Marrakesh. You can vote once a day, with voting lasting only until November 9th. http://2007.weblogawards.org/polls/best-middle-east-or-africa-blog-1.php.

My fingers are crossed. Thank you for helping make a little bit of Maryam's dream come true.

Moroccan door photograph: copyright(c) 2007, Maryam of My Marrakesh

All Delightful Conditions

"Cherish your visions;

cherish your ideals;

cherish the music that stirs in your heart,

the beauty that forms in your mind,

the loveliness that drapes your purest thoughts~

for out of them will grow all delightful conditions,

all heavenly environment;

of these, if you remain but true to them,

your world will at last be built."

James Allen, As A Man Thinketh

The Book Obsession

I am madly in love with books. I have spent most of my adult life, however, reading non-fiction. If I was going to spend time reading, I wanted to learn something. An occasional work of fiction would cross my path, but I always returned in the very next selection to non-fiction. Until this year.

This has been my year of falling madly in love with fiction. It began with the loan from a friend of The Expected One, by Kathleen McGowan, back in the spring. By the time I read the 7th Harry Potter in August, the madness had overtaken me. Since Harry, I am simply unable to be without a good work of fiction. Along with meditation, my book obsession is keeping my sanity intact and relieving the stress of 21st century life. I still sneak in some gems of non-fiction, though. Recently, I have been re-reading 2 brilliant, spiritually-based books, The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle and The Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Ruiz. But the best seller list for fiction has my full-bodied attention.

Water For Elephants, by Sara Gruen, was simply fabulous. Every adult should read it. Eat, Pray, Love, by Elizabeth Gilbert, (non-fiction) has more folded page corners to mark poignant passages than any other book I've read this year. I found it sacred and sassy and written just for me. But the book that infested my soul and caused me to shirk all responsibility one recent Sunday was The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini. It blew me away. Simply blew me away. It made me see how little I know and how blessed my life is and how deeply my soul wants to make a difference in the world.

I took a break after the intensity of The Kite Runner and read The Memory Keepers Daughter, by Kim Edwards. It was my least favorite read so far, but it evened my emotions out in preparation for the newest book I've been coveting, the one I bought today in hard cover because who can wait for the paperback with a book this dynamic and timely? Khaled Hosseini's next little masterpiece, A Thousand Splendid Suns. Do not call me tomorrow. I will not answer. Me and my full box of Kleenex will be otherwise engaged.

After the heat of A Thousand Splendid Suns, these are the tales recommended by my book-loving friends:

Beachcombing at Miramar, by Richard Bode

The Bone Garden, by Tess Gerritson

Pillars of the Earth, by Ken Fallet

Three Cups of Tea, by Greg Mortenson

A Long Way Gone, by Ishmael Beah

What books would you recommend?

For Sue

Dear Sue,

You are not lost. You are not alone. You are an Angel searching for direction. And you will find it. You will find the avenue, the location, the theater in which to shower your love. The tears are God's signal that your overflowing heart needs an arena to spread its pent up joy. Your heart needs a specific focus to unveil its larger-than-life capacity to offer love and support and hospitality.

When a generous heart needs more room to play, restlessness and dissatisfaction cast shadows over a life too small to contain it. When a generous heart feels the call to serve a higher order, the known life begins to shed its skin in preparation for something more. Something larger. Something that could not be imagined 2 minutes ago, but now calls the heart forward with magnetic urgency.

I do not know what you are being called to do, Sue. But I know for certain your brand of generosity has not gone unnoticed. God has a plan to use you. Love is in short supply around here and He needs all available hands on deck. You heart and your hands have something special to offer this world. Healing, love, faith in the human spirit and even warm cookies. Open your mind. Listen for the cues and look for the clues. You will find your direction, even if you are led by a trail of tears to its threshold.

Fear not. The Angel within you is emerging. Let her wings unfurl. Let her heart grow large. Let her love find its place to flow like a river.

The Best Medicine

It was one week ago that love paid a visit. She arrived late and stayed too short a time, but she filled me up and grounded me. She listened to me and cried with me and laughed her resplendent laugh with me as only she can. She is a member of my blood family and my soul family, that rare and precious double gift that unites hearts in unbreakable bonds.

To add to our pact, we are mutual worshippers of the sacred red raspberry and slaves to fine European chocolate. We are women evolving and we support each other's evolution. We have similar dreams of how to uplift a small corner of the world. We are whacked. We are powerful. We are members of the I-don't-give-a-shit-what-you-think-of-me club.

For me, she is the best medicine. xxoo

The Ripening

I'm waiting. And I'm waiting. Then suddenly, there is nothing to wait for. There is only the slow, natural process of ripening and the surrender to it. So much is happening while things, while life is in the process of life. There is so much to do and know and open to as the plan unfolds and rolls and expands. There are books to read and service to be given and the bottomless well of the Self to be reckoned and recognized. There are people everywhere to be loved, animals everywhere to be cared for, beauty everywhere to be embraced.

There is no more waiting for life to begin again, for the soul mate to press himself against my heart, for the creative muse to grace me with her favor. There is only God. And the calmness of this day as I cease to struggle and resist and rail against the slow process of my ripening. There is nothing, I realize, that can be achieved without standing fully and firmly in the presence of God. Nothing of lasting value. Nothing of true worth. Nothing I need bother with unless it comes to me while I am rooted and anchored in the love that is God.

I have stood outside this love for long enough, this love of That which made me. I have stood, waiting to be invited, waiting to be found worthy enough and now, I have chosen to wait no more. I have chosen to march boldly forward and grasp the hand of That which sustains my very breath and allow It to cradle me and lift my heart skyward. I march forward in a seated posture, silent, lit by candle light, heart and hands open. I wait, without waiting, each night for the palpable sensation of my own inner ripening as everything I need to know comes to me, effortless.

There is no more longing. There is no more despair. There is no more fear of missing my cue. There is now only appreciation for the pace of my ripening. Appreciation for the roots that are forming. Appreciation for the warmth of the Love that sustains my breath, and sets before me the banquet of sweets that is my life.

Bow To Yourself

You, in your sadness, in your darkness, in your fevered 3am lists of all that is wrong...

listen to me.

Lift your eyes from the floor.

Put your hands in prayer over your heart

and bow to yourself.

Bow again.

Whisper clearly to your own ears,

"I love you"

"I am here for you"

"I will never leave you".

You are everything.

Everything you will ever need to live the life

your heart cries out for.

You are complete

and Divine

and perfectly capable of making your dreams come true.

Just as you are in this moment.

Do not believe this...know this.

Know you are goodness.

Know you are valued.

Know your life matters.

Especially to God.

Bow to yourself everyday.

Ain't That America

Little pink houses for you and me.

Small Gifts

Every day, without fail, the Universe offers us small gifts. No matter what kind of day we think we are having, the gifts are offered, freely. They are ours for the taking, ours for the receiving, ours for the bolstering of happiness. Noticing them is a practiced art, for many are soft and subtle. Swift in their coming and going. Flickers of light in the dark. Today, an uncertain day, I practiced this art of receiving. This art of noticing subtle bounty. It grounded me and calmed me and lit the corners of my heart.

Today, I received another private yoga lesson. I received the cleansing breaths and deep-tissue stretches meant to clear out trapped chi. I noticed the smile of the man in the white van who let me cross the street in front of him. I noticed the unhurried gestures and calm speech of the veterinarian attending my ill cat. I noticed the unusual calmness with which my cat rode in the car to the animal hospital. I received the exquisite elegance of Arabian horses scampering through pastures near my home. A late robin calling in my yard, the resident black squirrel charging through the grass, gifts ordered from Morocco arriving at my door, kind words read in electronic mail, chilled Austrian chocolate and one ripe pear.

All gifts. All subtle, easily overlooked and taken-for-granted small gifts. Each one fleeting, each one precious, each one meant to expand my heart and increase my joy. I noticed them all. I took them all. And my uncertain day became certain with joy.

For Michael

For my dear friend, Michael, on behalf of the passing of his Beloved Sue~

"For what is to die but to stand naked

in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is to cease breathing, but to

free the breath from its restless tides,

that it may rise and expand and seek

God unencumbered?

Only when you drink from the river of

silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top,

then shall you climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs,

then shall you truly dance."

Kahlil Gibran

After Despair

"After despair, many hopes flourish

just as after rain

thousands of roses open.

Surrender to the Almighty~

and be led into life."

Jelaluddin Rumi

I have lived this year in a mist of despair. It comes, it goes, it comes again. It burns away when sunshine rises, then floats back on silent wings and settles at my feet, obscuring the ground I walk on. Recently, the mist became a fog. The fog was thick with loss and illusions of lack of love. Headlights and streetlights and years of accumulated spiritual light would not shine the fog away, nor open a path that led beyond it. As the fog pressed closer and the dampness of despair became a constant drip, that still, small voice ~the ever-present savior within~ whispered its 11th hour wisdom.

The whisper, the foglight, repeated a passage from a book I read recently: "Go after God like a man whose head is on fire goes after water". It was the only thing left for me to do. The only sane thing left to do. And so I sat down. Literally. On my pink yoga brick cushioned with a blanket, legs crossed in front of me, palms up and open on my knees. I sat for 2 hours the first night. Just sat with my eyes open, looking at the lit green candle on the other side of the room. 6 nights in a row now I have sat on my pink brick. I have gone after God with a passion. The same passion that could not seemingly find a foundation and drew the fog around me, is now fueling the hot, pregnant silence where Creation lives. That silence, I have found, has alot to say.

Sitting in silence, I was told: The greatest longing is for intimacy with one's self. We seek intimacy with others as a portal to our pure essence, our individual expression of God. We seek intimacy with others, in a sometimes addictive manner, because it feels so damn good to be in the presence of our best self, our happiest self. But we cannot expect or need our fix for happiness to be supplied by another. It must come from within. We must learn what it is to be intimate with ourselves, to care deeply for ourselves, to bring ourselves roses. For we are the Beloved we are seeking. We are the chalice that holds the pure, sweet essence that is God. We are the Holy Grail unto ourselves.

In a relationship, when things are going well, we feel our own love shining forth onto the other. It is our own love, shared and poured forth, that gives us the high and the quenching. It is the sensation of the love within us rising up through our veins and flooding itself out into the world that we crave. We crave approval from ourselves, acceptance from ourselves, and unconditional love from ourselves. No one else's love or approval can hold a candle to that of our own. Because when we approve and accept and love, we have drunk from the well within that is God. And there is no other goal in life but to drink deeply and continually from that singular expression of Creation that we are.

When two Beings who are versed in intimacy with the self come together, there does Nirvana lie. There does Heaven sweep over the earth. There does God's Promised Land evolve.

It is now the 7th day after despair. My roses are opening and I am allowing myself, through silence, to be led into Life. To go after God. To quench my thirst with my own love.

Sanctuary

I have a dream. It lives in the colors of my aura and the cells of my blood. It is the deepest calling of my soul. It is a dream that flows to my conscious awareness now and then to remind me its presence lives within me. To remind me it is waiting to be born. To remind me that faith and trust and love of self are the corner-stones of its manifestation. My dream, my cell-deep, soul-deep dream is to offer Sanctuary.

My Soul Sanctuary, which will belong, in the larger sense, to any and all who come, will be a place of calm and peace and healing for those who are experiencing a transformation in their lives. For those in need of healing from wounds of all levels: mental, emotional, physical and spiritual. For those who need to recover or uncover their truth and purpose in life.

Because Nature is a critical element in the healing process of any and all ills, my Soul Sanctuary will be nestled amongst trees and meadows and fingers crossed~ a large pond. The animal barn will be well stocked with fur and soft eyes and eager tongues ready to offer the brand of healing only unconditional creatures of God can offer. Arabian horses, feisty ponies, cats and dogs and pygmy goats and Sanctuary Ambassador, Rosebud the black sheep.

There will be little out-buildings scattered throughout the Sanctuary, ready to accept those who need solitude, contemplation or healing for an hour, a day or a week. Some little sacred spaces will offer comfort for those of a particular faith, some will offer comfort with non-secular themes. A central building will offer the opportunity for community. Classes and council and occasions for joy will be served up on a regular basis.

I can see my dream so clearly because I can see the need for healing humanity so clearly. Those who actively seek to be healed from the invisible wounds of Life have few safe places to go. I dream of building at least one safe and sacred place to facilitate the recovery of hope and trust and love in an individual's soul. Because the healing of our planet and the balancing of our human race will happen one person at a time. One soul at a time. Until a critical mass of healed humans is reached and our planet becomes a Living Sanctuary.

Double Infinity

This is what 88 looks like. This is the current life of a creative powerhouse, born in Northern Germany in 1919. This is my Oma, Luise. This woman, who raised 3 small children during WW2 while her husband fought and died, is a Renaissance woman. Is an artist. Is a woman who doesn't give up. Don't think I'm not counting my blessings about the gene pool I swim in.

At 88, Oma spent 3 days preparing and planting the garden on the side of her house, just as she has for decades. At 88, Oma knits and embroiders with the fervor of someone half her age. At 88, Oma bends orchids and lady slippers and every indoor flowering plant to her will, keeping them in bloom for up to 6 months straight or coaxing successive shoots for years on end. At 88, God bless her, Oma can still serve up a sit-down dinner for 12. (Guests and family are required to wash the dishes. By hand, of course.)

And now, at 88, my Oma is famous. For at least 15 minutes, or until the November issue of Martha Stewart Living magazine hits the stands. You see, inside the covers of the October 2007 issue of MSL magazine, on page 115, you will find Oma's delectable recipe for her family-famous Quince Cake. On that proud page is a photo of the completed cake and the recipe beneath, titled: "Luise's Quince Cake". Today, at afternoon tea, on behalf of her daughter's birthday, Oma served up that to-die-for torte with freshly whipped cream and just the right amount of fall's little-known fruit. I restrained myself, with much effort, to one piece.

What's the secret of a going-strong 88 year old Renaissance woman, I ask her? Keep moving, she says. Stay involved with family and friends of all ages. Create something each day: a few rows of stitches, a new recipe, a clean room. And let yourself be loved.

All photos copyright(c) 2007 Graciel, and used with permission from Oma.

Postcards and Time

Back at the beginning of August, I happily signed up for an international postcard swap offered by an Artist in England. Just the jump-start I need to get my creativity circulating,I thought. I was assigned 9 names and addresses. I pledged to create original postcards for each and send them off by the end of that month. 6 to American addresses, 1 to England, 1 to The Netherlands, and 1 to Australia. It didn't happen. My creative circulation was dammed.

The postcards made for me from the other participants started to trickle in. Beautiful creations with sage advice and quotes from the likes of Paul Cezanne, Anais Nin and Leonardo Da Vinci. One even arrived with 3 specially-selected-for-me tarot cards sewn together: 10 of cups, 9 of pentacles and the Queen of Staffs. Still, my scissors and my paints would not beckon. It was as if someone had closed the door on my imagination and taken the key with them. Mild guilt and embarrassment would not even prod me into action.

As the agreed upon completion date came and went, slowly I wandered to my studio table. I cut out the postcards from 140 lb. watercolor paper and dabbled with my paints. A week went by. I cut out some printed images from original photos, laid them on the painted paper, and another week went by. I found the image of a clock from a 1943 American school book, and suddenly, it was time. Time to circulate, time to assemble, time to get my ass in gear.

At the exact right time for me, everything fell into place. The postcards were unexpectedly effortless. And the theme for all of them became "time". I wrote a different message on the back of each one such as, "Whatever you have been afraid to do, now is the time to get it done". I was pleased with my efforts. I lovingly put them in envelopes, held each one to my heart and said a prayer for the highest good of each recipient. I mailed them. 3 weeks late and right on time for me.

The day I mailed them, I received the last of the 9 postcards meant for me. A simple and beautiful card from The Netherlands. On the back was a quote from my favorite Sufi Poet, Rumi. It said,

"Forget safety.

Live where you fear to live.

Destroy your reputation.

Be notorious."

More perfect words for me, right on time, could not have come.

The Red Cup Chronicles

All photos copyright(c)2007 Graciel

The Empty Heart

To be filled, something must first be emptied. A bucket, a bath tub, a bank account, a heart. Nothing truly fresh and fulfilling can flow into an already full space. Especially if the space is mired in stale energy, standing water, or stifling thoughts. Measures must be taken to dump, pour out and empty the vessel of all that stands in the way of new vibrations, new abundance and higher levels of happiness.

A bucket and a bath tub are fairly easy vessels to clear out. A bank account, less easy, if a fresh supply of abundance is not waiting directly in the wings. A heart, less easy still, depending on the length of years it has beat and the traumas it has endured. But the heart is the most needful of all vessels to be emptied, if Life is to continuously offer up its jewels and its succulence. A full heart can no longer take in additional Life. A full heart can no longer take in a finer quality of air. A full heart can no longer recognize uncommon opportunities for love.

The dumping, pouring out and emptying of the heart is messy. Wet. Painful. Exhausting. Seemingly endless once the process has begun. Old thoughts, stubborn obsessions, magician's cloaks, crappy attitudes, stale resentments, refuse of pity-parties, molehills of doubts and soul-shrinking curses against the self are dredged up from the bottom of the vessel. Laid out in all their putrid splendor. Fingered and tasted for current viability. And one by one, by slowly painful one, deemed unfit for further consumption, consideration or space in the vault.

As the heart is emptied, detachment drifts in. As things and people and once-clutched memories are released to the ethers, judgement takes a back seat and impartiality takes the wheel. The more the heart is emptied of its stale view of Life, the more detachment settles in. Until one moment, one brief moment in the process of dumping and pouring, the needle on the gauge swings completely to the left and the heart is rendered empty.

In that brief moment, reached only through wet and mess, a doorway appears. The doorway does not beckon, does not call, does not entice. It merely stands open and allows the heart to understand, if that thresh hold was crossed, if all that was once clung to was left behind, the soul-aspect of the heart, the aspect that never dies, would be okay. It would be happy and free and loved and safe. Everything would be okay.

In the fullness of understanding, in the fullness of complete emptiness, the doorway closes. Calmness drifts in. Somewhere in the background a bell choir strikes a note. A singular peel that echoes and swells into multiple bells and ushers in new vibrations. The heart begins to fill itself, in an unhurried manner, with new abundance. The heart begins to breathe a more refined quality of air. The heart begins to fill itself, in an unhurried manner, with a deeper, more succulent level of Life.

The Season Of Yoga For One

Today I felt like a celebrity. I had signed up for yoga classes at a new studio nearby. I arrived at the agreed upon time with my blue mat and bottled water, ready to join a group of fellow students in search of grounding and inner peace. 10 minutes past the agreed upon time, no one else had come. I was alone with the instructor. The Universe had set me up to have a private yoga lesson. Swallowing my awkwardness, I spread out my mat, faced the woman I had only just met and followed her lead. Only the rich and famous have private lessons, I mused to myself. Since I'm far from famous, I decided I must be rich inside.

At the end of almost 2 hours of private instruction, I was richer inside than I had been upon waking. My understanding of the discipline and practice of yoga skyrocketed with each adjustment she helped me make and each side-by-side example she demonstrated. My downward facing dog and my hands-free baby cobra are darn close to perfect now.

As I left the studio, stretched and strengthened, I realized how much I've been doing alone. I realized this has been quite the solitary year, by choice and by chance. And I will admit, some days of solitude and solo practice have been lonely. My zest for group gatherings and company in general has waned. My social mojo has seemingly deflated. Some days this concerns me. Some days I wonder what happened to my zest and my zeal for social engagement. My need and delight in activities with others. My joy in intellectual conversation and stupid humor.

The knowing part of myself, the wise part of myself is, however, not concerned at all. This wise woman within me knows there are seasons. Seasons in nature and seasons in the life of every human animal. This is my season of solitude. This is my season of receiving private instruction from the Universe at large. Because one on one instruction is so much more effective in getting a lesson across. So much more effective for bone-deep, soul-deep, never-forget-this understanding. So much more effective for cementing trust in one's self.

In my season of solitude, God has come closer. Intuition is easier to act on. My need for approval is dying. And my question of what do I really want has a decent chance of finally being answered.

I'm growing rich inside in my season of solitude, my season of concentrated growth. When the next season comes, as it surely will, I will meet it with greater trust and greater strength. I will meet it with less doubt and more ability to welcome and embrace the harvest.

Flying In Paradise

In my world, it is only a one hour drive to paradise. A passport is required to get there, as is a love for entomological masterpieces. Paradise lies in Canada, just over the bridge from western New York State and slightly down river from the Falls called Niagara. Just outside the gates to paradise a sign reads: Butterfly Conservatory. Inside the gates, my heart takes flight.

Upon entering paradise, I am greeted immediately by four large flying flowers in the most electric shade of cerulean blue. I gasp out loud. They flutter around my head and leave traces of themselves in my stomach. Somehow these four flying flowers have pressed on my tear ducts, even though they are known to stay air born. It is part of their magic and purpose in life to remind all who witness them that beauty is food for the soul. Happy tears run down my cheeks. It feels good to be fed.

Not surprisingly, paradise is a tropical place. Water mists, lush foliage and warm temperatures set the stage for a continuous aerial ballet. It is a cast of thousands and intentionally un-choreographed. Each member of the cast is as stunning as the next. Some even thrill the audience by landing on hats and shoulders or nearby leaves. I walk slowly, so slowly along the paths in paradise, drinking in the colors and the shapes and the intricate costume designs.

And then comes the gift. It happens outside the butterfly nursery. I turn away from the marvel of cocoons and damp wings to be graced with the unthinkable. The elusive. The unlooked-for dream. An electric blue flying flower, the 4 1/2 inch wing spanned Blue Morpho, known to remain aloft, lands on my right hand. On top of the silver filigree butterfly ring I'm wearing on my middle finger. I stop breathing for a moment, afraid it will disappear. But it stays. Commotion begins to swirl around me as other seekers in paradise realize a Blue Morpho has landed. I'm rushed by cameras and rudeness as seekers jostle each other to get a shot of my hand.

There is no option for me to capture this moment, as my camera is held in the hand holding the masterpiece. It doesn't matter. Amid the minor chaos, the Blue Morpho and me have a conversation. I thank it for blessing me with its presence. I tell it how gorgeous I think it is. I thank it for staying. In response, the electric blue flower wiggles its antennas, looks me in the eye and says,"I am you, and you are me". With that, my hand is jostled and the flower flies on.

I linger in paradise, soaking in the glories that God has created. I linger in paradise, imagining my cerulean wings , damp and unfurling, lifting me skyward. I linger in paradise, one hour and one country away, balancing my mind, warming my heart, and feeding my soul.

Roadside Attraction part 1

Roadside Attraction part 2

All photos in this blog, unless otherwise noted, copyright (c) 2007 Graciel

The Choice

I marvel at how easily I forget I have a choice. In everything. I have a choice in what I see, what I pay attention to, what I listen to, what I say, what I do, what I eat. I have a choice in what I think, how I react and most importantly, what my attitude is on a moment to moment basis. I have a choice to accept or reject some one else's opinion. I have a choice to see beauty or discord. I have a choice to feel heaven or hell. My life, my daily existence, is the manifestation of my collective choices.

Why do I choose too often to see discord, accept meaningless opinions and feel hell crawling two millimeters under my skin? Because I slip into the Maya, the illusion of the human world and allow myself to get hooked. Hooked into paying attention to things that lower my brain function and convince me that fear is a reality. Hooked into the insane focus of the media and the power-hungry minds that say negativity is the way of the world.

Fear is not reality and negativity is not the way of the world. It is a choice to buy into that notion, that slight-of-hand illusion, that queller of independent thinking so deadly to the regimes. It is a choice to ignore, forget and feign unawareness of the energy and reality that glues the stars together, pumps blood through my veins and causes the deep sigh of relief when chocolate melts on my tongue. It is a choice to turn away from the energy of love, the reality that remains unscathed despite the Maya, the crap, and the despair.

Love is ever present. Love is everywhere. Love is the invisible force that animates the quarks and the bozons and the building blocks of life. Love is life. If it ceased to exist, so would I. So would you. So would everyone.

Because nothing truly stands outside of love. It is only a choice, a decision of the brain, a habit that causes me to feel like I do. Today, thank God, I choose differently. Today, I make the choice to see love, to acknowledge its role in the very breath of my life, and to let it seep out of my pores as joy and laughter. Today, I make the choice to see beauty and innocence and the sterling in tin. Today, my collective choices allow heaven on earth.

The Poetry of Rumi

While the image of the Beloved burns in our heart

the whole of Life flows in contemplation.

Wherever union with the Beloved exists

there is, in the middle of the house,

a flowering rose garden.

Jelaluddin Rumi

Born: 1207

Creativity Unleashed

I wish I was unemployed. Not for any length of time, mind you. Just long enough to finish the last installment of the Harry Potter chronicles. I'm not a Harry fan in the strictest sense. I did not run out at midnight back in July to procure my sacred volume of tale #7. I, instead, waited for the opportunity to read on the cheap with a borrowed copy. Now, my job is interrupting this phenomenal tale of good versus evil. Time for reading only comes in the few short moments at night before my eyes shut of their own accord, and hurried moments in the morning between slurping down breakfast and dashing off to the salt mines.

The debate of whether #7 is a worthy conclusion to a fascinating fantasy or not, is of no interest to me. What does interest me is the example of stunning imagination Ms. Rowling has put forth into our world. Harry Potter, the series, is creativity unleashed. That one woman, down on her luck, can focus her will and bring forth such intricate, universally loved arrangements of English language letters on a page, awes me and inspires me.

Ms. Rowling is living, breathing, 21st century proof that creativity is a human well of bottomless possibilities. She is proof that circumstances or station in life have little to do with creative potential. She is proof that creativity lives as a spark in all of us. If she can call forth the spark within her and run wild with it, under difficult circumstances to begin with, so can we.

We each have an untapped creative spark or sparks within us. We each have the same potential and ability to call forth that Universal light and shine it on the world. A world of one or a world of many. Our spark, our creativity may not be with the written word. It may be with clay, with paint, with power tools, with speech, with yeast. Whatever our highly personal spark may be, the world is in need of that creative light. Ms. Rowling has lit the lamp and held it high for us, we who doubt our sparks. We who think it has all been done before. We who secretly know we have the same greatness in our inner most chambers. And we do. We do.

Be brave. Be focused. Begin it. Unleash it.

The Ass-Kicking

I am currently unable to participate, to any large extent, in the happenings and gloriously interesting things of this world. My ass is in the process of being kicked. My layers of self-protection are being peeled away. My views and opinions and lenses are being adjusted in a lengthy, sometimes uncomfortable process. None of which is conducive to a general party mood or a mood of carefree abandon needful to explore the world. In the latter part of my 6th cycle of seven year cell change-overs, my life in its entirety seems up for review.

Each time my cells end and begin another 7 year run, life gets peeled and turned and shaken. Directions are adjusted and a new map needs to be drawn. New aspects of myself are brought to the surface. Outmoded, outdated ones are urged to the compost pile.

One outmoded aspect that hit the pile hard was my now former tendency, no~ make that reliable trait~to abandon my own instincts, my own inner knowing in deference to someone else's opinion. Anyone else's opinion. If I knew something to be true to my core, in the inner-most chambers of my heart, but someone came along with a louder, stronger opinion on the subject at hand, I would reliably back away from my own wisdom and assume the other must be right. Assume they must know truth more firmly than me. The totality with which I have thrown myself away and denied the voice of God as it speaks directly to my heart hit me square in the face as the summer began. I had to step back, remove the brick from my forehead, look at my life as a whole, and force myself to see clearly where I have practiced the same dark art against myself in too many areas. Where I have allowed people outside me to wield too much importance, and have too much say in the path God has set up specifically for me.

This realization has been the gift of a lifetime. A gift that will carry me forward with greater love, greater boldness and greater trust as the next 7 years unfold. And so I am allowing more layers to be peeled away, more adjustments to made, more outmoded aspects and traits to be revealed and healed. I am allowing God to direct the set-up for the coming cycle~ "leave this behind...take this with you...let go of this fear... sorry, but you really need to get over that one... love yourself more, love yourself more, love yourself more".

I can't seem to hurry along this general, needful ass-kicking. It will take as long as it takes to get the job done. The job of preparing me for greater adventure and love without condition, dreams realized and the world embraced.

My Favorite Face

;)

I know what you're thinking...

That girl has an eye for white trash.

;)

Dead End Ahead

The road I have been walking down is slowly dissolving beneath my feet. The sign to my right warns of a dead end up ahead. This road is a familiar path. It offers safety and security and predictability. The passions and interests it offered, once upon a time, can no longer be cajoled to the surface. When inner passions become smoldering ash, when interests become watery and wane, the end of the known is nigh.

Nothing in my tangible world is igniting much passion. Any psychic worth her salt would be telling me a change is imminent. Because passion is the fuel of my daily life. Passion is what keeps me interested in the workings of this sumptuous world. Passion is what drives creativity out of my cells and onto the page, onto the canvas, onto the dinner plate. Passion is what keeps the smile on my lips and the evidence of caring in the tone of my voice. Without passion, the banquet of colors that define the natural world are tinted, ever so lightly, with too many shades of grey. And I am a woman in love with color.

This lack of passion and interest in familiar things is a Universal way of preparing me to let go of what has become my defined life. It is the signal to assess what is important, assess what I cannot do without, assess what are my core attractions and needs. It is the signal to look clearly at my known relationships and release any clutches that might exist. Because times, they are a changing. The next phase of my life is calling. The phase I have asked for without even defining.

So I look for clues on the dissolving path. I look for the deer-trail in the sideline shrubbery, offering the road less traveled. I look for the smallest spark of interest that flickers to my surface, hoping it will light my way. I look for and sense the vibrations of love, the energy of love, the color of love... for there will the next phase of my life unfold. There will fresh passions ignite, fresh interests pour forth and fresh adventures roll in ecstasy at my feet.

My eyes are open.

My arms are spread wide.

My knees rest squarely on the earth.

Come passion.

Come interest.

Come change.

Come love.

Come love.

Come love.

Gratitude~ The Reprise

I was inspired today to re-post my thoughts on Gratitude. Because...I need regular reminders to embrace it and practice it.


To truly move past an issue, event, disruption or heartache, we must become grateful for its presence. We must become grateful for its lessons. Its opportunities. Its exact, right timing in invoking needful inner growth. No matter what the circumstance, we must be grateful it happened. And we must be sincere in our gratitude, or the pain, the anxiety and the victim-mentality will seep into our marrow and discolor the way we interact with the vast beauty of the world.

Gratitude is the golden key that unlocks the prison of the heart and the mind. Gratitude brings us out of denial and into acceptance. It lifts us out of chaos and into order. It removes us from confusion and brings forth clarity. It allows us to see that all we have, right here, right now, is all we truly need. It allows us to see that our lives are enough. That our lives are valuable. That our lives have meaning. No matter what illness we have, no matter what money we have or don't have, no matter who is or isn't in our lives.Gratitude is also the golden key to moving us into more loving, prosperous circumstances.

By helping us to let go of staleness, it ushers in freshness in the form of new people and new opportunities. It allows the previously unimagined to present itself. It allows greater life into life.Gratitude is the last sentence that allows the painful chapter to be done. If gratitude was the prayer we uttered before beginning anything, our lessons and inner growth would be less painful. Our clarity would not waver. Our value would not be in question. An attitude of gratitude makes sense of our past, invokes peace in our present and paves a love-filled road to our future.

Serenity in the Chaos

My life feels a bit chaotic. Unsettled. Exhausting. I have not been able to calm myself down and breathe evenly. Sanity feels tenuous. The road ahead is unclear. But my lucid self knows the key to managing stress, the key to a joy-filled life lies in creating a vacuum of calm within while the chaos whirls outside. My lucid self also knows constant serenity is not possible on our daily planet, but is possible in my internal Universe. It knows the true marker of success in life is to carry a peaceful heart where ever my road takes me.

In an effort to gain clarity and raise the peace flag within, I have set myself down in the road. I have boiled some water for rose petal tea. I have lit the $20 candle I have been saving for God-knows-what. I have cued the crickets and now...I await your wisdom and your presence to sit with me, in the middle of the road, and share your secrets for keeping serenity in the chaos.