Intention

It's five o'clock on a Monday
The sky is grayer than gray
As I sit the washer is washing
the dryer is drying,
the heater is heating
the oven is cooking
and i am breathing

There are piles and piles
mountains of stuff
my house is a landfill
of things
I thought I couldn't live without
For reasons I can't remember
and i keep breathing

The temperature is rising
We fight disease and make weapons
People are starving
Trees are crying
hope is fading
and i keep breathing

The hidden cost of money
Is beginning to steam like a volcano
Trickles of molten lava are snaking into sight
The signs are seen, but few are listening
Even fewer acting
and i keep breathing

It's like a cosmic nightmare
Where consumption is the fan
For the spark that burst into flame around the world
And has itself consumed almost everything
We are running in slow motion from a fire that was us

I'm tired of the bullshit
That says our world will collapse if our Economy fails
How do we know that?
And we do know it'll collapse if the Economy continues to rule our choices

We all experience birth and will all experience death
Is there something you've been given in between that makes you right and me wrong?
Or me right and you wrong?
Can't we just forget about all that
And breath ourselves into life?

My Intention
To Know Nothing
And Hear Everything
Without judging
And trust
that this moment
Is
And each breath is
The only one that matters

Clock time

The clock on the wall that stopped a few weeks ago says the right time right now. 2:20. It doesn't say that it is a.m., but the darkness outside my window and the tiredness behind my eyes won't let me forget. Maybe it will stay 2:20 a.m. forever. Then I wouldn't have to see what 2:30 a.m. will bring - or won't ...like; my daughter.

Dear God please keep her safe -
And Dear God please know what I'm asking because my words do not come close to being what all I'm asking. And what is safe? Do I know? How will I know? How can I let myself go to sleep not knowing? How can I stay awake and be able to make any decision or think rationally when she does return? What do I do? What is she asking of me now?

The only thing I do know is she needs something from me and I don't know what that is and I don't know how to look for it or how to trust it enough when I find it to do what she needs me to do.

Okay, the clocks are no longer in sync and all I can do right now is to love her and know that whatever else the sun will rise in the morning.

Persian Carpets?

Like yesterday and the day before I worked in the garden today. Had help which was cool, first Jill came for coffee and pulled some weeds, then Lisa and her dog Ilse showed up and we pulled some more. Place is looking great, even I can see beyond what isn't done to the beauty now. Lisa, bless her, took over wheelbarrowing mulch and my back is sooooo grateful ... better than a massage Lisa!

After we had a beer, maybe two, Lisa left and I lay down because yesterday's mulching caught up with me. And I was into this delicious drift, part sleep, part awareness of how wonderful it was to be lying down when there was a heavy rapping on the door. First I thought "oh shit" I'll just ignore it, then I thought it might be someone I really wanted to see, some long lost friend or maybe even someone bringing me flowers (well, stranger things have happened-someone brought me a gingerbread house with lights out of the blue at Christmas).

I opened the door and there was this man, in a suit, at almost 6:00 Saturday evening, standing there and a blue van in the driveway. I'm usually polite, and never thought to make this an expection, but inside I was not happy. Anyways, he smiles and says hello and then asks if I'm German??? I say no, and he says well the name at the top of the driveway is a German name, and he's German so he thought it might be German people that lived here ... huh??? He did not look German at all, more middle east or something, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. Then he asks if I like carpets ... huh? (In my ideal world this is not how I want to be woken up) Turns out he's selling Persian Carpets - real ones mind you - for 2 or 3 dollars ... I did not go to the van, did not pass go, said goodbye and watched them drive up the lane.

There is something here that does not make any sense to me. Unfortunately I started thinking about robbers scoping out houses and stuff like that. Fortunately I remembered that I believe fear and mistrust are no way to live life and I put it down as another odd incident that probably has some meaning I'm too tired to think of. I mean, in a world that makes a movie about Snakes on a Plane there seems no limit to the bizarre and pointless (in my perspective) things that people get up to.

In case anyone is as lost as I am with this I'm adding a couple of garden pictures to get back to my version of sanity. (please notice the mulching)

Sidetracked

Last night I decided this morning was to be all about the garden and I was going to be very firm about it. Then when the morning I got sidetracked. I'm forgiving myself about the lack of willpower because it's been an amazing journey and not time wasted at all, but Erica and Mark's wedding is two weeks today and since I offered this place for the reception I do feel the need to get the gardens ready. First though I want to make some noise cause stuff is all going around in my head and I don't want to lose it without speaking it somewhere.

It all started with getting up to drive Morgan to work for 7 am. Got home and decided if I started working then I'd not last through the day so I made tea and went back to bed thinking I'd read a few pages then fall asleep for another hour. Opened the book I was saving for a morning read because it is too graphic for night time reading. Finished the book - Shopping Cart Soldiers by John Mulligan.

After the first few chapters of rough going there were glimmers, then streaks, then flash in the face recognition that the same battles within this Vietnam vet are being fought in me. It's all there, everything ... God, the devil, hate, fear, compassion, forgiveness, loneliness, self pity, hanging on to the past as an excuse for not living now, hiding, hiding, hiding ... fear, imagination, delusions of reality

This is not new; just a different frame of worlds and words of experience - which touched me and that always makes me cry. And crying is my guage of beauty - the beauty of my heart responding - means I'm not dead yet.

Here's a couple of quotes I couldn't pass by:
"Aye, that's right," Silverbright agrees. "Don't ever forget it. Anything goes in the Land of the Truly Alive! You'll find whatever you're lookin' for no matter where you're lookin' - as long as you've the eyes to see, Finn. That's the answer son, that's the answer!"

and
"Everything true and special is simple"

Now ain't that cool stuff to take to the garden?

Looking for love

Today I didn't have to look for love, it showed up. In fact it shows up everyday, but sometimes I can be too busy missing having the lover kind of love that I don't pay attention to the the love that I do have.
I am paying attention now ... and I am saying a huge Thank you and I am appreciating everyone who loves me with all my heart.
(which doesn't mean there isn't space for any other, there is always room for more love :) )

I like them scrambled with cheese and salsa

I've been thinking about being an adult - as in growing up and what that means. There are times, like when I'm driving to play hockey or taking the train to Toronto for a course, when I think "cool, I have a life that I've made all by myself, just like the big people". But choosing to be one of the big people full time seems a little scary ...

Based on age I've been an adult for a very long time, and I imagine to my kids and 'little' people I seem no different than the rest. So why do I still have this jelly stuff inside me? Why do I not always (or even often) know what to do? Or even how to do it when I think I know what? Most of everything I do is still guess work and gut work and blind fumbling to find my way.

A friend told me he was going to start being an adult (he's 49, same as me) and I asked what that meant. He said it was time to become financially reponsible. I said that sounded good (I'm a lot like Julia Roberts and the eggs in Runaway Bride about this adult thing). And I started thinking about making up a budget and figuring out my spending patterns and preparing an action plan from there to best utilize my resources in the present and plan for the future.

Later I was googling around and saw some pictures of people; injured and bloody people and crying women and men and dead of all ages in Lebannon and I thought that it might be more adult to spend my energy on figuring out what the resources I have could do to help these people and prevent this happening. Perhaps this is a time to be human and let my head listen to my heart.

This past Friday, a little north of here, two small planes collided and three people were killed. This happens of course ... we hear about people dying in accidents all the time right? Only this time it wasn't people, it was Dave. On Saturday morning I got the call and my little world shook. At one time a very close friend, one of my ex's best friends, he was in our wedding party, we all travelled and partied and spent every Christmas Eve and August long weekend together for years and years. Dave is (and I will keep that as 'is' because he still is in our memories) a warm, caring and lovely person who will be missed by a lot of people.

I feel like a 'big' person now. That financial stuff; it may be important but it ain't nothing compared to this.

Rock Wall

This past few days we have rebuilt the rock wall and added a pathway to my lower garden. Slugging rocks in the heat and the humidity have given me a new appreciation for my body and what it is capable of.

It's also been good for my mind. This quote I read a couple weeks ago has stuck with me: "If the horse is dead, get off it!" A lot of those rocks represent dead horses. Some of them resisted finding their place in the wall, some went in easy, and now they are in may they rest in peace.

I know I've already started collecting new rocks, and I know just the spot where I'll build my next rock wall.

Angel

My friend calls her new boyfriend 'Angel'. I met him this weekend. He's not a new boyfriend, but this is the first time I've seen them together. they left together on a 26' sailboat last September. The boat got beached somewhere on the New Jersey coast in a storm (they weren't in it), and they spent a month living in a borrowed cottage while they dug the boat off (no money for a tow) then the rest of the winter in a marina on the boat (with a woodstove and their dog) doing repairs. They met lots of people; some were kind and some were unsympathetic. Then they came home to make some money and get their teeth fixed. They live on 30$ a day (it cost me $60 to fill my car up with gas to go visit them) in a tiny trailer (which must seem luxurious space after the boat). They get water from the river and dress up oatmeal with spices for dinner. She's lost 50 lbs. And she calls him 'Angel'.

She had her 50th birthday in January so a friend took us all to an outdoor Sunday morning concert; Mozart and Muffins (I would have called it "Mozart in the Morning", it was delicious!) then out for lunch to celebrate. They showed us the trailer and we drank homemade wine and got sunburned sitting on the rocks with our feet in the river. She told us of sunsets on the water and showed off her paintings. (painting had been her dream for the last twenty years) The dog is happy. They plan to sail again this fall to the Carribean for the winter, and next year to Europe. And she calls him 'Angel'.

I wish she'd write her story and I wish I had an 'Angel'.



That's her in the middle and me on the right (need a haircut) and our other friend in the kayak. 'Angel' was on camera duty in between pouring drinks.

I've been thinking about extravagance... I was talking to a guy I met on the internet last week and I told him I wasn't extravagant (sorry for not putting this statement in context, but that's a whole 'nother story). And I really believed it. But if not being extravagant means I have to eat oatmeal for dinner (no matter how much cumin was added) I guess I am. (and I guess if I weren't extravagant I'd cut my own hair and let it be grey too)

And could I do that for an 'Angel'? Well, I wonder ... ? The thing is; perhaps if I were eating with an 'Angel' food might not taste the same. And maybe what seems a necessity now might not be so important if there were a sunset on the water everynight.

why?

I am tired of feeling lonely and isolated from the world. I am tired of feeling like a victim to my circumstance and that no one wants to hear what I have to say. So ... I start blogging.

And I have lots to say but when I sit in front of the computer the words seem to get stuck in the boggy place that is my mind saying they need to be meaningful. Pah! What is meaningful??

Meaningful (in this instance) is another word for fear - fear of what?? Fear of being laughed at, thought trivial or stupid or boring, or worse yet - irrelevant. The little judge and jury hanging out in my head seem biased toward the prosecutor who makes up all kinds of stories about what is 'meaningful'. This prosecutor is inconsistant, manipulative and completely irrational, but his stories are convincing, and the poor defense guy, who's basic premise is that no life is irrelevant and that everyone has the right to choose what is meaningful to them for themselves, has no fancy moves but only his deep faith in these truths. (Meaningful in this context is 'of value')

Okay, I am going beyond that now...

I have been listening to Eckhert Tolle's "A New Life" on cd while I work in the pear orchard. (This is in part an effort to strengthen the case for the defense) And he tells a story about two monks that sticks with me: (paraphrasing here)

Two Buddhist monks were walking to their next monastery. In the morning they came to a stream, swollen and muddy with rain. Beside the stream was a woman in a beautiful dress. It was obvious she could not cross without getting her dress muddy so one of the monks picked her up and carried her across. The monks continued on their journey in silence. In the evening as they approached the monastery the one monk asks "Why did you pick that woman up and carry her across the stream? You know we monks are not supposed to do that" And the other monk replies, "I set her down on the other side of the stream, you have been carrying her all day"

Okay, I feel better now, set down that meaningful stuff and moving on ... But I did not say in this post the 'why' that I originally intended about why start this blog. That I shall try again for on a braver day.

Messages

This morning I looked at an old oak tree in the middle of the yard and felt such affinity with it I think I must have been a tree once. Then instead of making the graceful transition to a new life my evolution got stuck on a craggy, gray plateau which is neither here nor there. This plateau is bloody uncomfortable, and yet I'm not convinced which path to take off it. There is a vague feeling that I should be striving to be that 'something' I'm meant to be as a human, and then there is the tree I was calling me back into the patterns of the seasons, without emotion, without judgement, without having to DO any frigging anything except be a tree.

Faith, the cat, has just dived into the day lilies, probably the safest spot for some innocent creature they are so dense. Oh to be a cat and not have to think before you jump. I mean if only what I am meant to do would be the desire that would overpower all the others tumbling in my head what life that would be.

Two days ago I looked past my computer screen into the garden and there was a little man there. I mean it looked like a statue of an emaciated, grey brown man who definitely wasn't there the day before was looking in at me. Not just looking either, his expression, whole attitude was saying he'd been neglected, forgotten, needed attention before its too late. It took quite a while for me to realize he had materialized from a the remnants of a spectacular pale pink iris and was not some wooden voodoo figure or a pixie playing tricks. (Bizarre huh? I did feel a twinge of a vague fear until I came up with the explanation)

Yesterday morning I woke up crying from a dream. My mother was alive and it was Christmas. All of us kids were there, our present ages (40 somethings), but none of our families. And the Christmas tree was beautiful and everyone was opening presents and I kept waiting and looking for mine but there was nothing with my name on it. And nobody was talking to me, like I didn't exist for them, even though I was there and talking to them. I was trying not to feel left out and telling myself how pathetic it was to be disappointed about not getting a gift, telling myself Christmas is about love, and that real love is a gift that does not expect anything in return. But I was so sad, and I woke up crying.

And I was thinking about messages, like these thoughts that tumble through my head occasionally stop enough to let in a little space and a message pops up (think bingo). That is a blessing, a miracle, ... and a problem. I mean I don't want to miss what they are telling me, but trying to analyze these messages to find out what I should do sucks, and it takes up even more space.

I think I want to be a cat now - see message "chipmunk running into lilies" follow instinct - dive after it. Result: sometimes I get a treat, sometimes I don't, but I always get to enjoy the chase.

naked in my garden

I’m sweating buckets, pulling weeds and digging plants. Its early in the season and I am still visualizing dense, colour splashed borders and weed free pathways lit by torches and a fire in the rock pit and stars overhead and someone with me drinking wine while the heady scents wafting in the breeze overtake us and passion swallows us. That is what I sweat for. Reality is I reach down and yank a handful of debris to toss in the wheelbarrow and a snake, just as startled as I, jerks in my hand and I fling him, glove and all as far as I can and he lands slithering and for the rest of the summer I stomp loudly through my garden, and sing like a crazy lady. Day after day goes by, and I work hard, and more and more I am drawn to my dream and I sweat dreaming and thinking this is the year. I drink a lot of wine. I order topsoil and mulch and sweat and swear and dirt gets in my pores and I drink more wine and wear less clothes. I think to hell with skin cancer I need to feel the sun, and then if I’m going to get skin cancer I might as well smoke, so I buy a pack and with the wine it tastes good, and then one night in the hot tub my dream disappears in the stars and I know that this summer it is not going to happen, and I cry to the stars, then I sing I’m alive, lonely is living, and I twirl on the grass and run naked in my garden, and dance myself to sleep.