The Light Returns: The Winter Solstice

Tonight marks the longest night of the year; henceforth, all nights will gradually shorten, letting light overrule darkness.  It is a joyous night of celebration; echoes of the pagan feasts of this night leaking into Christmas traditions. Yule logs, live trees brought indoors, the exchange of gifts- these aren't Christian inventions but older...much older.

The joy of light. The promise of the surrender of the night.  Our ancient kin understood the symbology and the reality: Spring to come, food to be grown, harvest to be enjoyed.  And the Christian architects understood the symbology too; light overcoming darkness.  Christ overcoming sin.  Hark! the Herald Angels Sing!

It is easy to be happy on a night like this. It is easy to find optimism.  But this is only half the story; half the year.  The key is to find joy in the darkness too.  To understand that happiness must be balanced with pain and sorrow to have it retain meaning.

When we ache, it is hard to remember that there is still promise of Joy. Optimism retreats. We cannot see that it is cyclical. A phase.  A season. Time heals.  AND light returns.

That is the promise of the Solstice...The Light returns. The Shadows are banished.

And so, celebrate my friends!  Not just this night, but on the darker nights that undermine our souls.  The Light will return.  In this life or beyond it.  The Light will return!!

Thank you, gracious readers, for your company this past year.
With joy I honor your essence! May blessings be yours.

The Flooded River; the Full Cold Moon

The flooded river moves muddy and fast; I struggle to not be swept downstream as those around me do as well.  The river is crowded, overflowing with human bodies and we all fight and cling to any foot hold, any twig, anything solid and rooted.  We are tired but still swimming, giving it all our might, all of our heart. What choice do we have?  We do not want to be swept downstream...

As we bump and dislodge each other, we lose focus of the truth so painfully evident to any outside observer: We do not need to stay in the river.  

WHAT? leave the river?  But that is where all the action is! That is where the ego is stroked. That is where my friends and family are. Isn't that "life"?

No. It is an illusion. A trap created by our need to be important, special, unique, praised...blah, blah, blah...
We fight each other for space, using judgements to gain illusory footholds.  

Although we are really born to this muddy water; Providence, Effort and Practice can elevate us to the stable bank.  We must each latch onto the truths that have always been in the raging water with us.  Truths such as equality. Truths such as our unavoidable deaths.  The truths of how we crave and how we cling.  My Buddhist would call these dukkha, but I'm inclined to refer to it more as the BS we've been taught is reality.  

Many of us turn from the truths, wishing to remain in the muddy raging water where success is defined tangibly and failure is punished.  In the river, we are "somebody"; on the banks we are no one.  

I have been on the bank before; but the edges erode easily and the bank dwellers must be ever so careful of their grounding.  Once thrown back into the river, it is easy to lose the truth.  There is pleasure in being "good";  pride in being "clever".  The mud blinds and the bodies around us twist and poke.  Survival becomes its on force and we move downstream, further from nirvana, as we pretend we are happy.  

It is Hell.

Grace be given, we climb again to the banks, wonder why we couldn't see the reality of our situation before and watch with compassion as our brother and sisters flail.  Why not help them?  Because truth can not be taught, it must be seen. And as more people leave the river, arriving on the banks, the water will calm and truth will be more evident. Without the raging bodies, the river will settle and even the most earnest of egos will see their illusions torn away.

I write this blog for me as a warning.  I know the river too well...
The bank is more unfamiliar.  But we have all felt the firm footing in moments of peace. In moments where another's joy is more important than our own.

If I have any Christmas spirit to spread, it is this invitation:
Leave the river.  The hustle and bustle of the Season flood it further.  Come, my friends, join me on this stable bank.  There is space for everyone.

A Flurry of Fun!

Over Thanksgiving, my daughter, husband and I ventured into the college town near us for some holiday meandering and window shopping.  One store drew my daughter in, and of course, hubby and I followed.  The store in question was a wonderland of Christmas hoopla; I immediately eyed a garland of intricate paper snowflakes.  Beneath it was a 'kit' to purchase to make your own spectacular garland.

A Flurry of Fun! read the caption on the $16.95 kit.  Hmmmm. I pondered.  Hubby has not been so pleased with my recent spending, perhaps I could save money and get a beautiful snowflake garland?  My daughter confirmed my impulse by stating she was thinking of getting the same kit because the garland was so pretty.   Aha!  The garland had twenty-some hipster potential!  And it was affordable.  I snatched one to my breast as if hordes were beating a path to it.

I could barely contain my glee as I purchased the kit.  I knew my husband's schedule and was aware of a window of time. Perfect!  I would put on some carols, get a glass of wine and build an amazing snowflake vine.  Jingle bells....

It started out on a good note.  I punched my snowflakes out of the pre-scored paper.  I sang along to Johnny Mathas and Nat King Cole.  Then good vibe screeched to a halt.  Apparently, I needed 'glue dots'.  Everything you need to build a garland excluded glue.  

I wondered if we had any glue.  Looked around. Nope.  Not even in the kitchen drawer.

Aha! I had two sided tape upstairs!  Hurray! Snowflake opulence was back on schedule.

Or so I thought.  I made three snowflakes wrong wondering why it didn't look like the lovely kit graphic.  Fourth snowflake was good, but the carols had to go.  After finding better lighting and reading glasses, I managed six decent snowflakes.  But I was done.  My head hurt and they were not looking magical and intricate.  No. My first thought was that these frozen crystals were born in radioactive water. Lumpy. Weird. Ugly.

A flurry of fun?  Ummmm. No.

But another glass of wine seems like a mighty fine idea....


  

Waiting; The New Cold Moon

I wait for what I will never have
unsure of how to even call it near

the echos of Thanksgiving retreat
split time between melancholy and laundry
searching for what might engage
eyes spy Christmas lights, boughs of green
harbingers of the advent scene
they lift me for a moment
but they are wound in a carol 
promise of friends and good cheer 

(a vision that has yet to ever appear)

still, I trust in tradition to guide me through
and open my wallet to shiny and new
'perfect' gifts to buy me love
the cash registers sing 
and offer a ring
so angel's get their wings

and I sit almost alone
if you can call a hot holiday beverage a friend
amid a throng of almost alone strangers
fondling their own warm friends
bags piled near our feet
all hopeful that this year 
we can actually buy
what we need

so, I wait for what I will never have
but I do know its name...

Unconditional Love

Thanksgiving: the Waning Crescent Beaver Moon

I stare at the dead bird in my sink, water cascading over its rubbery bald breast.  This bird came to me 'organically'; it spent its days free ranging at a local farm, eating organic vegetarian turkey chow. It spent its days growing in the sunlight and in the rain.  It spent its days living.  

But no more. I wonder if it was unsuspecting when rustled to slaughter.  Did it know that all its days were spent making my family and I one meal?  

This is our first organic, local turkey; despite preparing Thanksgiving dinner for over a quarter of century. The large frozen turkey-shaped blocks have been my staple for years. They did not run free, eat yummy turkey snacks.  These birds were raised in a cage, fed beef and chicken byproducts, given hormones to make them large and antibiotics to fight off the innumerable outbreaks of bacteria.  BUT they spent their days living.

No more. These birds are in some other house, some other sink, being hosed down as well.

I look at the empty cavity and feel an ache.  My heart is as empty as this bird and I wonder where I can find a recipe to fill it.  The turkey's stuffing is on the stove, ready to shove into its cavernous hole; but where can I find some warm and nutritious filling for my own vacancy?  

I sigh and let my mind move forward to the meal; the warmth of familial love is a blessing I can not take lightly. The bounty of food that will fill our bellies and spill into tupperware for numerous more meals is a gift that is not to be understated.  The hearth fire, where I will drop my overstuffed self to rest, is HOME in all senses of the word.  My tummy will feel swollen and uncomfortable, but a walk will set it right.  And then, we can begin again with sandwiches and pie...

I have love. I have food. I have shelter.  I have health.

Yet, the emptiness remains...fully of my own making; a luxury of my comfortable life. It is a puzzle to unravel over many future moons until one day I heal the wounds of my own knife.  And on that day I shall rejoice.

But for TODAY, I will pause and acknowledge every last blessing that has come my way, deserving or not. For today, I will be thankful. Truly thankful. For I am blessed.

I start by bowing to my dead friend in the sink.  Namaste, Turkey. 
AND continue by bowing to you...
May blessings be yours.

Darkness; the New Beaver Moon

The night has been dark.

I woke from a nightmare last night with a start. They say you can't die in your dream, but I was doing just that. I woke in the blackness, unsure. Then my partner made his unique snort purr and I knew it was not death...just darkness. Heavy.  Heavy darkness.

The night has been long.

Daylight savings time ended; the morning is more hopeful, but dusk circles early and captures us unprepared.  I am eating too much, like a bear preparing to hibernate.  Although I am in a nesting mode, I am also sleeping too much.  I am fidgety, waiting, restless.  

I am beaver. 

Hurrying to make my home winter friendly, safe, secure, warm.  Scurrying to find the comfort and joy in the coming cold and dark months.  This moon and the following Cold moon are the darkest in the year; daylight is still decreasing as the air grows chillier.  Perhaps that is why the solstice was celebrated so joyfully.  The promise of light overpowering darkness. Who couldn't find joy in that?

But first, we must prepare...

Found you! The Full Hunter Moon

I could not find this moon in my heart or in words.  

I could not find this moon in my actions. Just blind forward progress, for progress sake.  Stay busy. One step ahead of a creeping malaise.

The muse did not whisper in my ear.  The clever metaphor remained dusty and unused...probably in my disorganized kitchen drawer...resting near that extra piece of my last assembly project.  Nothing is more unsettling as an extra piece...where on earth does it belong?

I did not find this moon...

But it found me all the same.  Bright. Ridiculously bright.  Her lighthouse beacon scoured the surface of the earth, unyielding to mountains, flooding valleys.  Her light finding me in the dark of night, in the woods, tree shadows making me feel small and alone.  Where on earth do I belong?

"Here",  she replies "and I will light your path before you."

Lawnmower, O Lawnmower!

I noticed today for the first time that my lawnmower has a meter of some kind.  
It reads 26.4
Is that miles? Like a marathon and then some? or is it something else.  I took pause thinking I mowed 26.4 miles.  It seemed both too short and too long.

I did some research and learned that it is an hour counter.  That threw me a bit too.  I have been driving a lawn mower for over 24 hours?  Really? But that is a whole day!  

I visualized the places I could go. The things I could do.  Instead, I go round and round.  

Sounds like me.

The Recently Dead; Waning Crescent Harvest Moon

Dawn is just a promise as I finally pull off into a rest area along Route 90. There are three cars in the parking lot and as I move into the building, the lights and music assault me; too loud, too bright.

A toilet in the women's room keeps flushing itself on automatic pilot, but otherwise I am alone, in silence, in the woman's room.  In the stall, I wonder if this is how the recently dead feel upon entering the afterlife. Does U2 sing too earnestly about a beautiful day?  Are the recently dead agitated by a flickering fluorescent overhead light? 

Heading back to my car, it strikes me as unfair that my spouse, the Buddhist, will be in Chicago before my car has crossed into New Jersey. Yet, this arrangement was my suggestion. I thought we could extend our vacation by one day. I thought we would continue to have fun. I suggested he fly from Logan International in Boston while I finished the drive solo.

But something shifted once we left Maine.  Yesterday found us in suspended animation, waiting for the real world to unfurl before us.  Waking this morning at 4 a.m. and dropping him at the airport at 5 a.m. was dreamlike and hazy. Driving on 90 in the dark felt surreal. Anubis, are you near?  Is this reality or the veil?

Yet, here I am, the awakened, pulling back onto the highway, the rising sun and waning crescent Harvest moon sharing the sky.

I take a breath...the real world rushing into me.  Everything, even vacations,  eventually finds its end and I've got many miles to go.

A Glamour DON'T

"Hey, that is me!"  I squeal, surprised to see myself in the pages of a magazine.  The photo is of me at a street fair in my long skirt covered with batik prints from Indonesia.  It is patchwork, but sophisticatedly pieced. The earrings I am wearing are the antique Afghanistan ones and my necklace sports a Tuareg medallion I had found in a store in Woodstock.  My black cami contrasts nicely with my Mexican embroidered scarf and jean jacket.  My 'Goddess figure' is exceptionally flattered by the photographer's choice of angle.  The only thing amiss is the black rectangle box over my eyes; not kinky, just added in some version of photoshop to save the magazine from getting my consent.

Then I saw the caption: "DON'T.  The sixties  wants their stuff back"

Noooooooooooooo........

For those of you who do not peruse Glamour magazine, the end page is typically a series of photos of women wearing a particular kind of style. Half the women and their garb are dubbed 'Do''; the other half are dubbed 'Don't'.  A page might show how women are wearing animal prints or pencil skirts or fur.  Celebrities tend to be the 'Dos' .  Unsuspecting women on the street are 'Don'ts', with only their eyes photoshopped out to 'protect' their identity.  After all, the Glamour editors need to sleep at night without any guilt.

I wasn't really on the Glamour end page, but I certainly could be.  I dress 'different '.  I live in long skirts and treasure the intricacy of ethnic handiwork; embroidery, batik,  Thai and Indonesia silver.  I appreciate the beauty of the 'not so polished, not so perfect'.  Perhaps I find comfort in garbing myself in something that reflects my nature. Or maybe I just want attention (as I have been accused); but looking different is a way I stay true to myself.  I do not follow a trend. I do not blend in.  I will not be what some magazine editor has the audacity to dictate.

Do I occasionally  hear giggles as I walk by? Sure.  Do I also receive compliments? Absolutely.  Do they matter?  No. I dress for me. I dress for me alone.

The sixties want their stuff back?  No way. This stuff is mine now.

Imperfection: The Full Harvest Moon

I am imperfect. I've discussed this in the last two blogs.  I am imperfect inside and outside.  Like most of us, I fall prey to negativity. I cling.  The Buddhist likes to point this out when he sees it.  I sometimes find it annoying because he clings too, just to different things; but overall, I appreciate that he and I can constructively suggest improvement.  I want to improve, I truly do.

The key to this always seems to circle around self love. I have made huge strides here, but I am still holding back, ready to find the imperfection.  The trap is that I will always be imperfect.  That is the nature of being human.  The real challenge, the real work is to learn to love imperfection.  And when I succeed and find joy in the mirror, in my heart, I will find joy in your imperfection too.

And the world will suddenly be brilliant in its beauty...
like the Harvest Moon...
bathing me in light...

Mirror Mirror: The Full Harvest Moon

"Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?" I ask.

I stand before the mirror; it's rather plain, no gilding or fancy frame like the fairy tale.  No magic entity appears, no portal to a beautiful step daughter.  Instead a fifty one year old woman stares back. She blinks.  She turns her head from side to side.  She moves in close.  She retreats. She sighs.

"I look my age" I say dejectedly to the mirror. Mirror woman sighs in response.

Why is this such a failure?  Why has it come to this clinging to youth?  Why is looking the age my body has lived perceived as a fault? And what a small window this age reflection requests.  Definitely can't look over your age. So, the best you hope for is a few years younger.  I am fifty one.  Can I really expect to look forty? Forty five? Forty seven?

And as we all strive and cling to the glimmer of youth, are we not just resetting the bar higher and higher with each passing decade?  Just by dental hygiene advances alone, we look much younger than our equal aged grandparents, many of whom had dentures.  Not to mention the advances in skin care and hair restoration. We are younger than ever before at age fifty one. 

NO! we are STILL FIFTY ONE.  Not younger...just packaged to look fresher from the outside. Like adding blood to aged meat at the butcher counter to give it a fresh red appearance, we equally deceive our eyes and tell our souls lies.  Yet, no matter the exterior, we remain our age.  Is that what is so frightening? That we are in fact aging?

We buy organic foods, demand natural ingredients, but disallow ourselves the natural process of aging. It isn't a disease, it is a process. Would we tell the autumn leaves not to color? Not to fall?  Isn't there beauty in those crinkly orange leaves?

The mirror woman stares back at me then breaks into a smile.

A Call for Redemption: The Full Harvest Moon

I know a woman. She lives too much in her own head. She hears slights and condemnations where none exist.  She feels maligned and misunderstood.  She tries to speak, but her words fall short of her intentions. She tries to hear, but her ears only allow the negative to resonate.  Her eyes could see the stars, but too often, she stares at the dull bare ground.  She suffers.

She counts the misfortunes of her life as a testament to why she is the way she is.  She defends her action. She defends her inaction.  It isn't her, you see, it is the past that made her this way.  It is what happened. 

I tell her that although she cannot change what happened, she can change how she reacts to it. I tell her that she can manifest a new beginning where she is her best self. I implore her to look up at the stars.  

Instead, she mires herself in jealousy; coveting what others have.  She clings to what could be, what might be. She wants her moment. Her Disney Moment. Her pina colada and lei from Ricardo Montalban on Fantasy Island. The fifteen minutes of fame Andy Warhol insisted would be hers. Glory and Redemption. Her GLORY. Hers. Hers. Hers.

So, she spends her hours daydreaming about how it could be. How it might be. But action is so hard. So scary. Out of her reach...easier to not try.  Safer to stay still.

I implore her to change; because frankly being around her is a bore.  She forgets how fortunate she is. She complains and she whines...and so, she pushes me away.  How can I love her?  She is so pathetic.

But her redemption matters to me.  And to my last dying breath I will be striving to change her, because this woman is me.

Let Them Eat Cake! The New Harvest Moon

I surfed the internet this morning, looking for whether Marie Antoinette actually declared those title words ever so long ago.  The general scholarly gist was no, she did not.  The words were propaganda used against her and other nobles of the time. Rabble rousing rubbish.  If the poor have no bread, then let them eat cake!

When I was a child, I heard those words and thought Marie Antoinette to be rather generous. I pictured a Disney princess with a beehive hairdo handing out pretty pink pieces of birthday cake to all her subjects.  I took it literally; let them eat cake.  As my life was thrift stores and Salvation Army cast offs, I rarely got cake or ice cream.  A big treat in the house was strawberries and milk or a spoonful of honey.  So, my Grimm Brothers and Hans Christian Andersen fueled imagination had a cliche story plot involving my transformation into an elegant princess just as I was handed my pretty pink slice of cake. But just me. Not my sister. No. She stayed poor. Everyone knows that the older sister always gets what she deserves for cutting your Barbie's hair off.

Now, forty four years later, I am slightly less ready to pass judgement; but I am still waiting for cake. When is it my turn to have the tasty treat? 

Oddly, it hadn't occurred to me that I am now the noble. I don't feel like a princess. I certainly don't look like a princess. Yet, if I was honest, my loving Buddhist treats me like one.  Maybe he sees an elegance that I don't. Yet, the fact remains that I am fortunate. I have a nice life in a nice house in a nice town.  Fortunate. Lucky.  Yes, we worked hard and did smart things; but we also did incredibly stupid things. I'm sticking with Lucky.

Today is the new Harvest Moon, a moon that I am always fond of as it conjures the image of Thanksgiving with a large cornucopia of beautiful firm vegetables. Bounty. Abundance. And like dominoes in my mind, I eventually find myself feeling gratitude.  But gratitude is a hollow comfort for those without bread.

May this moon, move me to generosity.  Let them eat. Period. Let them eat.

Dust and Keepsakes; Home

The Buddhist isn't driving like one.  He is cutting in and out of lanes at a speed that keeps my jaw clenched shut.  I asked him once if he would define himself as an aggressive driver; his answer surprised me for its honesty.  "Yes", he said, "but defensive too..."

We are on the Henry Hudson Parkway, headed south bound, headed home.  The George Washington Bridge reflects in the Hudson like a crystal palace and The Buddhist and I discuss why the towers are illuminated as neither of us has seen this before.  The open steel work is impressive and stunning in the floodlight and I am wide eyed as we enter the bridge.  

The Hudson crossed, we both relax ever so slightly.  The Henry Hudson Parkway is a four lane roller coaster of a highway with high speed and sudden stops.  While The Buddhist is correct that this route is faster, I prefer the Tappan Zee Bridge and the relative predictability of Route 287.  The Buddhist knows that if I am driving this leg of the trip, we are taking the long way home; hence, I am never driving in this leg of the trip.  The Buddhist loves peace...and efficiency.  In truth, I am just as thankful;  I just want to get home.

Home.  Not where the heart is, because my heart is splintered and fragmented; many people carry it around with them, unseen and unburdening. It resides with the Buddhist, and with my daughter too. But home nonetheless.

An hour or so later, the cats are greeting us with curt meows while the house greets us with a quiet indifference.  There is a stale smell to the air and the place feels hollow. The furniture is arranged ever just so and all my precious bric a brac remain fashionably displayed.  Home.

I open the fridge to see what I can conjure for us to nibble and find jalapenos covered in mold, but one is unscathed. I find a few scallions and begin chopping to add to half a bag of shredded cheddar and taco chips. Impromptu nachos. The Buddhist begins squeezing limes. Impromptu margaritas. We mill around, fidgety, unpacking suitcases,  staging our life to begin again tomorrow.  Eventually, we sit, sip and chew.  We are quiet. Too quiet. We have already said what we care to in that wheeled cube we inhabited for too many hours.

Why are we always driving North to the places we love?  Why is this oasis that I call home not enough?  If my heart is where my people are, then what is the magic of this place? If I always crave to be near mountains, why live in New Jersey?  If my body finds peace in a rock strewn stream, why reside in a subdivision?  If my soul seeks nature to hear it own thoughts, why live under Liberty International flight patterns?

I look around the familiar, unsure of what answer I hope to find...

Stop to Smell the Basil

I have the scent of fresh basil on my fingers; I noticed this while retrieving a phone message from one of my many lost friends.  I had picked the basil in a hurry, my husband's slippers too big for my feet, running down the steps to the herb garden. I was cautious of night spider webs, my scissors a weapon I held closed, but at eye height.  As I typed that, I could only think "Jeez woman, you were running with scissors..."

But back to my friends...All seem to be mired at this moment in pain, life's bitter tears, and the ultimate kill joy, death.  Not to mock death, goodness no. I just caught Anubis reading over my shoulder once again and I want to assure him that I take death seriously. Yes. Very seriously.  I take my friends seriously, too, and offer what I can.

My friend pool is mostly my age and therefore, what we all share in common these days is the demise of our parents.  One minute, they were our favorite annoyingly earnest antagonists and now they have grown subdued.  So subdued, that my husband and I have buried three. Such is the way of life. If life is Yin, Death is Yang. (Anubis frowns and I laugh, flipping him the middle finger. I'm terrified of a frog, but Anubis?  No. What's he gonna do, kill me?)

What Anubis won't admit is that his job is most satisfying when the living fight eventuality.  But tough shit, Anubis, I am not living in fear of the end. No.  So, I run with scissors in the dark to get a bit of fresh, herbaceous goodness to make my margherita pizza shine.  The mozzarella is fresh and drying a bit, the garlic is chopped and whipped into some salt to assuage its bitterness, and you can't beat New Jersey tomatoes in late August. So, I celebrate.  I breathe in the scents. Taste. Feel. Love.  

I am alive.  Smell the basil. Yes.  I am alive.

I am One of You; The Full Sturgeon Moon

The Sturgeon Moon is very pregnant as I type this.  Technically, that makes it waxing gibbous for those of us impressed by scientific knowledge.  This moon is always problematic for me as the Algonquin tribe name does not resonate. Sturgeon are large whiskered fish that Whole Foods does not sell; nor are they cooked in lovely dishes on Top Chef.  In short, I have probably never eaten a sturgeon in my life, but maybe my Buddhist has.  He did fish a bit in his youth, mainly in the muddy waters of the Raritan or Millstone Rivers; but occasionally in Lake Champlain in Vermont. He may have caught one once.  Maybe.

But eating sturgeon isn't on my mind; swimming with them is.  I have flirted with the notion that I might eventually find my school, so to speak.  I seek to swim among like people, who live in a similar way, holding similar beliefs. I even dare to think that there might be friendship. Yet, it alludes me and my forays on the internet in search of it only produced the sense that I do not belong.  Isolation at the touch of a mouse. Drowning in plain sight.

Sites like Facebook, Society6 and Deviantart function much like high school; there are popular people who enjoy the attention and then there are the rest of us whose purpose seems to be to keep the popular people 'popular'. After all, you can't be popular without a throng of groupies, can you?  I have realized that I am krill in a larger food chain and I am tired of only being fuel.  I could conclude that I am not talented, interesting, or otherwise shiny, but that isn't truth.  I see teems of talented krill swimming aimlessly over themselves and each other trying to find their place. "I am one of you", I scream.  But the words get muted in the murky waters and so instead, I stumble around, clicking 'Promoted' or "Like".  And none of it gets any more real.

So, I'm done with the internet socializing for a bit. I'll stay here, writing out my heart's song, hoping that something resonates with someone someday...

I've Got Rings / Frog Harmony

She covered my back in Almond Oil and Eucalyptus...

The Frog returns daily, hopping back from either the stream where my husband gently introduces him or the tall grass where I lazily fling him.  Thus, is the difference in our spiritual practices. My spouse is a Buddhist; a simple soul, seeking to find peace in his own head while I am more fierce at heart, a goddess wannabe who craves adoration, affection and Frog-free STUFF.  Hubby does not crave; I cling to desire and pout. He is attentive; I am needy. It is pure co-dependency that functions...most of the time.

The massage feels nice and I am loving the attention. She suggests we start at my shoulders and try the gentlest suction. The encounter was my idea as I was needing something "new"; my day to day had become commonplace and I crave experience like a crack addict craves Heisenberg.

After my last blog about Frog, I receive an email from my resident Buddhist.
I just read your blog, don't you think the frog is a lesson of some sort?
I sigh and roll my eyes. How did I know this was coming?  The frog, though a real frog with pulsing blood in his Frog veins, is also a metaphor.  I have acknowledged this from the start, but my fear is as real as my comical exit from Froggy hot tub.  Frogs terrify me. They could hop on me.  Yup. That is my true terror. THEY COULD HOP ON ME...

I feel something cling to my back and then tugging.  She moves the suctioned cup up and down my scapula and I wonder why I think pain is a better alternative to boredom.

The Frog is a lesson in fear.  I have groundless fears. Irrational Fears.  Fears based on gossip and tall tales. The Frog has begun to break down some of these fears and so I reflect on what other ones might need to go. Each day, as I gently cajole Frog into my net, I find empathy for this small but determined creature.  I note his coloring matches the hot tub finish perfectly and I can understand that my hot tub is simply a very large warm rock that suits his camouflage.  I do my best to not injure him in our daily migration.

I am surprised at how much this is hurting; but she says that it is a sign it is much needed..  That is classic Chinese medicine logic. I suck in breath as she reminds me to breathe. She explains how cupping works as backwards massage; the muscle is pulled up instead of pushed down and the blood is exchanged in the tissue.

I seek to remove Frog so he has no chance to hop on me.  A true sign of growth would be to just slide into the hot tub as he clings to the top edge. Could we co-exist in some sort of harmony?  Could I be brave enough?

Six cups are on my back now, theoretically sucking up toxins from my core.  I am always seeking the easy fix; seeking spiritual renewal through exchange of cash for services.  Later, as I wait to purchase my hipness at Starbucks, unaware of the purple bruised rings easily visible on my shoulders, I will conclude the experience to be worthwhile.  No gain without pain, right?  

I open the hot tub cover and go on Frog patrol.  Frog free.  Ahhhh! I slip into the hot water, hoping to erase the Duplo block 'tattoo' lingering in purple on my back.  The cupping session was days ago, but like ripples in a lake, I've got rings.

I settle back, ease the tub jets on and wonder where my persistent pal has gone...

Frog and the Female Warrior Wannabe

#firstworldproblems #whining #lostinmiddleclassamerica

There was a frog in my hot tub.  Not so much in, as on the edge; but still, I know you are gasping right now at the obvious severity of this situation. I gasped too; my leg half in, balanced like a pelican and frozen in time as my eyes met the frog's.  More accurately, my gasp was a loud gulping mew.  After a sort of hop dance flop, I was out of the hot tub. The frog just stared, holding his ground, the clear victor in this first round of stand off with female human.

I blinked as I made a tally of who was home that would be willing to remove the frog for me.  Husband? Nope.  Daughter? Home, but no more comfy with amphibious creatures than me.  Daughters boyfriend? Nope.  Cats?  LOL. Yeah. Right. My big voracious hunters had grown into fussy old nappers. No.  There was no assistance. Sigh.

I reached for the green net that I had moved to the hot tub's edge for removing debris. Frog shifted.  I braced for my battle advance, moving the net over the frog.  He slipped into the hot, chlorinated water and immediately hopped out nearby.  I smiled and heard myself utter out loud "See dumb ass frog, You don't want to swim in this water."  Frog blinked but remained steadfast on the hot tub edge.

Despite my fears, I knew I had the upper hand (literally).  A few more attempts, a few more frog baths, and Frog was finally willing to go for a net ride to the back tall grass. I held the net out in front of me as if it was radioactive waste. I was vigilant for any leaps towards me.  My heart was racing and I didn't dare breathe along this dangerous quest.  At the tall grass, I didn't so much release Frog as drop the net and run away.  Oh so Brave! the valiant woman warrior!  The earth connected, nature loving goddess...

My husband would have taken Frog another fifty feet to the stream; but I was terrified and barefoot. Besides Frog was a frog. How fast could it move? Wouldn't it forget all about the warm steamy place under the plastic ledge-like cover where it could be safe and cozy?

Of course, the next day, Frog was back.  But this time I had company; the daughter's boyfriend picked it up in his hands and carried it to the stream.  Like it was a puppy. Like it was not a gross, nasty, terrifying chunk of leaping, croaking frog flesh...

I slipped into the frogless hot tub, took a good look around just to be safe, and finally closed my eyes dreaming of my fearless nature loving warrior escapades...
in some fantasy place...
where frogs do not exist.

A Pool of Margaritas

It's high time for a walk on the real side 
Let's admit the bastards beat us 
I move to dissolve the corporation 
In a pool of margaritas 
So let's switch off all the lights 
Light up all the Luckies 
Crankin' up the afterglow 
Cause we're goin' out of business 
Everything must go 
Steely Dan, "Everything Must Go"

Margaritas will be shaken soon, but now I sit with a glass of house Chardonnay at my favorite local bar.  I sit alone, reading glasses on my nose, typing a blog that I type for me alone. A blog so I remember. A blog so I can decipher the code of this moment.

I didn't dissolve the corporation, but I may as well have.  I have spent the last ten days filling orders from a final sale for a jewelry eCommerce site that I grew from nothing into something.  The something wasn't a blip on any competitor's radar, but I sold over a quarter of a million dollars of hand made jewelry over the past eight years.  That counts as something...
At least, I think so.

SO, why is it gone?  I could and have said that the economy and the price of silver joined forces against me.  I could say that consumers are a fickle lot and finding their pulse is nearly impossible.  I could say a lot of things, but the real reason is that I simply got bored. I lost my passion for it.  I lost my mojo.  I lost my dedication. I lost my discipline.

The economy was difficult; however, the customers were not fickle. In fact, in eight years of business, I can only count three experiences where people were nasty.  My customers were darlings; good people just wanting quality...and I delivered.  I made beautiful, unique stuff.  I offered good customer service.  

If anything, my creativity was fickle. It would show up in bursts of energy when I was already overwhelmed with work and leave me as dry as the dessert when I needed new pieces for the season.  Naming the pieces, photographing the pieces, editing the photos, and writing brilliant prose were my bete noir.  I loved the creation, but despised the tedious web interfacing to showcase the finished work.  

In the end, other pursuits vied for my creative engine's output.  I found joy in art. I found clarity in writing.  I found that old talents could be resurrected and it was never too late to learn.

So, did the business fail me or did I fail it?  The question is rhetorical.  I wrote this to remember, but I am positive I will never forget the bliss of reading "Brenda, I just wanted to tell you how much I love my necklace."  

Pushing Antlers

I have been a bit aloof of late; missing full moons and such...

Today marks the New Buck Moon, named for when young male deer begin to push soft velvety stubs that will eventually become hardened antlers.  I did a bit of research, planning a killer metaphor, but all I could think was "OW!!"  Seriously, growing antlers must hurt-  far worse than wisdom teeth; but then I remembered puberty. OH GAWD! Puberty!!! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh........

If my feet weren't growing faster than ability to coordinate them, my breasts were spilling out of newly purchased bras. My face was cratered like the moon's surface and my crying jags were the stuff of legend.   I wanted to grow up, but needed to be mothered as well. I wanted responsibility, but not the boring part. I wanted to date, but was clueless when a boy stuck his tongue in my mouth.  In short, I was a mess- a perfectly normal, hormonal thirteen year old mess...

And the scary part was that nature had decided I was an adult, ready to reproduce. What the hell??  It was like giving the keys of a Cadillac to a toddler.  I had no idea what to do with my body; it instantly became foreign to me, like an enemy in wait.  Oh, so you want to go to a dance?  Well here is a zit for ya, sister!  You want to impress Jim?  Oops, don't trip in those ridiculous high heels your mother warned you were a broken ankle ready to happen.  And did you really have to get your new monthly friend during your presentation on moon travel? Did you?

And the deer think they have it so rough...

But we all lived through it. We garnered our new found assets and corralled those raging hormones. We grew into our feet and finally understood our internal metamorphosis. In short, we learned. We adjusted. We accepted.  And we celebrated that which we became.

That is the key to all successful change no matter how terrifying or painful.  
We must learn; understand what options are available to us.  
We must adjust; knowing that no single option will be perfect. 
We must accept; that which we cannot change.

And when it is all said and done, we need to celebrate.  

Fashionably Late with Red Stained Hands

The new Strawberry Moon was yesterday. Yup. Missed it again.

I could argue that I am preoccupied. I could ask for pardon. I might imply that a day late is no big deal. After all, I am unsure of my readership...or if I have one at all...But I needed to take an extra day to determine what really resonated at my core. I owed us both that extra time.

There are wild strawberries growing profusely in a section of my acre of paradise in beautiful New Jersey.  No, there was no sarcasm in that last sentence. I love my property and I do love New Jersey. Perhaps New Jersey love is a topic I best keep to myself, but wild strawberries...now that is a topic everyone can enjoy.

My daughter would pick the weedy clumps of circular leaves when she was younger, bringing home a red stained bowl full of tiny berries with oversized seeds and red hands. She was proud of the harvest and we ate them with joy; wild strawberries are incredibly sweet and flavorful.  Yes, the seeds were a distraction, but not as much deterent as they initially appeared.  I recall the taste so vividly...heaven on your tongue.  It is a taste that compels one to be take note, be present.

I was mowing the lawn last Thursday, mulling words a shaman gave me. I thought I might blog about that, but it is still too new and shapeless...more like a lump of clay to analyze for the potential within. But back to mowing...with each mower pass, I noticed more and more berries; ripe, perfect, sitting among plants I refer to as weeds.  I noticed the blackberry thicket covered with blossoms and the few raspberry plants we actually had atttempted had spread, relocating themselves slowly to the southwest for a better harvest.

My yard was a garden. Full of bounty.  For the critters that live among the "wilds" of my acre in New Jersey. For the song birds. For the snakes. For the mice.  And for me, if I make the effort, see the value in red stained hands for a small taste of heaven.

How many other moments of joy are so easily obtained?  Why do we pass them up?  Do the seeds look too big? Is one moment of bliss so readily available elsewhere?

My truth is that I rarely see the little delights, my eye is always on some larger prize on the horizon.  Yet, there is no guarantee of any other second than now. This breath. These last ending words.

And my red stained key board as I type...

May I be blessed to find that small bliss again.

Rosewater Tea

The tea bowl steamed before me and warmed my core; Kali had poured the boiling water from her kettle into the small prepared bowl of rose petals and leaves and twigs.  I held it with both palms and let the smell and heat penetrate me. I lifted it gently and took a sip.  Something compelled me to keep sipping, gulping actually, and then it was empty.  I looked to Kali to refill it, but she was blatantly ignoring me.  Such is the love of Kali. More like a busy mother than Goddess...Kali is both terrifying and nurturing.  She gives a healing without hesitation, but then she is done with you and it is best if you move on.  
Go play outside, she seems to imply.

I have experienced Kali as both a quiet beauty in white gown and as the dark creature her appearance is mostly associated with.  Skulls as a belt, bones for a corset; yes, she references death most assuredly, but her weaponry also cuts through false consciousness and our binds that enslave our hearts. 

When I am fortunate enough to encounter Kali in shamanic work or in my dream realm, I am needy and childlike in her presence.  She has always offered me a healing of some form; most recently in a shamanic journey, she cut my body to pieces and threw it all on a smoldering fire.  It sounds kind of harsh, but in shamanic principles it is referred to as decomposition and reformation. It is a spiritual rite of passage that works to reconfigure our soul...to better re-position it to find its true path.

So, what is a true path? 


Wait...were you thinking I had the answer? Were you waiting for me to answer. Ha Ha. That's funny. No. I have no idea...that answer eludes me...

But that's not fair, you assert!  After all, I am the blogger lady...shouldn't I know the answers to the questions I pose?  WTH, you read my blog and all...shouldn't you get free knowledge?

No, true knowledge is never free. It comes with responsibility. It demands patience. It requires discipline. And the answer for me is not the answer for you.  The true path is an individual journey, the quest to find our soul's unique purpose in this life.  

And so, I drink rosewater tea in my conscious life hoping that the heady perfume elixir will open my eyes and unlock my ears. I sip and ponder. I don't know the answer, but I will keep striving until I do.

And with any luck, Kali will grace me with her presence once again...

Racing Toward Oblivion

"This now is it. This. Your deepest need and desire is satisfied by the moment's energy here in your hand."  Rumi

I often live ahead of the present.  I think that once X or Y is completed, fixed or otherwise behind me on the life trajectory, I will be happier, wiser, better, and finally ready to undertake the great things that I think my soul might be capable of.

Of course, this is folly.  There is always something ahead on the calendar that gives me pause and there always will be.  Whether it be landscaping projects, money matters, love quarrels or colonoscopies; I will never cease to have struggles.  That is life.  Struggles are how we learn and grow.  And really, I am so grateful that my list contains such minor things.

Part of my moon meditation for this new moon (the Flower Moon) will be to be present. First, for a moment, then for an hour, hopefully building into being present for a good chunk of each day.  After all, the moment is all I am promised.  To be so confident as to ignore all this time passing me while I wait for some idyllic future is just blind.  I have been assured of no time then now.  I have been assured of no better moment.

So, I shall breathe tonight under the dark black of the new moon, feel my lungs expand and focus on the beautiful gift I have been granted: LIFE.

Turn! Turn! Turn!, the Full Pink Moon

Saucer magnolia petals 4-24-13

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn)
There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn)
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven

A time to be born, a time to die

A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

The Byrds, Turn!Turn!Turn!

lyrics adapted by Pete Seeger from the Book of Ecclesiastes 

Are you ready for spring? The question was posed by my neighbor as we discussed our weekend plans.  I had to bite my tongue as to not point out that spring arrived over a month ago, but I managed silence as I knew exactly what she meant.  And the answer is an emphatic NO.  No, I am not ready for spring.  I'm dawdling and ill prepared; my yard work seems stalled as a part of our yard is in construction. Even the plants seem late.  

TURN! TURN! TURN!

That last sentence is a lie. The plants are never late.  They are timed quite intricately to the sun calendar and temperature.  Perhaps what I mean is that this spring feels more blustery than the norm.  Trees are leafing, the cherry and apple trees are about to turn the world pink.  Nature is on time.

TURN! TURN! TURN!

Time is moving whether we are ready or not...a particularly hard lesson I learned this past month.  Another dear family member has passed, our Aunt Sue, and I feel our house has been cloaked in mourning for so long.  Must we all return to dust?

TURN! TURN! TURN!

But everything has a season, has a time.  To bloom or to decay. We are powerless to stop it, best to just enjoy it.  And this month, the world is turning pink.

Froot Loops

"Froot Loops is a fun part of a complete breakfast, and is a good source of fiber", my husband reads to me from the small ready to eat cereal package.  I had picked up the package and put it back; it had been so long since I ate something so junky... so completely nutrition-less and to boot, it was one of my food addictions.  He had taken it back off the shelf and was discussing the lack of calories.  I put it back on the shelf and then, like a true junkie, snatched it back off in a move of uncontrolled desperation.  My face flushed liked a thief caught stealing and I couldn't look my husband in the eye.  I was being naughty. Food naughty.  It felt exhilarating...

I reassured myself that it was a single serving. I reasoned that we were camping.  Everyone knows food rules don't apply to camping...

And that is how I found myself sitting on a hard bunk in a dusty ancient cabin eating Froot Loops while watching my spouse sitting in meditation on a picnic table just outside.  Perhaps I was in my own meditation- mindlessness in spoon to mouth feeding.  The little donuts of color certainly looked tasty in a true sugar fix way; but something was off.  They tasted like nothing...

sweet

...but nothing. 

I wondered how it could be that I once ate a whole box in a cartoon daze on a Saturday morning while my elders were sleeping off their Friday night bowling orgy.  I took another bite; the milk was cold and I liked the interplay of crunchy wetness, but the taste was still so bland.  Could my taste buds have progressed so far?

I thought about my current favorite foods.  My friend Micha's delicious Béchamel sauce Mac n Cheese is a top runner. I am also a total sucker for Maria's Deviled Eggs.  (Please Maria, grace me with just one this summer...or a whole dozen...if you insist.)  I adore my husband's Filet and Brandy Peppercorn Sauce.  I love my daughter's Lasagna (no, not a recipe handed down through my Italian roots, but her own find.  Savory and oh so good!) I am also an immodest fan of my own Leftover Veggie Stir Fry, oozing with fresh ginger and garlic.  I try to find the common element and all I can see is that they are all fresh creations brimming with good ingredients, but more importantly, LOVE.  These recipes are not Julia Child's Beef Bourguignon; but there is the commitment of time to chop, stir, whisk, watch and coax. 

And maybe that is what has changed- I am used to food that has intrinsic energy. Energy in how the food is organically grown. Energy in how it is locally obtained. Most importantly, energy from the chefs who understand that to cook well is to offer love. No, let me correct myself...to cook well is to create love.

Sorry, Toucan Sam, but even your neon colors can't hide how dull your offering is in contrast to the harvest of well tilled earth and culinary competency. 

Virtue Steps Out: The Full Sap Moon

"Wait.  Read that again, please", I interject.  My thoughts float upward and flit about his words, like smoke, making visceral, barely visible patterns. Something is forming in my mind and the recognition of words that ring all too true echo in my ears. 

He is reading from The Te of Piglet by Benjamin Hoff.  We have started this book many times, but have never managed to finish it.  The last starting was about two years ago; hence, the need to begin completely again.  He reads again, "Te is pronounced DEH, In classical Chinese, it is written two ways. The first joins the character for "upright" to the character for "heart". Its meaning is virtue. The second way adds the character for "left foot" which in Chinese signifies "stepping out". Its meaning is virtue in action."

I ask him to stop for a moment; there is a whiff of an idea and I need to let it take shape.  The words feel familiar but there is a very good chance that he read me this section just two years before.  Yet, the words have my attention and therefore, a lesson may root.

I try to articulate my thoughts. "Pete, I am thinking that perhaps I have a kind of 'virtue' and I just don't seem to be able or willing to "step out".  Remember how the Shaman called me the 'water buffalo with no village'? He was referring to my not knowing how to use my talents.  He said I wait in the rice paddies for someone to know how to harness my skills."  My husband acknowledges the conversation and adds that talent is not necessarily virtue.  True enough, but the concept is a seed and I can feel my mind nestle it gently into my craw.  

I can allow it to grow, leaf, and maybe bear fruit or I can choke it off before it ever breaks shell; such is the way with our ideas.  We give some space and sway while others are either too silly, or worse, too terrifying to be allowed to root.  Yet, under this moon, the Sap Moon, this notion of 'action' must be given space...even though it terrifies me.

The Sap Moon is a harbinger of Spring; its name refers to the thawing of trees.  As spring melts the frozen innards of the trees, so has my heart been melted these past few years by deliberate change. The time is right for me to "step out".  I feel spring in my step.  I feel spring in my heart.  If 'action' has a chance- it is under this moon of renewal.

And that is the promise of this moon for each of us.  Life begins...again. New. Rested. Fertile. Whether we can harness the moment for positive change depends on our mindset and our heart.  

Under this Sap Moon, I pledge to at least tend the garden.

Of Crows and Fools

This morning, I was leaving my driveway when I spotted a crow on my neighbor's unsightly stump of a Sandy victimized tree. I stopped my backwards progress, moved the car from reverse to park and watched for a moment.  I might mention here that crows fascinate me.  They are a tad blander and smaller than their more mysterious raven kin, but they do exhibit personality.  They are often overlooked because of their uniform dark coloring; but if you look close enough, their simple black feathers show iridescence. They are sizable, but not menacingly so...just a bit like a black football on spindly legs.  They also love to talk; squawking among themselves and in packs.

The crow in question was busying itself by pulling on the root of the overturned, sawed down tree. The crow would pull, and pull some more.  The root in question offered no indication that it wasn't firmly attached, yet this crow was determined.  Maybe that is why I watched so long...a fascination with its foolhardiness. To my eyes, there appeared to be plenty of perfect sized twigs lying just under this stump.  Why was this crow wasting so much energy on this one particular root?  Couldn't it see its own blunder?

And this is where I laughed outright...at the crow and at myself.  I smiled and bit my lip as I wondered how many activities I pursue that look equally inane from the outside.  How often have I tugged at roots when simpler, just as satisfactory solutions lay littered around my feet?

And I too love to talk; squawking alone and in packs.

In theory, my brain is larger and therefore more developed than my crow friend.
In theory...

Circles, Circles

On Society 6, a grass root community event is occurring called the 'Circle Project' (http://society6.com/AnaiGreog/Circle-Time#comments). 

I had wanted to finish this small drawing for a while and this event forced my hand back to it.  It is kind of a representation of the "Circle Dream" posted here (see tab above if you have any interest).

This specific artwork is not for sale. Feel free to copy and use as desired.  I know the dream was a gift to me and I understand it would be wrong to profit from these ideas.

Anubis in the Closet: New Sap Moon

So many analogies to the new moon this morning, but Anubis sunk his teeth into my hand as I typed and I had to pick him, surely if only to have his hold on me slip as he looked over my shoulder for typos as I typed.

I've been cleaning closets of late...metaphorically and literally. My daughter left a mess on her way out to adulthood and I am covetous of her bedroom...specifically, her closet.  Must be nice to own closets in two separate homes!  Must be awesome to have storage space for clothes that haven't  been worn, much less looked at in half a decade. I opened her auxiliary closet (the one in my home) a few months ago and quickly closed it.  

Clothes were piled on the floor, two feet high. Clothes were still on hangers wall to wall, floor to ceiling. Clothes.  Clothes that I quickly realized I had purchased with my husband's and my income. Clothes that she must have, fit her perfectly, she would perish if she did not get. 

Storage space is not a luxury in this home of mine and I have been secretly planning my closet coup. I want it. I want it all.  Every last cubic inch! The battle plan was drawn and my weapons chosen. I had planned and over planned; yet, in the end, the clothes did not offer any kind of defense. Oh, one pair of pants attempted a noble entanglement in a prom dress; but I subdued the hero and soon had imprisoned the entire lot in several large sturdy bags for the trip to the Island of Unwanted Clothes.

The closet isn't quite empty yet; there are remnants of her childhood lurking in a few boxes and one of her prom dresses argued quite eloquently for clemency.  But I'm not done. Not by a long shot. I want that closet empty...if only for a day.  All I had wanted at inception was to get some space to hang my version of my unwanted clothes.  I happily dreamed that I could be the queen with two closets! How decadent! 

Yet now, a new idea has emerged. I want the 128 cubic feet empty just so I can sit in it, be surrounded by nothing, close the door and be alone in the dark.

And here, Anubis nods his head in approval as he finally sees the tie in.  I want a tiny tomb for just a day. Just as a dress rehearsal...just to see what it feels like...just to know what waits for us in the dark.

I know it is an activity of a foolish, perhaps slightly bent, bored artist, but when the shoe or closet fits, you got to take action.  I can even visualize the hieroglyphics I might draw in crayon; a curious puzzle for the next closet cleaner to find.  

The New Moon is a lot like an empty closet.  You can shove lots of crap into the moment, or you can choose to sit quietly in the dark, listening to your heart and wonder...