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.

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.