For the first time in my life, I have bedroom windows with eastern views, so I watch the sun rise every morning. Earth's rotation assures that it never rises in exactly the same place, and I have to close different blinds throughout the year to accommodate the rotation of the rising sun's rays.
There's a saying that we "never step in the same river twice, for the water is constantly flowing."
Motion--change--is the natural order.
You write it: What's moving in your life?
In the recent movie "Wonder" is a segment from Thornton Wilder's play, Our Town. The character Emily, from her afterlife, says, "Oh, earth, you're too wonderful for anybody to realize you. . . . Does anyone ever realize life while they live it?"
This morning as I journal, a gentle snow is falling. Looking out at the white beauty, my whole body fills with amazed gratitude. I am realizing life while I live it.
You write it: How about you?
A woman dies before her time.
A couple begins the adventure of marriage.
A man celebrates 38 years of sobriety.
A brother marks another birthday.
A teenager plans college visits.
A beautiful snow melts.
A friend arrives for a visit.
All is one.
You write it: All of these things in my life truly happened on the same day. When have you realized that all is part of a complete whole?
I stopped feeding the birds because of the hawks who swooped into their midst and inevitably caught one to devour. Today the birds in our yard find their own food--and there's plenty. I simply sit at the window watching, at close range, the bluebirds and purple finches feast on the tree's berries.
A friend called last week, concerned over someone's actions and harsh words. After talking it through, she decided to do nothing--to wait and see what happened. What happened was reconciliation, through no effort at all from my friend.
When we accept what is--stand back--do nothing, we leave space for God to work. Actually, we aren't doing nothing. We're living in faith.
You write it: What situation in your life is calling you to stand back and do nothing?
In a couple of days we'll honor love. It took me many, many years to learn how to love. I still do it imperfectly. Here is my experience of love as I understand it today.
Love
You write it: What is your understanding of love?
In the first class with Lynne McTaggert on The Power of Intention, her assignment was to keep a journal of my negative thinking. I consider myself a positive person, so I thought, "There won't be much in my journal."
Was I ever wrong! I was surprised at the number of times during the day I'm thinking of someone in a critical way--or I focus on something I don't like--or I condemn myself!
This assignment has had value for me in two ways. First, I am becoming more aware that I lose energy when I'm negative. Secondly, the exercise is working much like a fourth step in revealing my character flaws. Once they are exposed, then I know what to do. But as long as they remain hidden, I'm weakened.
You try it: Keep a journal of your negative thinking for a few days. What did you learn about yourself?
My friend Linda Storms responded to last week's blog with these profound words:
Staying in love
When I find myself doing or thinking unkind, impatient,
and judgmental actions or thoughts, it’s when I’m resisting what is.
Then I remind myself, "Not my will,"
I learn to trust what I can’t see. For me it represents surrender and coming to the realization that no matter how it looks, I don’t see a big picture. But ALL THAT IS does🙏🏻.
You write it: What is your experience with the power of surrender to strengthen love?
Love is patient. Love is kind. Love keeps no record of wrongs. This is the checklist I use when I feel ill at ease and know I need to examine my own reactions to people and events. I know I'm happiest and strongest when I'm acting from love. So when I'm feeling impatient, unkind, and resentful, I know I'm not in love.
That's when I stop, pivot by remembering what I'm grateful for, and then recite to myself, "Love is patient. Love is kind. Love keeps no record of wrongs."
You write it: What do you do to stay in love?
It was a simple invitation to dessert in the evening in my friend's home. I prepared for light, trivial conversation. But one of the guests was interested in the work I had done in my career. I tried to answer casually, as one does in social settings, but he probed, maintained eye contact, and listened carefully as I told the fuller story.
I left my friend's home that evening bathed in grace and blessed by someone who truly listened and respected what I had to say.
You write it: When have you been listened to with respect? When have you been a respectful listener?
As the last decorations of Christmas go into storage for another year, a familiar rhythm speaks to my soul. Order. Routine.
The beauty of the ordinary reigns.
You write it: What brings peace to your soul?
Along the way, someone told me, "Not everyone who has been driving for 30 years is a good driver."
When we're learning something new, it's easy to be open, creative, alert, and responsive. But when we're doing something we've done for years, it's tempting to be rigid.
My intention for this first day of 2018 is KEEP IT FRESH!
You write it: What has become a bit stale or slimy for you? What might you do differently to keep it fresh? (Note: you might even consider throwing it out.)
May you be infused with peace. May you find joy. May good health make your life enjoyable. May you laugh and be at ease. May you be surrounded by people who love you.
About ten days before Christmas in 1971, my sixteen-month-old daughter became suddenly, seriously ill. Her doctor thought she might have pneumonia, gave her a shot, and told me to call him back early that afternoon if she didn't improve. I looked down at her limp, gray, body and said, "I want her in the hospital right now."
A little before noon, a nurse, alarmed at her unresponsiveness, called the doctor to come to the hospital right away. A spinal tap revealed meningitis, and she was immediately hooked up to all kinds of tubes, placed under an oxygen tent, and wheeled away to isolation. The doctor said, "I think we caught it early enough that there won't be any permanent damage, if she lives."
Stunned, I donned my mask and robe and took my place beside her bed, where I stayed. That first night I kept asking God to save her life, praying that God would save her life. Around midnight, peace came over me. Somehow, I knew she would be okay.
For days she lay motionless under that oxygen tent, hooked up to life-saving chemicals. Finally, on Christmas Eve, nurses came into the room, unhooked her from all the tubes, and removed the oxygen.
I picked her up for the first time since the ordeal had begun. She felt like a newborn, unable to control her head. Nurses reassured me, "These little ones bounce back quickly." They were right. That evening, she was running down the hospital hallway.
On Christmas Eve my precious daughter and I went to sleep in a regular hospital room. She was in a baby bed, and I was in a regular hospital bed by her side. I slept so soundly that I didn't hear the Christmas elf that crept into the room to leave a red flannel stocking with candies and a toy plastic lion peeking over the top.
Every year at Christmas time, I give thanks for a vigilant nurse, a capable doctor, the most precious gift of a healthy child and the elf that hung the stocking on my daughter's bed.
You write it: What is your most precious Christmas gift?
When I learned of Mark's death, my first memory was the jar of clear, golden honey he gave me when he was a junior in high school, a student in my English class. He and his father together tended their bee hives, and his dad later told me that Mark had selected the finest honey to give to me.
A pure gift from a pure soul. Rest in peace, Mark.
You write it: Have you ever received a pure gift from a pure soul? What was the experience?
One of the truths that became clear to me when I began my spiritual journey is that what I focus on, gets stronger.
So recently, when I found myself distraught over one bad news report after another, I decided that instead of attending to current events, I would focus on performing two actions every day that make my part of the world a better place.
In the morning, I think about what those two actions will be. They don't have to be large or earth-shaking. As I perform them, I am aware of good energy. At the end of the day, I give thanks.
Will you join me?
You write it: What are two actions you could do today to make your part of the world better?
A neighbor constantly makes home improvements. One of those changes, made before we moved here, is a high platform built for a better view of the red rocks. Atop the platform are two chairs. Empty chairs.
In the 2-1/2 years I've been their neighbor, I've never seen anyone sitting in those chairs, contemplating and meditating, or even having coffee and pleasant conversation.
As I watch the sun rise this morning, I marvel at the effort we make to build what won't be used. And I wonder what it will take for us to simply enjoy what is.
You write it: How do you simply enjoy what is?
As I load my dishwasher, I often think of my grandmother who didn't have running water and pumped water from a cistern to wash dishes. Yet she loaded the table for a large family with delicious foods and always had cookies for me.
Then I think of my other grandmother. She always met us at the gate with, "I love you," which she repeated as we left. Her drumbeat was, "Get an education."
Then there's my mother, whose pecan pie was legendary. Later this week I'll follow her recipe, which never fails.
For those who came before me, I am grateful. For those coming after me, I am grateful. For all the experiences of my life that have brought me to today, I am grateful.
You write it: What are you grateful for?
The power of intention became real for me on a day when I asked to "be open for all the love that is here for me." Then I spent the day among people I hadn't seen for years and who I thought might not be happy to see me. Instead, love flowed abundantly and freely around, within, and through me for the rest of the day.
Lately I'm following the work of Lynne Mactaggart, an investigative reporter who is working with scientists to measure the power of intention. The results show unmistakable positive impact.
Power of Eight is the title of her book. I recommend it.
You write it: When have you felt the power of intention?
Piddling has always been one of my favorite things to do. When I have nothing else to do, I give my mind permission to take over and float me for awhile.
This morning's piddling involved battery-run candles. For two or three years, those candles with dead batteries had lain at the bottom of a drawer.
My piddling mind doesn't put things off. It says, "We could do that right now." To my utter amazement, I found batteries that fit and was able to light the light, which is now glowing from a favorite Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired glass candle holder. To my even greater amazement, it took only a few minutes.
Piddling brings me pleasure and contentment.
You write it: What brings you pleasure and contentment?
A few weeks ago my husband and I drove north about an hour, into the mountains north of Flagstaff, to see the aspen. This is one of the photographs I took.
That glorious yellow against a clear blue sky, accentuated by the gentle "quaking" of the leaves, fills my soul with peace, and I feel in that moment that all is right with the world.
You write it: What makes you feel that all is right with the world?
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