Just Ducky

It has not quite yet been a month since we arrived back home in Michigan. Today I am somewhere beneath the hustle and bustle of the world of spring and window cleaning business. The sun did come out to lure me away from my lists of tasks. A pair of ducks seemed grateful the April showers of the past couple of weeks had left a puddle about the size of a two-car garage on the property at the corner. They were not so sure I meant them no harm, and much quacking between them made me think one of them must have told the other, "Get out of the water. Now!" 

Waddling along the edge of the puddle, she was the first to slip back into the water. I am guessing he was the one who had given the warning, much like the Lost in Space robot's calling, "Danger, Will Robinson!"

But taking her lead, he soon joined her, with an still-ever-so-subtle attention to my whereabouts. 

In my mind I am watching the two ducks who often come to visit outside my window so I wonder why they did not recognize me as the one who watches them with a heart full of wonder and a fist full of corn. 

As a tribute to all of nature, including my own human nature, I will share a poem.

I Found A Feather

I found a feather on the ground
Who left it there for me?
Was it a gift of yonder god
To see if I can see?

Do I miss the other gifts
While busy in my head?
Planning what I still will do
Rehearsing what was said?

I pray I find
One soon fine day
I am right where I am

I put the feather by my bed
As I lie down to sleep
I dreamt of love so sweet
Indeed, it nearly made me weep

Now when I look up to the sky
Each winged one I spy
I pretend within my heart
I know the reason why

 

That lovely feather came to me
To call me to my heart
That I may live in peace and calm
Today's the day I'll start!

2/5/2013 by Debra Basham

"All ducks have a grace upon water, and as a totem they can help you to handle your own emotions with greater grace and comfort. They serve to teach you how to maneuver through various waters of life. Many psychologists and therapists could do no better than to have a duck as a totem to assist them in helping others move through their emotional tangles." (Ted Andrews, Animal-Speak, p. 136) 

May today be the day all beings start to live in peace and calm. That will be just ducky!

Our Larger Destiny

Legend has said that one day many centuries ago, Tara  was meditating and chanting her mantra in her Lotus Buddha Field, when some monks happened by. They felt her powerful vibrations and profound meditational energy, and they said, "Oh, Yogini  [female practitioner], you are such an excellent spiritual practitioner. In the future may you be born as a man and become a Buddha."

And Tara replied to those arrogant macho monks, "May I throughout all my lifetimes always take female form. Until all beings realize the nirvanic peace, bliss, and freedom of full enlightenment, 

may I always embody the sacred feminine and be a female Buddha."

Awakening the Buddha Within: Tibetan Wisdom for the Western World (p. 247),  by Lama Surya Das

This story catches my eye (and heart) quite fully right now as I was just reading a powerful poem by a woman writing about the sacred balance of ebb and flow of human live—some lives ending all too soon, and some lives beginning all too soon, yet each coming and going in just the perfect place of no-time.(The nuclear disaster in Chernobyl occurred in April of 1986.) 

The Years We Will Know Them

Soon I will know if I am pregnant.

I watch my blood, so willing

to fill the vial, and the tiny blue bruise

that instantly forms

where the needle entered.

In this waiting room I sit

with a Life magazine—

Victims of Chernobyl in bold

and photos of men without hair,

skin peeling as if they’d lain

too long in the sun.

Some glance hopefully at us, wide-eyed,

a part of History.

But how young—

they must have mothers

who’d want to hold such heads and weep

for the years they have known them,

the ones they will not.

Each morning nurses collect the hair

in great clumps from the pillows

till each bare scalp gives up

boyhood scars and birthmarks,

a shell bony and domed.

Uncovered, the nape of the neck

is a place a woman remembers

putting her lips to.

My name is called.

Soon I will know if the tender bone

of a skull is bedded

like a pearl in my womb.

—by Lauren Mesa

What strikes me as significant about this poem and the story of Tara, is the truth of how each of us is capable of touching life with such awareness that our very breath tells a story of our larger destiny.

Recently I was playing a game of dominoes with some friends. This was the third game over a few weeks with the same five players. It became obvious one player was playing AGAINST me even though I was not winning. I was aware that did not feel good. After shifting into a more neutral observer, as she was even saying things about the focus of blocking me, I mentioned what I saw that was happening: "You are playing against me as though i was winning."

Her reply was, "It feels like you are."

At the moment I was able to acknowledge I was experiencing my own energy from the previous two games.... I offered up a silent prayer for this awareness and wrapped my heart in forgiveness as I remembered my higher purpose was to enjoy the game.

I am witnessing one dear friend support her beloved husband as he navigates a diagnosis of Alzheimer's. She sees the challenges as opportunities for love and respect and tenderness and patience for both of them. 

I am also watching another dear friend (long since grandmother age) raise a baby. She finds delight in each busy moment rather than feeling overwhelmed by the responsibilities. 

I also hold that space for Carol after the transition of her beloved daughter, Lizzie.

No matter what we do for a living, the purpose of our lives is to use our heads, hands, and hearts to help others. Thank you, blessed friends, for doing that day after day....

Daffodils in bloom: Walking the labyrinth at Still Waters with Carol.

Leaf Floating in a Puddle

I was blessed to spend the weekend at a "no-frills" meditation retreat at the Howell Nature Center with nine others. The format for the weekend is silent practice. In fact, you have precious little free time, but I found amazing freedom.

The schedule mixes sitting meditation with active meditation, and much of the weekend was cold and rainy, so I practiced walking meditation up and down the stairs, sometimes with my eyes open, and sometimes with them closed; sometimes going backwards with eyes closed. It was my version of being led on a trust walk, only there was no other doing the leading.

During the Friday evening opening I learned that a woman I had met on two previous meditation retreats had died in March. I remember her as a wonderful spirit. I knew she was undergoing treatment for breast cancer but I admit that I was stunned to hear of her transition.Godspeed, Shelia....

I kept my phone plugged in, watching for text messages from my friend Carol, who was bedside by her 27 year-old daughter, Lizzie. (See previous blog) I knew the family had been called together and the process of easing Lizzie off life-support had begun.

On Sunday morning, the weather was cool but it had stopped raining, so I went out-of-doors for my walking meditation. As I turned the corner, coming out of the parking lot, following the "wrong way" signs, I saw this amazing piece of art: a single heart-shaped leaf was floating in a mud puddle. The puddle was surrounded by gravel, each piece seemingly having been placed there by some artist for its sheer aesthetic value. The tree silently standing watch had been reflected in the water in such a way you could imagine you were seeing the arteries from that heart.

It was so beautiful, it almost took my breath away.

I had the immediate knowing, "Lizzie is free."

For sure, much of my weekend was tinged with the humble gratitude for my own life. I was reminded of the answer my friend Rabbi Rami Shapiro provided in his column (Roadside Assistance for the Spiritual Traveler) to the question, "What happens when I die?"

Where does an ice cube go in a tub of warm water? You are the cube, God is the water. For a while you seem separate from the water, but eventually you melt – you die – and discover that you, too, are water. Have fun being a cube; just don’t forget that all cubes are water, and everything is God.

I had previously shared with Carol another of Rami's columns about our transition from this life:

Imagine that the universe is a rope and you, [and Lizzie], and all things are knots in that rope. Each knot is unique, and all knots are the rope. When we die our knot unties, but the rope that is our essence remains unchanged: we become what we already are.

Life after death is the same as life before death: the rope knotting and unknotting. The extent to which you identify with a knot is the extent to which you grieve over its untying. The extent to which you realize that the knot is the rope is the extent you can move through your grief into a sense of fearless calm.

For me, the rope is God, the source and substance of all reality. When [Lizzie] dies she relaxes into her true nature, and realizes who she always was and is: God. I believe this realization comes at death regardless of who we are or how we live.

As I pulled into my driveway, this message popped in from Carol, "Lizzie made a peaceful transition around 2:45 pm CDT. Her husband (AJ), his mom (Linda), Lizzie's older sister (Amanda), and I were there holding her hands." Godspeed, beautiful Lizzie...

Because I was alert to messages from Carol, I had my iPhone with me on my walking meditation. I am so thankful the sacredness of nature's artwork was captured to be shared....

Hands and Hearts

Every day I say prayers for those I know are going through challenges of life. Sometimes is it for one of my grandchildren, navigating the potholes along the road from childhood. I maintain contact with friends and with colleagues and several "prayer circles" so I often share those requests for support. Prayer has been second nature to me, but since my own surgery in November, I realize how palpable that healing intention is. 

Today I received a tender, touching, intimate photo of a my friend, holding the hand of her gravely ill thirty-something daughter. I can only imagine the agony of sitting bedside day-after-day, longing for a liver transplant, yet knowing that today your child is too ill to receive the very organ that is the hope for her life to be a viable option.

The following poem was written to honor my dear friend and her beautiful daughter, two women for whom I pray today. Two women whose hands and hearts are entwined in this sacred journey of their souls. It is a journey too profound for words.

Heart Breaking

Sitting here holding your hand

Heart breaking

Can you hear me calling you, asking you to stay a while

Where are you

Do you still dream

My mind wanders, but there is nowhere to go

Escape is not possible

Tears falling from my eyes

Heart breaking

Do you know I am here with you

I am here

I still dream