Holding On, Letting Go, and Awakening

My Tarot card of the day was number 20 in the Major Arcana:  Judgment--Awakening as it is shown in my new favorite deck, The Gaian Tarot, by Joanna Powell Colbert.  She writes that this card is about awareness of a shift in consciousness—an opening up to a life of the spirit.  In discussing the shadow side of the card, she talks about how difficult it can be to release our attachment to old ways of doing things, old habits, and old beliefs, even when these ways no longer serve us and indeed are perceived as negative.

I’ve been in a period of Awakening for quite a while now—opening up to a life of the spirit in a multitude of ever deepening ways. And yet, I am also aware of the difficulty of letting go of some of my old habits—things I know I need to release, and yet somehow always seem to fall back upon in times of stress or distress. I am sometimes amazed at the tenacity with which the vestigial remnants of my old self can fight for what comforts it, despite the many efforts my awakening self makes to shift those patterns.

The last 48 hours have been extremely windy—gusts up to 50 mph where we live. I’ve spent much of today upstairs in the studio, weaving and listening to the wind howl through the trees and make the wind chimes dance. From time to time I’ve gone to one of the windows to watch the trees swaying in the wind. From the east window, I can see the bare branches of a lovely oak tree, which has been doing its share of dancing. My attention has focused on one branch—one broken branch about at eye level—swinging and swaying in the repeated gusts of winds.     

           

This branch was broken during the unusual Samhain snow storm we had this year.  It is visible from the ground, but not reachable with our tallest ladder.  It will have to be brought down as it was broken, by the efforts of Mother Nature.  I have been expecting this to happen all afternoon.

As I have studied this swinging branch, I have come to realize that even though it is broken, it is not likely to fall soon.  The branch is perhaps three inches in diameter.  The top half is broken, and the rest is bent, which is why it hangs down and swings.  But the bottom half is not broken—merely bent with the weight of the branch.  It is still pretty firmly attached to the unbroken part of itself and likely to remain so until Time and Mother Nature slowly dry out the green wood and break the connecting pieces bit by bit.  .

This broken branch no longer serves the mother tree.  Although it may produce a few new leaves when spring comes, it is unlikely to flower or produce fruit.  And yet, it is still firmly connected—still receiving energy from the mother tree, who is not quite ready to let go of this broken branch.

I find this to be an interesting metaphor for the process of releasing and letting go of old patterns and beliefs.  Sometimes in ritual, or therapy, or perhaps both, we identify something that no longer serves our authentic selves and make a determination to release it.  I think ritual and therapy are both important tools in this process.  However, it is probably unrealistic to expect to immediately and completely let go of something just because you say you want to, or have, especially when you are discussing a habit that has been forming for decades or more.

My personal experience is that it takes a while to fully release something I truly wish to let go.  I may break the branch, but parts of my subconscious will continue to send energy to that broken branch.  Vigilance and diligence are required to gradually reduce and eliminate the energy sources of which I am only dimly aware at first.  Slowly, over time—it may take more than a season—the old habit or broken branch will completely dry up and then fall away. 

Observations today have convinced me that the broken branch on my oak tree will likely be there this time next year.  By then, perhaps, it will have lost enough energy sources for its connections to the mother tree to finally be broken. 

I’m taking a lesson in patience from this observation.  Broken habits and branches can ultimately be severed from the mother tree, but it is rarely a quick and immediate process.  Change—even change we devoutly desire--takes time.  That does not mean I cannot continue to grow and evolve into my new authentic self.  The continued attachment of a negative pattern or two does not stop that process.  But it does remind me to be gentle with myself when those lingering patterns rear their unwanted heads.  Change takes time and patience is a virtue.  I think I’ll have a piece of chocolate.

Mardi Gras Madness

           Today is Mardi Gras—Fat Tuesday—the last day  before Ash Wednesday when the season of Lent begins.  Traditionally Lent involves a sacrifice of some kind—a giving up of something in preparation for the glorious events of Easter, some 40 days hence.  In many Catholic cultures where Lent is seriously observed, the day before Ash Wednesday became a festival in its own right—a community-wide celebration providing participants the chance to enjoy life before beginning a period of serious sacrifice.  Hence Mardi Gras—Fat Tuesday—the ultimate opportunity to eat, drink and be merry.

            In my old life, before I took up residence in the glorious State of Maine, my first husband, David, and I lived in New Orleans for 25 years.  Over those years, we developed our own customs and rituals for observing Mardi Gras, or rather Carnival, the proper name for this season, which begins on Twelfth Night (January 6) and runs until Mardi Gras.  In honor of my friends and family still living in New Orleans, and the many pleasant memories I have of those times, I’d like to share a little about what my life would be like if I were still a resident of that strange and wondrous city.

            We would have gotten up early on this Mardi Gras day, to put the finishing touches on our costumes and get dressed.  The photo below shows David and me the year we dressed as pirates.  After packing up the supplies we would need for a day of walking in the French Quarter—water, sun glasses, band aids--we’d leave the house around ten, stopping a few blocks away to catch the Rex Parade at the start of its run down to the edge of the Quarter.  After Rex passed, we would zip down to the Quarter, taking the circuitous routes necessary to avoid the parades and hopefully get to our destination—the far side of the French Quarter, and find cheap and legal parking—always as challenge—by 11 am.     

            By this time in the Carnival Season, we’ve been to maybe a dozen parades—each following the same basic pattern with distinct and interesting variations.  Parades are put on by different organizations called crewes, many of which bear the names of classical gods—Hermes, Iris, Baccus, Endymion, Orpheus, Muses—and all of which have themes.  Some themes are corny beyond belief, but some crewes specialize in satirical themes, often with a political bent.  Woe be the public figure who pisses the people off—he will find himself skewed in multiple ways throughout this season.  

Mardi Gras parades are not like parades in other cities.  The bands are always excellent and play jazz and R&B instead of marches.  The floats are huge—the Orpheus Parade boasts one float a city block long—and some are lit with neon and other flashing lights.  Each float is inhabited by a dozen or so members of the crewe.  Crewe members are always in costume, are usually drunk, and are surrounded by huge bags holding beads, toys, trinkets and cups which they throw to the crowd.  The crowds are usually equally huge—generally several people deep on each side of the parade route, which is about 5 miles. 

For the more popular parades, people arrive early, bringing chairs, coolers, step ladders for the kids, and bags to carry home their loot.  The Endymion Parade—one of the largest and most elaborate--runs on Saturday night and always has a celebrity guest.  People have been known to camp out overnight on the route for this parade so as to hold a prime spot for parade viewing.  During the day they will be joined by family and friends.  For the locals, parades are family affairs and some families and groups of friends have been meeting at the same location for the same parades for decades.

Throughout the weekend before Mardi Gras, several parades are held each day and night.  People who own houses on parade routes are never lonely during this time, or else they leave town so as to avoid the noise and chaos. 

During our last several years in New Orleans, our Mardi Gras weekend events evolved to include Mardi Gras Balls.  On Friday night, we often went to the Zulu Ball, held by the Crewe of Zulu, the largest and oldest black crewe in the city.  David had a lot of friends among the political elite of the city and was generally able to get tickets.  Mardi Gras balls are always very formal and are basically debutant events.  Thus , if one arrived on time at Zulu, one would sit through the introduction of a dozen or more young women—daughter of XYZ—and her escort, son of ABC.  We learned to arrive around the time the music started—which was generally midnight.  After the first year, I gave up trying to have the most sparkly dress for this event—it was just not possible to out-do the women who had been attending this ball for decades and would willingly wear 12 pounds of sequins in order to out-shine the other wives of crewe members.  Here is a photo of one of our Zulu ensembles.

         For me, the best part of the entire Carnival Season was always Mardi Gras day in the French Quarter.  Early in the day Quarter is filled with costumed locals, many of whom have been planning their costumes since last Mardi Gras.  Some are so elaborate it is hard to imagine how the person moves.  Some are ensemble pieces involving a whole family—Dorothy and her companions from the Wizard of Oz, worn by a group of gay men—or all the impossible colors of mms—orange, green, purple, pink, white—worn by a family with several children.  Often the costumes are risqué, and there is a certain amount of more or less discrete nudity.  I could go on and on, and have boxes of photos, but you get the general idea. 

Casual, informal parades snake through the Quarter this day—always on foot.  Generally there are a couple of musical instruments leading the way—a couple of trumpets and a drum—some professional, some amateur.  Some 2-3 people will be carrying the parade banner, and they will be followed by masses of costumed revelers.  We often joined in these groups, lending our energy to the overall festivities—dancing our way down the street with unselfconscious abandon—taking photos and being photographed—stopping to chat with people we knew, and then dropping to the sidelines for a bit just to watch and enjoy.

This is what the real Mardi Gras is all about—music and dancing in the streets—friends and family gathering to celebrate life—costuming so you can, for a few hours or days or weeks, express your alter-ego.  It is a very different energy from the big parades and the formal balls.  It is organic and of the people.

David and I zigzagged our way back and forth across the Quarter—down to the river front—back up to the crowds—until time to meet friends at the House of Blues for late lunch, as became our custom.  Then we meandered our way to the home of different friends, who actually lived in the Quarter and held an open house.  We’d grab some water, freshen up, and hang out on their stoop, watching the glittering hordes form and reform in front of our eyes.

The party in the French Quarter continues until midnight, when Mardi Gras is officially over and the police clear the streets, sending revelers into the bars for more drink and music.  We always made it a policy to leave by dark.  By then the hordes of drunken guests who have been watching the parades in other parts of the city have poured into the Quarter and the overall energy has changed.  But we have had a lovely day and our desire for revelry has been sated.  We’d wander back to our car and take our circuitous route home—to rest and talk and watch the local news reports of the festivities.         

Lent begins the next day—Ash Wednesday—and I was always surprised by the number of locals who made it to morning mass and carried ashes on their foreheads for the rest of the day.    

My Prayer Practice: Communing with Nature

And I dream that these garden-closes
With their shade and their sun-flecked sod
And their lilies and bowers of roses,
Were laid by the hand of God.

The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth, --
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.
By Dorothy Frances Gurney
 
“Nature is full of genius, full of the divinity; so that not a snowflake escapes its fashioning hand.”
Henry David Thoreau

          A man walks alone on a deserted beach.  Periodically, he stops to observe the movement of the water on the sand and the flow of the clouds across the sky, feeling a deep sense of awe and reverence. 

          A couple hikes a mountain path, stopping occasionally to observe the trees and undergrowth or to listen to birdsong or the rustle of leaves.  They reach the summit and stand, surveying the panorama surrounding them.  Few words are spoken, but a deep sense completion and wholeness is felt.  They hold hands and share this sacred moment.
          A woman works in her garden.  As she plants or feeds or otherwise tends the plants in her care, she is conscious of the amazing gift of life—of the miraculous ability of tiny seeds to grow into plants enriching her life with beauty and nourishment.  She pauses a moment to be grateful for this gift.

          If we combine Angeles Arrien’s definition of prayer as “a way of setting a sacred intention,” with Catherine of Siena’s assertion that “everything you do can be a prayer”, then surely each of these scenarios is a form of prayer.  When I read Maggie Oman Shannon’s book The Way We Pray, I was quite struck by the fact that the author does not include Communing with Nature as one of her smorgasbord of prayer forms.  Communing with Nature has been fundamental in my life as long as I can remember.  Indeed, I think it would be safe to say that Communing with Nature is the oldest form of prayer known to human-kind.

          I am a practicing Wiccan/Pagan and Communing with Nature in a fluid unstructured way is part of my daily practice.  I walk in the natural world—the beach, the forest, the mountains, my own yard—I tend to my companion animals and the plants I nurture—all with an intentional awareness of and desire to touch at some level the Divine Spirit in everything.  Sometimes I am silent.  Sometimes I verbalize a deep and heartfelt sense of gratitude for the beauty of the world and the blessings I experience by being open to that beauty.  Sometimes I dance.  Sometimes I drum.  Sometimes I sing.  Sometimes I select a rock or a flower and stare at it in deep contemplation of its intricacy and beauty.  If I initiate one of these responses to my experience, it is the way my Divine Soul is choosing to respond at that point in time, to the presence of the Divine in the Universe.  I am communing with the Divine as represented by the natural world.

          This spiritual practice has been with me since childhood.  My parents taught me to say my prayers morning and evening and to go to church on Sunday’s.  But the Divine taught me to climb a tree, sit on its branches and marvel at the pattern created by the bark and the miracle of the fruit it produced.  I believe that a spark of divinity lives within me and within you and within everything created by the Divine—plants and animals, rocks and rivers, planets and stars.    

          Many of the pre-Christian spiritual paths that humans followed considered time spent in the natural world as a source of spiritual teachings and healing.  This is certainly true of the surviving indigenous cultures, in this country and others, as well as the contemporary adaptation of spiritual practices derived from indigenous cultures, such as Shamanism.  Indeed, as I recall my Bible stories, many of the Hebrew Testament prophets, such as Moses, as well as Jesus himself, withdrew to the natural world for the express purpose of communing with and receiving inspiration from the Divine Presence.    

          The nice thing about Communing with Nature is that it doesn’t require any special equipment—no art supplies—no sacred text—no words to memorize or create.  All that is necessary is my body and my intention to be open to Divinity.  As such, this form of prayer is accessible to everyone—small children and the elderly, urbanites and country-folk—anyone who is willing to take a few minutes and “combine concentration with wonderment”, as David Steindl-Rast writes.  You don’t even have to go outside, as windows to the sky provide ample frameworks for connection. 

          There are times in the lives of all of us when even the most well-intentioned words and gestures offered by others cannot break through the wall of misery and despair surrounding us.  Several years ago I experienced just such a dark night of the soul and was healed, in part, by time spent communing with nature.  I lived in New Orleans for 25 years.  In 2005, all the supports and props of my life were swept away from me.  Within a 4 month period, I lost both my parents, survived Hurricane Katrina, and lost my husband of 33 years.  I moved back to New Orleans in November and the misery, pain and anguish engulfed me.  The city was dark and dank and my life was dark and dank and I was not sure if I would be able to find a way to go on.  Into this monochromatic existence floated a gift.  The storm waters had planted a seed in my yard and, unbeknownst to me, it had started to grow.  By the time I noticed, it was growing up the side of my deck—huge verdant green leaves branching off a vine I had never seen before.  The presence of such vibrant color was healing in and of itself and I began to pay attention to this plant. 

          Over the next several months, this plant thrived.  And every day, when I got up, I went outside to look at it.  Observing this plant became the high point of my day.  I began to tend to it—dumping soil on its roots and making sure it had water—which was more attention that I was paying to my own physical needs at that point.  As winter slipped into spring, buds appeared, soon followed by giant buttery yellow flowers.  By now, I was spending part of everyday sitting outside by my vine, soaking up its energy, its beauty, and its wholeness.  Gradually, I got the message—I would survive—I too could flourish if I allowed it to happen. 

          Today I have a new life in Maine—a life I could not have imagined 6 years ago.  I have done massive amounts of exploration and healing, but I will never forget that my first step back to wholeness was guided by a single vine.  Such is the healing power of the very simple prayer practice of Communing with Nature.

Earth My Body

My body is a living temple of love.
My body is the body of the Goddess.
Chant from the Reclaiming Tradition

What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties,

in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel,
in apprehension how like a god!
Hamlet, by William Shakespeare

Much of my spiritual work is done in connection with the Elements of Life:  Earth, Air, Fire & Water.  The element of Earth is associated with north and winter.  Since here in Maine winter is in full force, it seems appropriate to focus my attention on Earth.

Earth is basically about physical reality—the material world in which we live, move and have our being.  There are many things traditionally associated with Earth and I suppose that over time I will ultimately write about all of them.  But today, I want to focus on the most intimate form of physical reality that humans connect with—our bodies, and more specifically our relationship with our bodies. 

I have only recently come to appreciate the true miracle of creation, engineering and design a fully functioning human body represents.  The health challenges I’ve faced during the last few years have pushed me to become more educated about how my body works and to say I am awestruck would be a vast understatement.  In and of itself, each system—circulatory, respiratory, digestive, nervous, skeletal, muscular, reproductive, endocrine—is an amazing feat.  And, each system interacts with the others in a layered and nuanced dance that is beyond imagination.  The Divine was certainly working overtime in creating humans!

Like many women, and some men, I have always had a very conflicted relationship with my body.  A big part of this is the cultural message I received about my body while growing up in the Deep South in 1950s.  The religious culture in which I was raised taught me two basic things about my body.  I was taught that the body was not nearly as important as the soul and therefore was not really deserving of as much energy and attention—after all, our flesh would return to ashes while our soul lived forever in heaven, or hell.  However, even if one could admit that the body in general had some value, since I am a woman, my body is sinful by nature.  I am not created in the image of god, since god is a man. 

This religious message received massive reinforcement from the greater culture which constantly assured me that my body was all wrong.  I was too fat, I smelled bad, and my hair was the wrong color.  All of these problems, however, could be solved by purchasing the right foundation garment or diet medication, deodorant or perfume, and shampoo or hair color.  The bulk of advertising on television today continues spreading the message that something is wrong with our bodies that can be fixed by consumption of the advertised product.  Today’s advertising stream includes prescription medications, but that does not mean the underlying message regarding the nature of our bodies is any different. 

Now, I am an intelligent, well-educated woman, fully capable of seeing through the insidious nature of the messages I received from both my church and the over culture of American advertising.  And yet . . . such messages, received from an early age, are very difficult to repudiate.  “It is astonishingly easy . . .  to be conditioned,” writes Gregg Levoy, author of Callings:  Finding and Following an Authentic Life.  “Imagine the effect on us of a lifetime’s worth of conditioning . . . of the thousands of messages, spoken and unspoken, that have been knitted into our minds ever since we came squawking out of the womb, and which we took on like hand-me-downs, regardless of whether they fit us or not.” 

I was conditioned to see my body as an object of little worth, and thus, I spent much of my adult life taking it for granted and abusing it in various ways.  I ate poorly, seldom exercised, colored and permed my hair and generally treated by beautiful body as a vehicle for carrying around my soul.  Junk food became a primary source of emotional comfort, since, as a dear friend once said, “When you’re dating Mr. Haagen Dazs, he never says no.”  Nothing in my extensive education taught me how to properly care for my body or to appreciate the intricate manner in which it functions. 

Two years ago, I was diagnosed with early stage of colon cancer.  This was a major wake-up call.  If I wanted to live long, which I did, and live that life in a healthy body, which I also did, then drastic measures were called for.  Since then, I have worked hard to improve my relationship with my body—to see it as a sacred gift which will serve me well for many more years if I nourish and care for it and understand and appreciate the details of how it works.  This has required over-coming a lifetime of resistance to regular exercise and considerable study of nutrition.  It is very hard, and requires on-going attention and focus.  Through this, I have come to see my body as more of a special friend than something that just carries my soul around.  

Now I’m not going to pretend that the lifetime of conditioning I received was broken in a couple of years.  When emotional crises arise, it is still second nature to me to reach for chips and chocolate ice cream.  But, slowly, I am reconditioning myself to other responses.  I’m learning to listen to my body and pay attention to what it says it really needs, as opposed the instantaneous response brought on by conditioning.  It is one fo the most difficult tasks I’ve ever undertaken.

I am supported in this task by a shift in my consciousness regarding my body and my soul.  While my body may not be the body of god, it is most definitely the body of the goddess.  As I honor and love the goddess, it becomes easier for me to honor and love my own body, with all its weaknesses.  As I honor and nurture my body, I am honoring and nurturing Earth—the element of physical manifestation.  My body and my soul are not separate and distinct entities but rather a united whole making this journey together.  Although my soul will go on when my body dies, in this time and place soul has chosen to manifest in this body.  To dishonor my body is to dishonor my soul.   

Today I support myself in the complex task of caring for my body by naming that as a piece of my sacred work and part of my connection with the element of Earth.  This elevates the mundane task of doing leg lifts from a chore to a sacred act—an act that nurtures the piece of Earth with which I have the most intimate relationship—my body.

Cup of the Moon

Cup of the moon, filling, filling, shinning in the night

Cup of the moon, spilling, spilling, spilling out her light
We dance in the light, in the silvery light, when the moon is at her fill
And when the cup of the moon is empty, we wait here listening and still
Chant from “Rainbows in my Mind,” by Carole & Bren

It’s 27 degrees here in southern Maine tonight—27 cold crisp degrees.  The sky is crystal clear and the full moon is so brilliant that it is easy to find my way as Taliesin and I walk the land.  I’m relatively new to life in this part of the world—at least in this lifetime—and if you had told me a few years ago that I would find myself wandering outside at night in the cold I might have wondered what you were smoking.  But in the past several months, I have increasingly found myself drawn to nighttime walking.

We sit by the empty fire pit and gaze at the moon, sinking into deep meditation.  I’m a Moon Child—a Cancer—so I have always had a special relationship with the moon.  Indeed, some of my earliest memories are of seeing the moon outside my bedroom window.  But the full moon in the humid night skies of Florida, where I was raised, never looks like this—so sharply bright that I feel I could use the edge of the moon to scrape candle wax off my altar.  I sit and gaze and it feels as if the very cells of my body begin to vibrate at a higher level.  Perhaps this is the essence of lunacy.

My first few years in Maine, we had over a foot of snow on the ground from Thanksgiving on and walking in the fields at night was not really feasible.  But this year the ground is still clear in January and I find I relish every additional day I have to wander in the dark, cold night—to feel the differences in the air--to catch the occasional shimmer of Faerie light--to watch the delicate tracery of the trees against the night sky—to study the stars, feeling the expansion brought by Jupiter and the loving caress of Venus.

I feel I can no longer sit still—I must dance in the moonlight, and so I do.  My feet find their own way, following perhaps the paths the Faeries have danced on this land for millennia.  My body sways—dips—turns—my ears cannot hear the rhythm to which my body is responding, but that barely matters.   I join the Faeries in their dance to celebrate the beauty of the full moon.    

The little grey dog winks in and out of visibility as she pursues her own dance through the night.  Sometimes the shadows envelop her and her chimes are our only clue to her location.  And sometimes she races into the moonlight, hot in pursuit of some unknown scent--glowing with her own energy and that of the shinning moon.

Tonight we are drawn to our little piece of forest.  I’ve never walked in a moonlit forest and am grateful for Taliesin’s presence as I open myself to this new experience.  The patches of light woven in amongst the towering shadows of the tree trunks are absolutely magical.  We move into a clearing and look at the sky.  The moon glows behind a subtle interlacing of pine needles creating an image so lovely my heart yearns to find some way to capture it so I can experience it again and again. 

After almost an hour of wandering—dancing—exploring—we are driven inside by cold hands and feet.  One more night of fullness and then the moon will begin to wane again—rising later every night until it seems to disappear—then three nights of darkness before, magically, it begins to wax into fullness again.  It is a rhythm etched into my soul—a dance of time, space, spirit and light that blesses my life as it blessed the life of my ancestors reaching back into the depths of time.  As I take one last look at the numinous beauty of fullness, I touch the souls of the other women and men, who tonight dance by the light of the silvery moon, as we humans have done since the beginning of time.  Blessed Be.