Friday, December 24, 2010

Facing the Music

The word for word lyrics of life aren’t always as important as the overall feel of the song, but every so often there’s a specific message that comes up in a line or two.

I don’t know how to read music, but I do understand tone, and how messages through music encompass a communication that can surpass both language and understanding. The mystery of music reaches beyond time and space in a way that fills and opens me simultaneously.

In Europe, during the 12th century, there was a mystic named “Hildegard Von Bingen” (1098-1179). She was given (the tenth child in her family) as a tithe to the catholic church. As time passed, she grew to become a well respected, yet visionary Nun, who drew from ancient wisdom, that views the entire cosmos as a perfectly harmonized music. She taught that every being, every entity, and every movement produces a sound that is inaudible to most, yet in harmonic relation to all other sounds.

We are all communicating with everyone and everything around us always; creating a great field of resonance, some of it audible and some inaudible.

My colleague Rex and I shared both an audible and inaudible harmony in the work we did together. Very often we would show up to work dressed in the same color, share the same thought at the same time, or hand each other the exact thing that one of us was looking for, but hadn’t verbalized yet. 

Rex had a way of being able to “tune-in” with friends, coworkers and clients alike.  I would surmise that his experience as gifted musician played a part in the refinement of his craft as a good listener, not just to the words you were saying, but more so, the place you were coming from as you said it.

Amidst our work in tandem with each other, Rex and I would occasionally sit and talk, sometimes just in passing, and other times our conversation would reach into the depths of the soul. One seemingly ordinary conversation, occurred just two months before his passing. We had both just finished up a session with our clients, when he came into my office and leaned against the frame of my office door, in a way that always made me smile to myself.  He was bringing me a small gift of the latest Mormon Tabernacle Choir CD.  He told me that, long ago, it had been one of our conversations that started him thinking seriously about trying out to sing in the “MoTab” in the first place.

Trial is a great word for it, we spoke often during this time of his trepidation and personal drive, as Rex went through rigorous tryouts and music theory testing, voice lessons and countless hours of musical study, and was eventually accepted. I always thought he was the loveliest low tenor-high baritone, so I wasn’t surprised when I turned to my doorway one morning to see him stomping toward me with a broad smile, arms outstretched and saying: “I made it!”

This past spring, as he handed me the CD, I couldn’t help laughing as I told him that I was just planning to download it the night before, but something stopped me. I had recently been given a new car that has the most incredible sound system, yet I was playing one CD repeatedly and was ready for a change.

Without missing a beat, he said: “You know, your voice has always reminded me of Stevie Nicks.” We both chuckled as I admitted to him that the CD I had been playing was Fleetwood Mac. He told me that he thought my voice and Stevie Nicks share a similar timbre that’s familiar to him.

This simple conversation took on a much deeper meaning to me months later, on the first day I drove to work, to the office I shared with my dear, kind, beloved Rex; my first time back since he passed.

I got into my car and hit the disc button to listen to the MoTab CD that he had given me, on which he sang as a member of the choir. The CD was titled “Heaven’s Song”. I needed something to soothe my heart that was still in raw trauma from his unexpected illness and passing.

I was frustrated when the song that started was Stevie Nicks voice. My hand reached over to correct my apparent error when I paused, and with a sigh of reservation let it play. 

Driving to work, I tuned into the lyrics and I heard this song (that I had been listening to since the 1970s) for the first time.  I pulled my car into his usual spot, in the parking lot, as the last words faded in my ears, and my tears overflowed with the ending lyrics: 

“...there was a heartbeat, but it never really died...never really died...”

Having arrived at CottonTree, I sat in my car waiting to walk in. I could feel he knew how hard it was for me to walk back into our office alone, peeled open, fresh from such a sacred time of attending to him for days in the hospital. 

He was encouraging me with the same love I knew from him always. As I entered the small upstairs annex, our office space had such a sacred feel to it, that remains to this day. Throughout the morning, several of his clients and the doctors and staff from downstairs quietly filed in to take a moment just to sit in his space.

I went home early that afternoon, sat down on my couch and pulled up the lyrics to the Fleetwood Mac song “Sara” on my laptop.  As I read through the lyrics from beginning to end, one line jumped out from all the others to prick my consciousness, as she sang the words: 

“...and the Starling flew for days.” 

I felt my heart gently beat inside me. I sensed that something in this line was directing me to dig deeper. I could feel an almost tactile sensation of Rex gently nudging me to follow my heart and learn more about the word Starling. I googled it without understanding why it engaged me so. I knew it was a bird, so I was expecting to get my woo-woo-yoga-mama deeper meaning of some ancient imagery behind the starling bird...

My eyes scrolled downward, looking for something related to bird imagery, when one line on the google search struck a deep chord in me that reverberated through my body.  I placed my cursor over a link that said: “The Starling Principle-New Views on Tissue-Fluid Balance and Edema Formation” and clicked it.

I felt Rex close, as if he was resting his chin on my shoulder, as I read a medical explanation of one of the primary factors that contributed to his death. I was stunned. No starling bird...The Starling Principle.

The medical article on the “Starling Principle of the Heart” that I had clicked on described what we were witnessing in the last two weeks of his life as his health deteriorated. The information filled in big questions that had distressed me at the time, when we were all trying to understand what was happening with him.

Rex, through this Fleetwood Mac song, that related to a conversation between us from over a month before he had ever been sick, was helping me understand things more clearly related to his passing. Though unaware of it at the time, I reflected on what a gift this was to my grieving and troubled heart, in that moment, walking in alone to our office for the first time.  I thought to myself how much I loved that he was communicating to me through music, that his song continues so clearly.  How perfect, still the quintessential musician, still listening for just the right ways to help. 

 As I read, I felt his joy; something to the tune of: 

“I knew Syl would search it out and get it!” 

My body was flooded with his smile, and I immediately recalled vividly, a quiet time when I was rubbing his swollen feet and legs in his hospital room. I looked up to see him kindly smiling at me.  He clasped his fingers behind his head and leaned back and with eyes closing, said to me appreciatively: 

 “Everybody needs a Syl” 

 I could swear he was saying it to me again in this moment.

Over the next little while, I reviewed those days in the hospital in my mind and reflected on the words in the line Stevie Nicks had written:

“Hold on, the Night is coming...and the Starling flew for days”. 

Heart to heart, I felt such gratitude for his spirit as I thought: "Sweet, sweet Rex, we were all there with you, during your final weeks, as the “Starling” flew for days and days in your body. My heart is so full and broken together, grateful for this message, and mostly, your trust in me to “get it".

Rex was always so gifted at explaining things. He knew how to attune to where you were when he was with you, as a therapist, co-worker or friend.

During those early days in this healing process, my analytical mind had been circling over and over, what could I, or should I have done better or differently.  He knew I needed to relax a bit, and he was gently guiding me into that space. Once I could get past the questioning, then Rex could begin to bridge our relationship from where it had been when we were working in body together, to where it is now evolving, as he shows me how easily his spirit is still able to reach the contemplative aspect of my soul.

He knew that it was important for me to understand that he is all right, he knows what happened, and is okay with it. Rex told me just days before he passed that he had no fear of death. If I really trust him, it’s important that I learn that the experience with him is not over just because he isn’t here with us in body.

It has taken me a while to be willing to share this very sacred story. I really just want to hold it in my own heart, yet over the past few weeks, I have felt a nudging that I needed to write it out, that it may be of small comfort to others who are missing him at this tender time of year.

Many years on Christmas Eve Morning, I would meet with Rex at our office. After he finished with a client or two, we would spend several hours together as I gave him a leisurely Thai Partner Yoga Session. It will forever be one of my favorite memories with him. It was such an honor to care for the caregiver to so many, and such a beautiful way to feel the Holiness of the season, as the Christmas Eve hours drew close. So on this particular morning, I could think of no better way to spend my time than honoring his life in some small way here.

Noel & Namaste Dear, Kind, Good Rex.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Source, Separation & Forest Through the Trees

I will try to say this in as soft a way as I am able, in the hope that it will be taken gently.

Suffering is related more to perspective than circumstance. I may not always have the power to change my circumstances, yet my ability to change my perspective is always within my power. 

How many times have I heard and taught these words for myself?  Yet here I am on the rough edge of firsthand experience, following the physical passing of one of the most beloved men I will ever know.

Recently, when in a window of grief’s brief grasp, in my desperation, I asked Rex to teach me whatever I needed to know to make it through the waves of emotion. 

I was not surprised that I felt his familiar compassion speaking into my heart: “My dear Syl, in order for you to understand, you have to stand further back...Whether or not you will be able to really see the big picture, depends on your vantage point.”

I took a moment to let this thought sink in, as I felt him close, and took him up on his offer.  I asked him to take me further back, in hopes that I might see the forest through the trees. He did, and it helped.

In my next breath, I recalled a time that I scoffed at him in mortality, when years ago, he told me he really felt we had planned to meet up here before we were born.  At the time, I was more cynical than I am these days.  I used to justify my suffering by subscribing to life as the proverbial crap shoot.  

On that day, now long gone, he had leaned in and nudged my shoulder with his, as we sat on his green leather couch together; and then he let out a gruff chuckle for us both, because I wasn’t laughing.

Back in the present, I asked my friend again to take me further back, and again he did. I saw a bigger picture than I ever had before, specific to my experience with him. It is not important to repeat out loud, but it deepened my compassion, and helped me feel that this whole experience was within the bounds of my own agency. I really had agreed to it ahead of time. 

In this simple and very sacred perspective, I glimpsed the power within all of us in this circle called life, and gained a more full understanding of the only reality that binds us together beyond's truly love, isn't it

Not the kind of love that comes from co-dependency, or the ego’s desire for self-serving acceptance that's reflected through an "other", but the kind of love that allows for a wide path of experience, and loves us enough to set us free.  

In his poem "The Homecoming", Wendlle Barry speaks to this kind of love with his words:

"We roam the distances of our faith, safe beyond the bounds of what we know...Oh love, Open, Show Me My Country, Take Me Home."

Love asks nothing less of us, regarding those we care for so deeply, to be allowed their experience, even if it means that they turn toward the light and pass through the veil.  Grief is the conversation of letting them go, and allowing ourselves growth in doing so...Like a best friend that has graduated early, we wouldn't hold them back, but don't really know how we will manage without them for the rest of our time in school.

I then heard something more from Rex, something I really love him for. He spoke to me at a deeply spiritual level with such softness, the kind of soft whisper he used to share with me when I least expected it, with the warmth of his words just behind my ear, he said: “The key is in the mark, in the heart of His hand”.

He impressed into my heart, in fairly simple terms, that my experience of grief is not because Rex has left me separated from him since he passed. Grief happens when I allow myself to feel separate from my Source (God, Heavenly Parents, Christ, Buddha, Universal Consciousness, whatever you need to call it that creates the least resistance in you):

When I think that I miss my beloved co-heart, Rex (or anyone that goes away for that matter), what I am really missing is the feeling of connection I had when we were together, and that connection has nothing to do with mortality. Real love never dies. The connections that are most important are still in place.  I believe that it explains why I can still feel him so near, most of the time.

He again impressed into my heart, the reality that we had this connection of love and mutual respect before we came, we met up here and experienced it together in mortality, and we share it still now. In truth this applies to all of those people that shared love with him while he was in the physical space of his earthly life.

He said he was doing for me, nothing more than I had done for him after he was born. He is ministering to me. This message spontaneously pricked a pre-mortal memory in me, of watching over him for nearly 13 years before I dropped into this earthly experience. 

I felt a dove-like, feathery buzz, as every cell of my body witnessed to me that this was true. We also worked here together  side by side, in mortality for also nearly 13 years.

I found, just as he said, the further back I stood the broader my perspective and the greater my love. I found in that moment, that my grief eased into gratitude and my suffering lifted.

He told me gently that from the perspective of his space now, he has incredibly easy access to me, but from my perspective, in my moment of grief, it doesn’t feel like I have easy access to him.

When we dance the veil with those we love, we have to align ourselves to where they are, and then the gap evaporates, and mortal illusions give way to eternal realities.

The ego that is so connected to our physical body can make it tough to align, so our loved ones who have crossed over can get through to us more clearly at times when our ego is caught off guard.

Sometimes it is our suffering that has brought us to the point of surrender (which is, after all, the only point of suffering in the first place), and our heart is blown open, dissolving the veil.  Suffering is the steam of the ego evaporating from the body, until we have the perspective to shed it more through our own choosing.

Soul to soul, he explained to me that death is nothing more than releasing ourselves from all resistance and becoming more completely aligned with all that our life has helped us to become, and all in relation to our Source. The only regret beyond the veil is the love we resisted (giving or receiving).

What we call death is simply the culmination of all that our physical lives have caused us to become.

If we have separated ourselves from who we really are, then the ego that passes with us through the veil can (depending on our personal circumstance), become something like a spiritual prison without the body. We feel imprisoned because the ego can’t lay the body down, only the higher will of the body can shed the ego. Christ taught this when he said: "I have overcome the world" (meaning all the physical, mental, emotional, spiritual addictions related to the ego).

The ego that leads us to believe we are a source unto ourselves, opens the door for adversarial energies to distract, disrupt and disconnect us from our higher paths. Learning to take up the ego and lay it down again is one of the main purposes of having a physical experience.

Paradoxically, our ability to love also expands exponentially when we shed the physical perspective of the body through the experience we label as "death". The event that we mistakenly relate to the final separation is really a re-UNION. Uniting more fully with the perspective of our Source, and all that our connections of love have caused us to be in our life are amplified beyond anything we can now grasp once we cross over.

Living a spiritually focused life, while in a body is the purest way to evolve our soul.  The perspective of a loved one's passing, helps our spirit to use the metaphor for this life, called OUR BODY, to understand at the soul level how to lay our ego down. It is a hidden message in our grieving...To surrender our will over, and over again, to become more fully wedded to our essence.

The body helps reveal in us our inherent capacities for learning and perspective. Through this learning we can glimps our pure Self skimming the surface and realize our potential is beyond what we may have thought. Anyone who has experienced the aging process, or emotional or physical adversities, or any other experience from this vast life, where they have had to let go of everything knows this firsthand.

In each and every moment, regardless of where we may sit, our Source is eternally focused upon us, with a crystal clear perspective, and will never cease to draw us closer to it. Through our choices we gain new perspectives that increases our agency to chose again in an ever expanding circle that will eventually gather all truth to it's center. Each time we swing around the wheel of experience, we learn, as best we can, to not resist the essence of who we are:

We are part of the Source we seek. The most primary way we learn this in life is through our love and connection to others. This was Rex’s work as a masterful therapist and healer, to help people reconnect with the Source of their true Self. He knows how to help people do this, and from my perspective, he is still doing just that. I am living proof ... and so is HE!

Friday, October 22, 2010

Breath of the Woman at the Well

There is a story in the bible of a woman who comes to Jacob's well every day. She is a water-bearer, and carries her heavy load back to others. Day after day she makes this back-breaking, yet very necessary journey.

One evening, when she arrives around six o'clock, there is a Jew, Jesus, waiting for her, a woman of Samaria. 

Two souls from two different worlds, meeting at a well she admits herself, is Deep.

He asks her for water, and she questions his lack of prejudice toward her. Jesus tells her: If you really knew who I am, you would ask ME for living water, rather than me asking you, and once you drank it you would never thirst again.

Jesus had peaked her curiosity and she felt a new kind of thirst, like never before. She recognized for the first time, that she was tired of carrying the heavy load on her shoulders, back from the well every day. The idea of not only having her thirst quenched for good, but her daily load removed from her frame was intoxicating, as Christ told her: "But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into eternal life" (John 4:14)

In my work, often when I am faced with some burden that feels beyond my own strength as a healer, I readily use the imagery of this woman's story with my breath, on behalf of my client.

With Rex's recent hospital stay this past June, I found myself relying on it yet again. I had arrived one evening to find him struggling to breathe, following the monumental journey from the bathroom to his bed. By the time we got him into bed, I could feel and see the distress and discomfort in his countenance.

Many years before, when I was in pain myself, I stopped by his office. Rex took a moment for me out of his busy day, as I wept at pain from rheumatoid arthritis in the ankle of one leg and the knee of my other leg. I explained to him, through tears of distress, that no matter what leg I step forward with, my pain was mind-numbing. My burden was heavy. I was frustrated, anxious and overwhelmed.

He pulled a chair up to face me in my seat, reached down and lifted my ankle, holding it to rest on his thigh and placed his other hand on the knee of my opposite leg. We just sat facing each other, heads bowed, for several minutes and breathed together. Rex let out a gentle sigh, asked me to look him in the eyes, and said: "Syl, I am gonna hold some of your pain for the day, just know I am here and have some of your load with me, and that I love you." At that moment I felt my burden lift a bit, we embraced, and I went on with my day, in less struggle.

In his hospital room, this past summer, I sat gently holding the back of his head, where he now struggled for breath, and said to him: "Rex, I want you to breathe with me, just follow my inhale and exhale". Not one drop of the significance of this moment was lost on me.

I explained to the others in the room (because of the intimacy of the situation), that in my work, when I feel like the healing I can offer my partner falls short of their need, that I visualize my breath with the woman at the well, from the bible.

I told Rex that on my inhale I was drinking in the living water, that comes from the Savior. It flows infinite, so filling me up and spilling over through us both, as we exhale together.  I was aware of his sweet diligence at mirroring his breath to mine and could feel that he knew and was doing what I suggested. 

Several moments of breathing with him passed (as I cradled his head in one hand, with my other hand gently resting on his heart).  The energy of the room shifted into a calmer space, where his labored breathing eased. So sacred, stillness beyond my own comprehension by the time I left him settling into sleep.

Nearly 10 days later, I stepped off the elevator to find that Rex was dying.  

I asked permission to stay, and felt my back against the wall as I lowered myself to a squat and placed my hands in Namaste at my forehead, and dropped into the woman at the well breath

I sent all the faith and strength my heart could muster, as I worked the life-force of "Living Water" in my breath.  My eyes closed, I exhaled this visualization through Rex as deeply as I could. Within a half hour he had passed. So sacred, such stillness...

It took me several days to realize that, as he was crossing the veil, I was yet again sharing this deeply spiritual space, as his breath transformed from mortal air into the reality of the breath of living water, of eternal light.

Recently one evening, following his funeral, I found myself looking at the printed program. The top of the back of the program had a scripture reference with the caption: "We love him because he loved us first - John 4:19". Puzzled I turned to John 4:19 in my bible and found the reference on the program to be a slight misprint, (as there are many chapters of John in the New Testament).   The John 4:19, I had inadvertently turned to was actually a verse from the story of the Woman at the Well, where she said to Christ: "Sir I perceive that thou art a prophet". A moment of recognition.

From my life experience, I would surmise, that the breath of life flows far beyond mortality.  I would have to say that I believe that our body doesn't die because we cease breathing, but that we lay it down in order to continue the breath of life beyond the limitations of our physical experience, held in time.   As we move beyond this limited corridor, the eb and flow, the inhale and exhale, becomes more real, in ways the finite mind can not fully grasp.

I would also add, that in the passing of those we love and are loved by in return, this breath can be a thread of gratitude, that quenches the unquenchable thirsts of grieving and loss.

So as it sunk in, that turning to a different passage, than the  one quoted on the page may not have been just a random coincidence, I marveled in the pages of the story of the woman at the well I had stumbled upon; on a lonely evening, missing him so dearly.  
In reading her story firsthand, I soon felt a familiar warmth wash through my body. I felt waves of comfort, adoration and appreciation, and there was nothing else to do, but simply accept the plain and precious synchronicity of the moment, as a very sacred "Thank You", a sweet message of acknowledgment through the veil from my beloved friend. 

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Clarity and Love

As the weeks pass since my beloved colleague Rex Kocherhans crossed over, I have experienced a plethora of incredibly intimate and sacred insights into what we would call The Other Side.

The most pronounced?

That the way we choose to live our lives directly affects how we evolve when we pass through the veil.

One of the things I love the most about my dear Rex, is that I don’t have to question what he is doing in some far off obscure place, because I feel him so clearly here now. I am reverenced at the glimpse into the reality of how clearly his work continues on both sides of the veil.

I have had people close to me die before (including my mother). I have, at times in the past, had a sense that they were close. It felt very quiet, like my mind was enlightened to the fact that they were there.

With Rex it has been different...Maybe it is the way we worked in tandem with each other in mortality, or our temperaments that were so similar, or simply the unexplainable ways we always seemed to be synched up with each other on a spiritual level. Whatever the reasons, since almost the moment of his passing, I have felt him with me, in a shockingly tangible way.

What I know for sure is this: In his mortal lifetime, Rex was GOOD, he did his best to be loyal, and strong, he had a profound ability to help others at the soul level, he valued emotional honesty, and he was ALWAYS in some quiet conversation with himself.

I was glad to be perched right next to him. We kept tabs on each other throughout the day, and I got to know his rhythms, and he mine. We took turns as one another’s wingman, and on occasion flew interference for each other.

One day he had finished with a client, and as we maneuvered around each other past the bathroom, he looked me in the eyes, and I knew in an instant it had been intense for him. Rex loved his clients, all of them, but he was certainly human, and as with any work, sometimes we all wonder if we are doing the good we hope to.

So at a glance, I wrapped my arms around him and spoke into his ear a few famous lines I recite to my son Tom, when I know he’s had a rough day:

“How do I love thee, Let me count the ways.”

... But instead of continuing with a poem I have never heard (thought it was Shakespeare), I instead just count really fast, in a distinctively British voice:

“One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, NINE...and on.”

We both chuckled and he said quietly in my ear: “Thanks Syl”, before letting go, I could feel his mood had lifted.

In the future, this little interchange would become a running joke to the point that, when he would give me a squeeze, all I would have to do would be to count from one to twenty really fast, he would be quick to catch my meaning, and we would both chuckle and go on with our day.

So I recently experienced Rex in a dream. He wanted to thank me for the way I loved him during his life, and said he always adored me for my strength, and that he would remain close and continue to support me throughout my life. Lastly, as I felt his familiar warmth and goodness, he told me to study the poet Elizabeth Barrette Browning: “Study her life and her poety, Syl”. He said.

The next evening I googled her and was delighted to the point of laughter when the first poem that came up revealed the line:

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.”

by the last line of the poem I was in tears as I read:

“--- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee even better after death.”

Of course, true to himself Rex was coming through clearly. Every bit as clearly as in mortality. This is only one of many instances where we have been dancing through the veil, in a similar way that we used to jostle around one another in our little upstairs office.

The very things I loved and admired about him before his passing, continue now beyond what we all seem to take for granted, as our only reality.

In truth the so-called “spirit realm” is right here surrounding us. We only need to be capable of attuning to one another...whatever side of the veil we happen to be on in the moment.

Bless you my friend, you are still giving us all so many reasons to Love you. Thank You!

(by the way, I think it is safe to say that Rex has certainly crossed paths with EBB. Interestingly, Elisabeth Browning and Rex's funerals were held on the same day, July 1st.)

Saturday, August 21, 2010

"Everybody Needs a Rock"

"Everybody Needs a ROCK", the name of a children's book that one of my yoga students gave to me recently, begins like this:

a Rock.

I'm sorry for kids
who don't have
a rock
for a friend.

I'm sorry for kids
who only have

That's why
I'm giving them
my own

for finding

any rock.
I mean
that you find
and keep
as long as
you can--

I have shared my life over the past 12 years with just such a rock. I met him first, when the birth of my son required a complete sacrifice of my numbed out psyche; in order to raise my new boy in a safe, nurturing way. It was my first experience, with the power of the mama bear inside me, that would require a profound "shedding" in order to stand as my son's mother--awake and fully present...a living woman, for the first time.

The journey, that is as instinctual as a mama bear awakening in spring from a long hibernation, brought me to a place where I first stumbled onto my rock. Let's call him...Rex Kocherhans. A lovely rock, solid, steady, yet shockingly soulful, warm too--like he's been basking in the light for a very long time...this is a rock that looks back at you! My response to our initial meeting was: "there you are!" (it was like meeting my twin for the first time).

We spent three years together, my rock and I, helping my mama bear eyes come out of the cave, adjust to the light, and find the deep soothing timbre of my true voice...he was such a good rock... Eventually though, a nudging had stirred deep inside both him and me, that told us it was time to set my rock down on this path, yet we always knew we would cross it again, in a different light and season.

Several years later I found myself placed right next to my rock again. It was a such a good fit, this rock in the palm of my hand, as he welcomed me over the threshold of his cave, into a whole other kind of light. One that shined out from us together, as he would help people (the ways he helped me), find healing of the mind; the gentle tap of his marker on the white board, through my wall. I loved the sound of his muffled voice helping them awaken to their truth as we did our work side by side...

On my side of the wall, in a new kind of cave, I shared with my rock, I would help some of those same people, to awaken their body more fully to it's measure... He helped the mind and spirit/I helped the body and soul...Between the two of us, we made a great rock. I loved it so very much!

Most mornings my rock would stomp toward me, with such a great rocky grin from ear to ear, and envelope me in his husky bear squeeze. This rock was so very grounding, and each time he did this, he made every cell of my body smile from ear to ear right back at him...

So my sweet baby boy had opened my eyes, and set me on the path where I stumbled upon this lovely rock, who helped me adjust to the light...And now, even though my rock has recently crossed over onto a whole other kind of path, where I can't quite see him the same as before, I am humbled, in such a sacred way, by just how grounding his presence with me still is; just as husky, just as soft, just as warm and kind, just as loving, staring back at me with new eyes of his own this time... And as I reflect on my lovely rock, I love how clear it has become that my sweet baby boy, and my big husky rock, both had a plan for me on the path before this one, and that they just may have planned this out together a very, very, long time ago.

So tonight, I thank the Savior who gets this whole thing, in ways we can't always see on our path, but is kind enough to place all sorts of rocks on our way. Thank you again, my still so solid, Eternally lovely, BELOVED ROCK.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

Grand Cross-roads

My heart is peeled open this week.

I've learned a lifetime's worth of lessons: staying present in my ability to love, and to remain open and completely vulnerable from moment to moment. Without vulnerability, the opportunity for seeing doors that open you to other worlds are mute. Yet I was still ill-prepared for how violently the heart can be blown open...never ceasing to leave me breathless.

I chose to look where I wanted to avoid, to feel beyond my own self-preservation, to surrender the past to present, and to love a sacred love without contract. Kind of scary for a guarded heart, waiting in silence for her time to fly.

God stood behind me and literally breathed me Faith without regard to outcome. Showed me how He does it, I felt my body fill with light and the Heavens shake for my good and His Glory...still open...still peeled for a worthy cause.

The above artwork is a Victor Skrebneski photograph of Vanessa Redgrave.
-Copyright Victor Skrebneski