Magic

       About 9pm on the night after Christmas, Joanie and I bundled up for a ski at a nearby county park.  With several inches of new snow, trails not yet groomed, overcast skies, a misty glow from the lights along the trail and no one around, there was a sense of wildness to the evening.  We decided to ski both loops, maybe 4 or 5 miles altogether.

       After a mile or so, we came to a stand of young adult red pines that's always been a special place for me, a place where the energy is palpable.  On this night I could feel the energy 30 feet away, and when we stopped in the midst of the stand, it was really powerful.  I experienced a kind of melting into oneness that usually only happens in deep meditation.  Joanie could feel it too.  We stood there 5 or 10 minutes basking in the presence, savoring the sense of connection.  As we moved on, something felt a little different from before.

       After another mile or so, Joanie spotted a doe off the trail to our left.  We glided by her, stopped and watched her watch us.  I could feel my heartbeat, pounding partly from exertion and mostly, I think, from the energy of that moment.  After a while, she walked toward us and stood on the trial just behind us.  She was joined then by a stag, who sauntered over from the other side of the trail.  A foursome, we faced each other, quietly present, for what seemed like a long time, before they moseyed on.  As we skied, they stayed parallel off to our right, a bit ahead of us, for a hundred yards or so, before the trail took us to the left and we parted ways.

       Awed by that experience, we skied on, not saying much.  After another mile or so, a red fox up appeared up ahead, traveling the trail in the same direction we were.  He stopped.  We stopped.  He stared for a bit; then trotted toward us – and kept trotting toward us, closer and closer, till he was about 15 feet away.  A tinge of nervousness crept into the amazement I was feeling.  He stopped, paused for one last look and then, like he had not a care in the world, turned off into the woods, making a trail in the snow that was so thin and delicate, I wouldn't have believed it was made by a four-footer, if I hadn't seen it.

       Magic was afoot.  Except for once on a solo trip to the boundary waters when a bear cub came running up to me, I've never known animals in the wild to approach.  As Joanie and I shared the wonder of this, I imagined that we had somehow become part of the forest, not separate from it the way we humans are most of the time.  Whatever the explanation, clearly, we had been gifted.

       The next night, we went skiing again.  Truth be told, I wanted more magic. 

       This night had none of the last night's wildness.  It was earlier in the evening, sky was clear, trails were groomed and the parking lot was crowded.  Hoping still for some duplication of last night, I suggested that we ski the same route as before.  With a much faster pace, it didn't take long to reach the red pine grove.  This time, the energy was gentle, more subtle, not like the power of last night.  I must confess, I was a tad disappointed.

       The skiing, however, was great.  We zipped along; encountered several humans, but no wild life.  Approaching the area where we had seen the fox, I complained to Joanie about the lack of animal sightings.  Not 30 seconds later, we spotted a bushy-tailed animal on the trail ahead.  It didn't stop to look at us.  It didn't move toward us.  It slinked off the trail and disappeared into the woods – a skunk.  I nearly laughed out loud.

       The universe certainly has a sense of humor – a nice way of teaching and a gentle way of reminding.

       After work, a couple nights later, with a light mist falling and rain forecasted for the next day, I was back at the park – skiing the same route, alone this time, in a humbler frame of mind.  Entering the pine grove, not knowing what to expect, I felt once again a powerful envelopment of Love.  Standing there, knees relaxed, spirit joyful, bursting with gratitude, I asked for a healing.  And just then, a breeze moved through the trees, dumping a big plop of snow right next to me.  I was startled but, fortunately, didn't need the plop to land on my head to get the message.

       These experiences teach me, for the umpteenth time, that I am not in charge of magic.  It's a gift.  I can't make it happen.  Lord knows, I've certainly tried over the years to create magic moments in relationship and in other areas of life.  Magic doesn't come from effort.  In fact, the harder I try, the more elusive it becomes.  It arrives unpredictably when we open ourselves, without expectation, to what is – when we bring a beginner's mind, perhaps a childlike innocence, to life.

       Maybe it's no surprise that New Year's is often depicted as an infant or toddler.  The season invites us to begin anew – to welcome life with an open heart and a willingness to be surprised and a softening to enchantment.

        So, please have a wonderful and delightful new year!  Relax, enjoy, connect, stay present.  Let yourself be surprised by the magic of 2011.

Mary Christmas

       I love Christmas.  I love the lights, the decorations, the holiday cheerfulness – strangers greeting each other with smiles and good wishes.  I especially enjoy the anticipation and experience of gift giving, that tangible expression of love – even when it goes overboard a bit.  There's a generosity here that reminds me of something larger.

       For me, Christmas celebrates the birth of Love, the first word in the vocabulary of God.  Christmas translates Love into human terms.  The life and teaching of Jesus brought to us the revolutionary truth that we are not separate – not separate from God, not separate from each other, not separate from anything in the universe.  All is one in the extravagant energy of Love. 

       Each year, Christmas reminds us to bring forth into everyday life the spirit of Jesus, a spirit of generosity and consciousness of oneness.  Christmas invites us to give birth to Love – as Mary did. 

       Yes, we're invited to be merry.   We're also invited to be Mary.

       I wish you joy, love and every blessing!

Bask and Blaze

       A ribbon of orange along the southeast horizon peeks through the trees and into the bedroom window signaling sunrise soon.  After yesterday's blizzard, the sky looks clear and the Fahrenheit gauge on the deck reads 10 below.  A good time, I think, to practice bask and blaze, a meditation technique we played with last Thursday night in group. 

       We start by receiving – softening and opening to the sunshine of the universe.  Focusing on the in-breath, we draw the radiant energy of Love into every cell, gently stretching our capacity for fullness, letting our hearts smile as we bask in radiance.

       After a while – no hurry – we invite our attention to the divine spark at the center of the heart.  Nurturing that spark with the in-breath, we notice how it grows naturally – from spark, to flame, to blaze, to roaring blaze.

       Quietly sitting, attending now to the out-breath, we blaze extravagantly, joyfully radiating warmth and light.

       By basking and blazing, we enter the flow of radiance that is the universe.  Loved and Love, we practice our true nature:

       Suns of God.

Dance

From ego's perspective,

Relationship is risk.

Make friends with fear.

Relate anyway.

From soul's vantage,

Relationship just is.

Enjoy who you are.

Relate any way.

Ego and soul dance

Awkwardly – so what.

Dance anyway.

Dance any way.

Awkward, too,

You and I,

Awkward two

Dancing our way.

Happy Thanksgiving

A grateful heart is a soft heart,

A soft heart that opens us to abundance,

To the flow of love and joy.

Heartfelt gratitude is a gateway to abundant life.

As we see more abundantly what we have,

We more abundantly have what we see.

Gratitude is its own gift.

"See the gifts you have," it says.

"See the gift you are."

Happiness and thanksgiving go together.

Happy Thanksgiving is not only my wish for you,

It's a declaration of what is.

One Run

       It's a dull gray Minnesota morning.  My mood reflects the day.  Meditation practice has been slipping some lately, and I've been neglecting the writing.

       As I start my morning run along the river, I'm struck by how barren everything seems.  No birds chirping, no dogs barking, not a soul on the trail.  In an attempt to push away the gloom, I decide to try a running meditation.  On the in-breath, I open the soles of my feet to the nurturing energy of Mother Earth and, with an upward (palms up) movement of my wool-mittened hands, I bring that energy up through my body.  On the out-breath, I push the hands downward (palms down), connecting and grounding myself in the energy of Earth.

       Gloom and gray quietly fade, as the various shades of brown – dirt, leaves, and grasses – grow more vivid, and the trail before me comes into sharper focus.  I notice the bits of green that still hang on and tiny patches of snow left over from Saturday's storm.  As I continue to connect, there's a moment when separation ceases.  I have a brief taste of oneness, before self-consciousness pushes it away – a gift, I can't grab back.

       Further down the trail, I think:  "Hey, I can write about this".  Rehearsal replaces meditation.  After a minute or so of that, a stump on the path trips me.  Ok, I get it: I'm being reminded to let go of rehearsal.  In another fifty yards, I'm rehearsing again – only to find myself bombarded by chaff or seeds of some sort falling down on me from a tree above.  Again, I receive life's invitation to return to now.

       Toward the end of the run, I notice again my focus on the path, how I'm attending to just what's in front of me.  I'm heartened.  Lately, I've been focusing on focusing and feeling the joy of that practice. 

       I decide to look around.  Dozens of geese and ducks are floating in the shallows of the river, sheltering themselves in tall, tan grasses.  Soft light reflects on river's ripples.  Naked branches stand out vividly from a gray-sky background, which somehow doesn't seem dull anymore.

       I'm surrounded by beauty.  I'm reminded of connection and love.

Dangerous Safety

       I've been thinking lately about how we try to stay safe in relationship and how our efforts sometimes defeat us.  Here are a couple examples.

       A classic approach to safety in relationship is to adopt an exterior of toughness, a bit of a barricade around our hearts that says:  "I can't be hurt if I don't let you hurt me."  I pretend to myself and to a partner that I'm tougher, less vulnerable, than I really am.   As I use this method of self-protection, my partner, not knowing where I'm sensitive, may unintentionally hurt me.  Or, frustrated with the lack of connection, may decide that the only way to get through to me is to use strong medicine – a 2 x 4 rather than a gentle request.  Either way, I invite the very hurt I'm trying to avoid.

       Another approach to safety is to avoid commitment.  If I live in fear of being trapped in an unhappy situation, I'll tend to keep my eyes on the exit.  I may even rehearse exit strategies, just to make sure I can still leave if I have to.  My approach to relationship mires in "maybe".  I ruminate in doubt, prepare for the worst, and wind up living in just the sort of unhappy world I'm trying to escape.  Adding to my discomfort, a partner who senses my halfheartedness is likely to self-protect in ways that confirm my worst fears.

       Relationship is so lovely in theory and so messy in practice.

       Perhaps, living dangerously – staying soft and acknowledging vulnerability with pedal-to-the-metal, wholehearted commitment – is safer than being safe.

Partner Picking

       I'm preparing to give a talk on relationships later this week to a wonderful group of divorced, widowed and separated folks.  A question for many of them has to do with the challenge of picking a partner in life – a challenge, I believe, that invites a balance head and heart.

       An all-time favorite quote of mine comes from Mary Oliver's poem, Wild Geese:  

       "… let the soft animal of your body love what it loves." 

       What a delightful invitation to honor one's heart in all of life, not only in matters of love.

       Balancing Mary Oliver's wisdom are two wise authors in the love department – Elizabeth Gilbert (Committed) and David Whyte (The Three Marriages) – who offer a perspective I hadn't encountered before.

       Here's a quote from Elizabeth Gilbert:

       "People always fall in love with the most perfect aspects of each other's personalities.  Who wouldn't.  Anybody can love the most wonderful parts of another person.  The really clever trick is this:  Can you accept the flaws?  Can you look at your partner's faults honestly and say, 'I can work around that.'?"  (p. 129-130)

       Just last night, I discovered this passage from David Whyte: 

       "In a very personal way we are marrying not only a person's ability to love and take care of us, but also that person's particular species of selfishness and particular form of egotism.  It is only a question of time before these appear.  One of the tests of finding the right person is to ask ourselves if this is the particular form of selfishness and egotism we can live with … A sign of possible success is our ability to answer in the affirmative.  It means the chemistry is right …"  (p. 244)

       I have a long history of romantic idealism.  It's a gift to encounter a balancing perspective – twice already, in the last week or so.  Life is a generous teacher.  Perhaps, in the balance of head and heart, a practical romantic emerges.

P.S.

       After last week's venture into the political/cultural arena, I heard from a number of you.  Thank you.

      Many expressed support for my speaking up – support much needed and appreciated. One of you (thanks Betsy) made the wonderful suggestion that I send love energy to Glenn Beck.  I've long taught that if we want anything to grow or change, in ourselves or in someone else, we have to love it first. And it's always a good idea to walk one's talk.

       I was most struck – both touched and humbled – by the unexpectedly gentle response from a couple of folks whose views differ from mine.  My surprise reminded me of how easy it is, in these polarized times, to paint each other in overly broad strokes, to miss the complexity and nuances of individuals, to avoid one another, to forget the humanness and divinity we all share.

       As I do my best to follow a path of love, I look for balance – a "both/and" that includes engagement and disengagement, doing and not doing, showing up and letting go.  I acknowledge mystery, contradiction, ambiguity.  I live with knowing and not knowing – and questions like:

       Can I make room inside for the peaceful warrior?

The Right is Wrong

       I believe a new paradigm is coming, one in which, at the level of belief and behavior, humanity breaks through the myth of separation and embraces unity consciousness.  I realize old paradigms typically put up one heck of a fight – a desperate, last-ditch effort, to preserve the old view – just before what's new emerges.  I know it's darkest just before dawn.

       Still, I'm unnerved by the violence of the right-wing response to the president and his efforts to create a better America for all of us.  I'm dismayed by pundits making millions using misinformation to preach fear, hatred, self-righteousness and greed.

       Reluctant – and a bit fearful, truth be told – to challenge this vehemence and to share publicly my cultural/political orientation, I've been standing on the sidelines – until now.  Recently, Glenn Beck advised listeners and viewers to leave any church that teaches social or economic justice, which he claims are codes for Nazism and Communism.  Dumbfounded, I need to speak.

       At its center, Jesus' message is: Love your neighbor.

       The political and (sad to say) religious right have been narrowing the definition of "neighbor" for some time now, by teaching intolerance and advocating policies that increase the chasm between "haves" and "have-nots".

       In this case, the right is wrong – and terribly short-sighted.  We all sink or swim together.  "What you do to these least of my brethren…"