(Chesapeake Bay. January 2007. Photo by Robin)
Only in quiet waters do things mirror themselves undistorted. Only in a quiet mind is adequate perception of the world. ~ Hans Margolius
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All posts for the month January, 2007
(Photo by Robin. West Chester, Pennsylvania. 2007)
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain
Of evening rain,
Unravelled from the tumbling main…
~ Thomas Lovell Beddoes
(Photo by Robin. Quail Hollow. 2006)
Above all, do not lose your desire to walk. Every day I walk myself into a state of well-being and walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it … if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right.
–SOREN KIERKEGAARD, Danish philosopher, 1813-55
(April 2006. Photo by Robin)
A good traveler has no fixed plans, and is not intent on arriving. ~Lao Tzu
I set out on a new journey, a meditative journey, my knapsack over my shoulder, looking like the Fool dancing on the edge of a cliff, ready to take a giant leap of faith.
Why is it The Clash is running through my head?
Should I stay or should I go now?
Should I stay or should I go now?
If I go there will be trouble
And if I stay it will be double…
I leap…
And find myself at a doorway, a portal to another land. I can clearly see the pathway, but have no idea where it will lead.
Should I stay or should I go now?
13 March 2012 update: Funny how this old post is just as appropriate for me today as it was in 2007. Life just keeps cycling from beginning to ending to beginning to… well, you get the idea. New journeys, new adventures, happening all the time.
(January 2007. Photo by Robin)
Before Enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.
After Enlightenment: Chop wood, carry water.— Zen saying
Washing dishes, my hands soak in the warmth and wetness of the dishwater. Washing dishes, I feel the steam from the water rising up my hands, my arms, breathing it in, soothing my sinuses on this dry winter day. Washing dishes, I listen to the bubbles popping and crinkling in the water, tickled as they burst on my arms and hands. Washing dishes, I delight in the feeling of clean. Washing dishes, I find a slow and graceful process of movement in the wiping, scrubbing, rinsing, and placing of the dishes in the dish rack. From right to left: wash, rinse, rack, wash, rinse, rack, wash, rinse, rack, until all the dishes are sparkling clean.
Washing dishes, the sunlight streams in through the window and warms me further. Washing dishes, I hear the sounds of traffic outside of our apartment building. The pattern of the traffic sounds begins to sound like waves, rolling in and out.
Washing dishes, I am thankful that my feet, legs, and back are all supporting me. Washing dishes, I am thankful for the floor, the building, and the earth that also support me. Washing dishes, I am thankful that I am right here, right now, washing dishes.
Washing dishes, I can see and feel my accomplishment, a job well done.
(June 2006. Photo by Robin)
“The web of life is a beautiful and meaningless dance. The web of life is a process with a moving goal. The web of life is a perfectly finished work of art right where I am sitting now.” — Robert Anton Wilson
It is said in Native American lore that Grandmother Spider brought light to the people. In one version she captured the sun and brought its warmth and light down to the earth. In another she steals fire from the people of the East, giving it to the humans, teaching them how to feed the fire and make it grow, and then staying to also teach them about spinning and weaving, something she is expert at doing.
In another myth, Grandmother Spider placed the stars in the sky. She took her web, laced with dew, and threw it up into the sky where the dew became the stars we see at night.
When I look up at the stars tonight I shall thank Grandmother Spider for her gift of light. How dull the skies might be without the twinkle, sparkle, and shimmer of all those lovely stars.
(January 2006. Photo by Robin)
“Antisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer.” — Plutarch, Moralia
Early morning in Quail Hollow. The LovelyMan and I are hiking along the woodlands path, following it up the hill and then down into the hollow where it connects with the peat bog pathway and boardwalk. The woods are still, frozen in quiet on this wintry morning. The only sound is that of our footsteps crunching on the frozen leaves which cover the path.
Our words don’t freeze, but our breaths do, crystalizing as we exhale. My nose feels frozen from the inside out and my cheeks are numb. I’m thankful for the layers of clothing I put on, starting with the thermal undergarments, because other than my extremities, I’m pretty toasty. The hiking keeps me warm, too.
We reach the boardwalk and I see that things aren’t as still and quiet as I’d thought. There are raccoon prints everywhere on the boardwalk, going in all directions. The prints are still wet, standing out on the frosty wood of the boardwalk. Raccoons are nocturnal animals. This one must have been late in going to bed for the day, perhaps dousing (as raccoons will do) one last snack before settling in to sleep.
I look, hoping to catch a glimpse of the masked and dexterous creature. It is said that masks are powerful and magical tools, and that the curious raccoon is a master of disguise and transformation.
I wonder what power and magic the raccoon brought to these woods on this frosty morn. We follow in the footsteps of the raccoon, walking along the boardwalk until we are led back into the mystery of the woods.
(Photo by Robin)
I’ve always liked winter, especially the snow and ice.
When I was a little girl still filled with innocence and magical abilities, somewhere around the age of 7 or 8, I woke up in the middle of the night and looked out the window that was next to my bed to find it had snowed and was continuing to snow. It was the proverbial and cliched winter wonderland waiting for me just outside of my window. The moon was full and the moonlight poured down upon the scene making everything shimmer and glow in its silvery-white luminescence.
I hopped out of bed and tip-toed down the stairs, through the living room, through the kitchen, and to the back door. I slowly and quietly opened the door, desperately hoping I wouldn’t wake anyone because I was sure this wondrously magical night was mine and I didn’t want to share it. The door, as usual, creaked. I waited. Nothing happened. I waited some more, listening, listening. All was quiet. I opened the door some more, just enough for me to scoot outside.
I stepped out, my bare feet at first shocked by the cold. I hadn’t bothered to dress, thinking my long flannel nightgown would be warm enough. There really must have been magic in that night because after the initial shock to the feet, I never again felt the cold, not once, the entire time I was out there.
Oh, the snow! It was gorgeous! I ran out to the middle of the backyard and looked up at the moon, watching the big, fat snowflakes fall from the sky. I twirled, I danced, I laughed, and turned a few cartwheels while I was at it. I stuck out my tongue to catch the snowflakes. I danced some more, twirling and whirling like the snowflakes falling from above.
At some point during my snow dance I felt a presence there with me. I didn’t know who She was at the time, but She was there, watching over me, dancing with me, laughing with me, and even turning a few cartwheels of Her own. She was my very own Snow Queen and for that night I was Her daughter the Snow Princess.
I bathed in the moonlight and the snow with nothing between me, the moonlight, and the snow. I felt gloriously free and light, as if I could fly with the snow. The cold never touched me.
I’m not sure how long I stayed out there dancing in the snow and the night. It felt like hours, as if time had stopped for me so that the night could go on for just a little longer than usual. When I finally made my way back to bed, I thought I’d never get back to sleep. The bed was warm and comfy, but I was invigorated from my time in the snow. Eventually I did fall asleep, lulled into the deep reaches of dreamland as I watched the snowflakes outside of my window.
I fell in love with winter that night. It’s a love that’s lasted through all the ups and downs of childhood, my teenage years, and my adulthood. Every winter I look forward to the first good snowfall and remember the magical, wonder-filled night when I was blessed with the gift of dancing with the Snow Queen.
(Snow in the Bogs. January 2006. Photo by Robin)
“A woman in harmony with her spirit is like a river flowing. She goes where she will without pretense and arrives at her destination prepared to be herself and only herself.” —Maya Angelou
Lying in bed, my head on my husband’s chest, nothing between us, not the sheets or the blankets or clothing of any kind. I feel the rise and fall of his chest, the silky-scratchiness of the hair on his body, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and the slight breeze of his breath whispering through my hair. I open my eyes and stare out the window and watch the silence of the snowflakes falling from the sky. My body is light. I am floating in a sea of peace, contentment, relaxation, and love.
Later….breakfast….
Steel-cut oats with apples added at the last minute so that they’re still slightly crisp when you bite into them. The oats have a smooth crunchiness to them, hard to describe….a kind of snap occurs when you bite down. The scent of cinnamon wafting up with the steam from the oatmeal. The food is comforting, warm and filling. Perfect for this cold and snowy Saturday.
I sit at the table and the music from the radio washes over me. I’ve never been much of a fidgeter, but now I can’t sit still. The music moves throughout my muscles, into my blood and I find myself moving with it, slight movements at first. I rise out of my chair and dance my way to the kitchen to put my empty bowl in the dishwasher and clean up after breakfast.
I stand at the kitchen sink, once again watching the snow fall and flurry and whirl. I hear M laugh at something our youngest son just said. Youngest Son laughs with him.
I am frozen in this moment, stretching it out in order to experience every last little bit of it. It’s a moment of contentment and peace. A moment of family bliss.
I move to the kitchen counter, and begin making a grocery list. The pen is hard and cold between my fingers, the paper smooth. Pen scritch-scratching as the list grows. I’m thinking about making soup for dinner tonight. I came across a recipe for Thai Tomato Soup that intrigued me….ginger, basil, tomato juice, bok choy, cocount milk. It’s not a combination I’m familiar with and I’m looking forward to trying it.
I sip on a cup of yerba matte tea, enjoying the heat as it moves down my throat and into my stomach. The taste is peppery with a hint of bitterness. The drowsiness of the morning starts to lift as the tea does its thing.
Grocery list and tea finished, I get ready to leave. We’re going out to our new home today to install the baseboards. Fun with hammers and nails. I put on a few layers of clothing because we keep the heat turned down low at our new house. Besides, I might want to jump in the sled and slide down the hill while I’m out there.
I step outside into the cold morning and my eyes are assaulted by the blinding whiteness of the landscape. The snow is falling so heavily now that even the sky appears to be a bright shade of the purest white. I take a deep breath of the icy cold air and feel winter rush through me, invigorating me from the inside out. A gust of wind whips by and rustles the tree branches. Snow comes tumbling down the spruce tree like a mini avalanche.
I make my way carefully down the sidewalk and to the driveway. It’s slippery in spots and I do a little slide-skid thing every now and then. I reach my destination and climb into the truck which is filled with the lingering scent of the hot pizza my husband brought home for dinner last night. It makes my stomach rumble with hunger even though I just finished breakfast not all that long ago.
As I wait for my husband to join me, I watch a black squirrel speed across the snow, racing from tree to tree, occasionally stopping to dig in the snow and pull out some buried treasure — food put away in the ground during warmer days.
It’s a good beginning for a winter’s day.
(r.a.s. 01/04/03)
(I wrote this a couple of years ago, when we were still fixing up our home in the Bogs.)
(Tea Time. January 2006. Photo by Robin.)
Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company.
~Author Unknown
While I’m enjoying our sabbatical here in the ‘burbs of Philadelphia (so much to see and do!), I do miss our home in the Bogs. The apartment here is plain and drab, the only really colorful decoration is a purple feather boa I was gifted with by a good friend at the Mummers Parade on Saturday. Because this is a temporary home, I’m not sure I’ll spend much time in decorating. As a result, it tends to feel a little like living in a hotel. That’s not so surprising really. The building used to be a hotel and has been renovated into apartments.
The LovelyMan (aka LM aka my husband) and I bought a house in the Bogs that was in bad shape. It took six months of tender loving care to transform it into the bright and colorful home it is now. Our youngest son is currently living there and taking care of it for us until our return sometime in the summer months.
The photo above was taken in our kitchen which is full of light in the mornings, a lovely place to sit and sip on a cup of good tea. I’m a loose leaf type of tea lover and have jars of the wonderful stuff lined up on the counter. One of my morning joys is to look over the jars of tea and decide which one I will treat myself to that day. Will it be the oolong? How about the jasmine green tea? The yerba mate looks good. Or maybe the darjeeling. The Japanese green sencha is another wonderous possibility.
At night I have the herbal teas to soothe me. A beautiful chamomile, a lovely rooibus, a sweet honeybush, or some homegrown mint. I have a mint garden in front of the house, easily accessible from the kitchen. There’s peppermint, spearmint, an apple mint, and my favorite, pineapple mint.
We have a large pond (1.5 acres) and a small bit of property with woods, meadows, and hayfields in the Bogs. I miss being so close to nature. Now that I’m walking more, I hope to get out and find a park or two nearby. One nice thing about this town is that there are plenty of trees for me to get to know.
This move, I discovered, was part of the stress I carried in my lower back. As much as I sometimes yearn for my home in the Bogs, I’m determined to make this sabbatical another magical adventure in my life.
Note: This is another re-released old post.
Bountiful Healing 