“That which is false troubles the heart, but truth brings joyous tranquility.”—Rumi

It is a cool and foggy morning in Maine—the air thick with the memory of a midnight downpour.

The sudden deluge awakened me with a start—the windows open and ushering in the sound of a powerful rain that seemed to be turned on like a faucet in full-force.

I had fallen asleep on my back with my hands over my heart—one on top of the other. I had been soaking in an awareness of the quiet—of the stillness in my being—and inviting the boundaries of my body to fall away.

Bones and cartilage and organs—and all the rest of it—separating into tiny, microscopic cells, drifting apart and dividing until there was no longer any matter to contain me.

I saw this especially in the places where I experience pain—the high-sensation of contraction surrendering its influence when expanded into pure-energy. Ancient stories about who I am and what I deserve are no-match for infinite-consciousness—at least for this brief moment of awareness sans a couple of burgeoning boys tugging at my sleeve.

I had fallen into the space just-shy-of-sleep noticing the way our original essence—my original essence—goes beyond the confines of the body, despite all-of-our-insistence on our physical form being a vessel for the soul.

In stillness I could recognize the way our personal energies continue on beyond what we might normally think of as ourselves and are met and mingled with the vitalities of others—those both in our midst, and even those far away.

Between you and me is a temple that we form together—each pair of us. You place what-you-will-about-me inside the collecting place out there in the middle of us and I will place what-I-will-about-you inside that place as well and something will be born out of it.

We can only contribute to the nature of our-half-of-the-creation. Let us strive to construct our part with the hardy materials of freedom and deep-listening and with allowing.

Let us see how it feels to focus on our part alone.

Startled by the sudden cascade of rain, my heart was beating fast as I got up to close the windows part-of-the-way and turn the bathroom light on in case Adrian came stumbling down the hallway—as he sometimes does—awakened by the bursting cloud.

Back in bed I experienced the storm differently now—more gently.

The rain was slowing-down or I was more aligned with its presence.

I thanked it for watering all of the new trees and shrubs in our yard—yet to be planted—and listened as it flowed through the gutter on the side of the house like a rolling stream and soon I drifted back to sleep.

Jonah and Adrian were dressed alike when I signed-them-in for soccer camp this morning. A cool mist grazed our skin as we walked through the parking lot—their new, stiff, black cleats with the fluorescent-green stripes clicking and clacking on the pavement.

Jonah began dribbling his silver ball—a size 4—that he picked out at a sporting goods store. Adrian held his neon-green ball, a bit smaller—his initials printed with a permanent marker just above the barcode.

Having just returned from being away, we were low on food and so after drop-off I stopped at a small, natural-food store to pick up a few things on my way home.

This store was the first place we had stopped when we moved to Maine from New York City. I remember imagining what it would be like to be a regular patron in such a nourishing space.

Despite the cool morning, the store was air-conditioned so after finding a cart I reached into my bag for another layer and pulled it on.

Just when I looked up I recognized someone I knew entering the store—a former caregiver who had looked after Jonah and Adrian occasionally for many years and whom I didn’t see often.

She had been a treasured friend to our children—introducing them to Pete the Cat and Jan Brett and it’s ok to cry but it’s also ok to stop—and now walking in she had a baby of her own hiked-up on her hip like a pro.

Both of our faces—and my heart—lit up when we saw each other.

Her son shares her lovely, brown eyes and her presence remained warm and introspective.

She is one of those people who makes you feel better for having been around her.

I had always loved that when she spoke it seemed she really meant what she said. She mentioned that she was on the side of motherhood now that I had been on when we first met.

We stood at the entrance and talked for a long time. We jumped right to the depths of sharing.

Sitting in the cart, her son offered me his bare foot and I rubbed the silky top of it. A few minutes later he stuck it out again for more and I got a glimpse of his two, little baby teeth on the bottom row.

She told me that she had written a letter to me in her head on many car-rides but hadn’t had the chance to send one in real life.

I could feel that I had received her thoughts regardless of whether they had made it to paper.

I’ve written so-many-letters-in-my-head in that very way and can only hope the messages have landed where I’ve intended them—like hers did in me.

After we said goodbye, I turned for just a moment to the produce section, moved forward and then felt drawn to look across the room where I recognized another soul-sister who I hadn’t seen in a very long while.

There was more lighting-up and putting arms around a kindred-spirit in an embrace.

I have loved this friends’ capacity for awe in our exchanges.

She has a way of opening her mouth just slightly and widening her sparkly, blue eyes in response to the magic that always seems to show up between us.

Despite the time that had passed—and the relatively short chapter we had spent together—there was an immediate knowing in our shared energy.

I told her I didn’t think I had come to the store for food after all but that it was for these crossings-of-paths that I had come. She shared that she and her daughter had planned to stop at the store after going swimming but had suddenly decided to come in then instead.

I have been thinking about whether it has all been said—whether it can all ever be said—about how exquisite this life is in both its beautiful simplicity and in its complex connectivity.

It reminds me of observing my children when they have just awakened—their bodies radiating heat from sleep in their warm beds, their cheeks soft and relaxed. With heavy eyes—partly still in another realm—they’ll whisper to me will I rub their backs and I do so willingly getting more from the experience probably than them.

Later, they will ask me about the bounds of the Universe—the Multiverse—and inquire about whether I think invasive species are a part of the food chain—they’re not, Mom.

I go on noticing because it turns all-of-the-lights-on-in-me, radiating warmth in the places I need it most, and illuminating the way forward.

 

 

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“Forget about enlightenment. Sit down wherever you are and listen to the wind singing in your veins.”—John Welwood

The serving plates and bowls had been washed and tucked away late into the night—hidden in narrow cabinets and sliding drawers until Thanksgiving—the list of what to buy to feed everyone slipped into the recycling bin.

The stillness of the house that next early-morning had the feeling of Summer drawing-open the curtains and strolling into the backyard for a long and undisturbed rest in the shade—The New Yorker magazine tucked under her arm for a leisurely read.

Jonah and Adrian meandered down the stairs in the late morning like droopy, rag-dolls with soiled, grass-stained feet, the glow of sparklers lingering still within their midst.

Slowly, we gathered up library books scattered about the house—some in a pile on a bench by the bookshelf, others in a spring-green shopping bag hanging by the back door.

I felt relieved and like my shoulders hung a little softer for having upheld a family tradition once again—knowing my children rely on the event for marking time, for understanding their unique place in the world.

The trunk of my car was filled with recycling and returnable cans and bottles. I planned to drop off the cardboard boxes and papers but to wait on cashing in our returns.

I thought we were all feeling too-lazy to navigate the somewhat messy return process. I imagined we would avoid the crowd of last night’s revelers who might be doing the same.

Eager for some pocket-change, Jonah encouraged the exchange.

When we arrived at the grocery store the air was thick and heavy with heat—intensified by the asphalt parking lot. I soaked in the warmth on my bare, freckled arms and helped each boy to a black, plastic bag from the trunk—Jonah got the heavier one.

The boys walked slightly ahead of me knowing where the machines were. I captured the image of them in my mind—each with their load slung over their shoulder—Adrian in his favorite grey sports shorts with the florescent stripe on the side and his pale-yellow shirt, Jonah tossing his long hair back with the flip of his head.

Inside, their arms disappeared fully into the damp bags—bending to the side, dipping-in and grabbing a can or bottle and then reaching up to slide it onto the conveyor belt of the machine located just above their heads.

Sometimes the receptacles would get spun around and around and then rejected only to be pushed-in once again by the persistence of four small, but eager, hands.

A couple of tall men with a cart full of cans waited behind us as we navigated the machines. I imagined they were father and son.

Adrian finished first—a small collection of liquid pooling like a narrow balloon at the bottom of his bag. With the more-full load, Jonah was becoming weary of the dampness on his arm and asked me to finish for him.

I reached in—trying to pick up my pace—cognizant of the others in line. I quickly understood his discomfort as I took over, the stench of empty bottles palpable. Before I could get to the last can, Jonah and Adrian had pushed the finish button to collect our receipts.

I took the remaining can and popped it into the shopping cart behind us, thanking the men for their patience.

After collecting our money—just shy of three dollars—we made our way to the bathroom to the right of the customer service counter to clean the sticky layer off of our arms.

Jonah went into the men’s room and I walked further down the hallway to the women’s room—Adrian shuffled between us in the two places.

I rubbed Pepto Bismol-pink soap into my palms and all the way up my right arm and then rinsed it off with cool water, drying with a paper towel.

When I came out, Jonah and Adrian were standing wide-eyed in front of a collection of colorful gumball and candy machines and turned to me with their puppy-dog eyes.

Can we use our money to get something?

 I smiled and gave them the bad news as gently as I could, ushering them back down the hallway and out into the penetrating sun.

Contentment hung between us like a sundress on a clothesline in a cool breeze as we climbed back into the car.

I thought about the time my sisters and I had gotten gumballs at a grocery story as children—no concern about food dyes then, blue 1 or red 40.

My younger sister was about four-years-old and we had all just piled into the car after shopping—large wads of gum occupying our entire mouths, exercising the strength of our jaws with their stale stiffness.

All of a sudden—having forgotten about the purchase from a machine with a dime and the twist of a metal handle—my mother looked into the rearview mirror catching a glimpse of my little sister’s lips, painted a purpley-blue from the dye of the gum.

She gasped at the site—not making the connection with the gum—and became panicked thinking my sister was turning blue from some sort of lack of oxygen.

I don’t remember how she—how we all—realized it was the gum and not asphyxiation causing the transformation in my sister’s appearance.

It put a scare into us all thinking she couldn’t breathe—we can laugh about it now.

At the library we piled up a little cart with loads of books—we’ve yet to be limited by the staff despite our voracious desire for words. I chose a few picture-books that interested me and got comfortable in a soft, burgundy chair—waiting for my boys to join me.

I thought about kicking off my flip-flops, then didn’t.

One of the books described the transformation of a mother’s closeness with her children over time.

It reminded me of this idea I have of my heart being tied snuggly to the hearts of my children—a big crimson-red ball of yarn between us—and how, as they grow, the fiber unwinds creating greater and greater distances yet keeping us bound together.

I imagine a time when the cord might drape between mountain ranges and across continents— laid out across vast landscapes, only some of them literal.

I am counting on a tight weave for a durability that will weather the distances of a lifetime.

Adrian’s favorite of the stories I selected was the one with the wild illustrations of a lion with big expressions trying to teach some other animals about presence. It was the turtle who understood best in the end—isn’t it always the slower-paced among us who reveal themselves as masters?

We added it to our collection to bring home.

Suddenly we were all famished. I was praying that the taco truck would be parked by the big field and it was.

The car was so hot, the boys insisted I roll down all of the windows and start the air conditioner before getting in. We were sweaty still when we found a parking spot right next to the favorite food truck—the line short enough.

We stood on the sidewalk and I layered Jonah up with the bag of library books and Adrian with our orange, picnic blanket that hangs from a strap. I gave them a twenty-dollar bill and told them to go for the lemonade from the stand down the street and then to find a place in the shade to spread the blanket out while I got our lunch.

In line, I watched as they strolled down the sidewalk together—each weighted down with the things I had given them, the red-line dangling loosely between us.

I have been insisting they carry more and more.

They got to the stand, looked-up at the menu-board, exchanged a few words between them and then Jonah came walking briskly back toward me until he was close enough where he could shout-to-me and I could hear him.

Can we get a root-beer float instead?

No!

Jonah dashed back to Adrian and placed their order while Adrian bounced the blanket against his little legs.

Loaded up with drinks, they managed to spread the blanket next to a tall pine tree on the edge of the field just a few feet from where I was still waiting. I was surprised they had chosen a spot so near—the entire field peppered with shade.

I could see their sneakers on the blanket poking out from the side of the truck and breathed easier knowing they were within my reach.

After lunch I laid back on the blanket—propping myself up on my bag—and looked up and across the lawn at a giant oak tree.

It had thin and spindly branches for arms—giving it the quality of a wise elder with a cane—and boasted copious, flourishing moss-green leaves.

The heat hovered heavy and still all around us—like truth spoken quietly in a loud room.

A very-slight fluttering of the leaves in the distance caught my attention and I felt a thin ribbon of air graze my skin.

It seemed unlikely that the air-pressure would build from there but then I noticed a mounting energy and thought about the nature of this invisible force endlessly reflecting the relationship between conflicting pressures within our atmosphere.

One of the large, wider branches with its dancing leaves began to flap slowly and powerfully like an eagle’s wing pumping air in slow motion—the breeze mounting.

I pointed out the contrast between movement and the stillness and coaxed Jonah and Adrian to lie back onto the blanket with me so that they might experience the tiny hairs raising up upon their own skin.

Like conductors—or sport’s announcers—we pointed out what we saw and felt as the leaves began to flutter—just slightly—ushering in a bigger movement and ultimately a welcome relief to our sweaty skin.

We waited for it again and again—in all of its subtlety—delivering a gentle breath-to-the-day and landing us on a patch of earth, in a sleepy town, side-by-side.

 

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“We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience.”—Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Like a cat in search of a light-strewn windowsill to curl up in, I’ve come and found a place in the sun on the front steps where the battleship-grey paint peels and dandelions sprout from the bluestone pathway.

Basking in sunlight has a way of lengthening my breath—of thawing out my hardened thoughts—giving-rise to the more-malleable realm of imagination.

Anything is possible.

Greater peace.

Full-circle connection.

A black, Labrador retriever, even, greeting me at the door—tail wagging, tongue dripping—out-of-breath with enthusiasm.

A breeze blows softly through the arm of my shirt billowing out my sleeve and raising the hairs on my arm—the contrast of heat and cool exhilarating, almost rousing enough to send me in for more layers.

The air mingles with metal and wood chimes—swaying above me—whispering a sublime song with just three or four delicate tones captured at the level of the heart—the place that occupies an infinite space within us yet is incapable of holding official, measurable weight.

Within the sound is an invocation of the holy—a call to pause on an ordinary afternoon just before school pick-up.

Might we all suspend thinking just long-enough to soak in the common backdrop that interweaves among us—no matter our beliefs or our locale.

Might we all experience this web of connection holding us up and propelling us forward, if only at a snail’s pace.

This is the how of the seeming coincidences—the timeless knowing—the magic.

The birds compete with the chimes whistling their own afternoon melody with glee—elated to steal the stage away from winter’s prolonged residence.

In a flash, a scarlet cardinal zips into the high, thin branches of a young, apple tree where small buds have begun to appear—soon to burst forth in cotton-candy-pink and white blossoms.

I envision how the red-bird would look juxtaposed with the soft-pink petals—the combination of hues striking.

Lemon-yellow is among the first colors to appear in the burgeoning, Spring landscape in Maine.

Arching forsythia branches stretch upward and wide as if awakening from a long sleep and fragrant daffodils speckle the landscape with cheer—like a child’s drawing taped-up in a dim hallway.

When Jonah and Adrian were smaller, we occupied our drive home from school pointing out, naming and remembering the patches of vibrancy that revealed themselves first—giving them monikers like Canary Corner, Big Bird and Golden Sun.

We would do it again in the fall when the leaves transformed into their gilded state—a favorite patch at the curve of the road where a semi-circle of trees would lose their golden leaves—seemingly all at once—painting the pavement as a yellow corridor.

When driving home from school recently we came upon another expression of nature’s capacity to take-our-breath-away in the form of an ample, draping tree with an abundance of soft-cream blossoms cascading toward the ground.

I pointed it out but couldn’t think of the name of the species.

I was surprised when Jonah piped in, “Oh, that’s a magnolia tree.”

He’s been astonishing me in all kinds of ways.

Last year in his class play he gave three lines—with his eyes closed, as if in meditation—the energy of the crowd drawing him within himself for comfort.

It was beautiful in a sense to see his sweet face soft and at rest in front of an audience and I admired that he did what he needed to, to care for himself.

I witnessed him on-stage again yesterday—transformed as if into another body completely—giving a dozen or more lines confidently and with feeling.

I could tell that he was still well-aware of the many eyes upon him, yet he had grown more sturdy and grounded—his roots lengthening, deepening with time.

Later, he held a clipboard at a baseball game checking-off the players on Adrian’s team as they went to the plate—his petals unfurling into blossom with the world around him.

The blue metal wheelbarrow with its burgundy hardwood handles has faded with time and sits near the flower beds where I left it before the rain—filled up with last year’s hydrangea stems.

The stems dried out in the fall and winter and were more like sticks when I cut them rather than flexible, living stalks.

I pruned them short for the first time in hopes of a more fruitful re-bloom—the last few summers only producing a couple of flowers on three large plants.

The bases of these perennials now appear like three porcupines attempting to hide in the flower beds, quills mid-emergence.

A heavy fog arrives in the evenings and at dawn dampening the intensity of Spring’s flourish—drawing on our patience and on our trust in the unfolding of the earth’s annual rebirth.

The anticipation of being lived-forward along with our breathing planet is palpable—a racehorse at the gates ready to run free—and important in its own-right.

Pausing.

Waiting.

Gathering up our stamina—our strength—for the inevitable continuation and push-forward in our own lives with all of their unique expressions and majesty.

Turning inward—quiet, still, listening.

Then outward—full, radiant, in-bloom.

 

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“Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.”—Lao Tzu

The morning is bright and crisp. The long, doubled rope of the swing out back vibrates with the wind—each strand of line separating and then coming back to the other again and again. Occasionally a powerful gust of wind will come and sweep the entire swing upward and then back again, like a swaying pocket watch used in hypnosis.

The bay is hidden in a field of white. A large shadow of the giant pine drapes over the sparkly surface, evidence of the sun having recently risen. There is only one uncovered stream of water in the distance—rolled out like a navy blue carpet across the landscape of white.

In the hallway there are a string of deflated balloons—yellow and orange and green—still tied together with golden, curling ribbon. In the bathroom, the wide sink surface is covered in diamond shaped cardboard—Adrian’s current ambition to use toilet paper rolls that he has wet, uncurled and dried for collection and creation.

His impulse to repurpose household materials for art brings a smile to my face. My heart expands in recognition of the ways we rub-off on our children. Some of them are good.

I don’t know what I was thinking booking a flight that departed at dawn. Waiting to pack until just before bed, I noticed a slight pulsing pain in my head, the turning of my stomach. I set my alarm for three hours before we would be taking off and climbed into bed with ample time to rest.

Closing my eyes, I found myself on a carnival ride—the Gravitron in my mind spinning me around and around as if I were in my 20’s again having had too much to drink.

My options seemed bleak. I imagined having to cancel my trip—disappointing a grieving friend. I thought about the risks of bringing illness out into the world and to those who I love.

I wondered whether the maladies flooding our community had taken root in me—our bodies and minds so absorbent of the experiences of others—also, germ theory.

The hours passed, I didn’t sleep.

Instead I searched around myself for a place that was well—for an energy I recognize, even in my most debilitating moments when it shows up as only a tiny spec of hope.

I both greeted the discomfort entirely—swinging around on the tilt-o-whirl inside of me—and simultaneously expanded the stream of what I can only describe as perfect wellness, allowing it to flood the rest of my body with its vigor.

Beneath my doubts, a mantra pulsed through me, “I am well.”

A new reality was explaining itself to the cells of me. One by one they were jumping on board in deference to the Universal flow that is always at our service.

I have needed to be sick at times. I have collapsed feverish into rest like a corpse—freeing myself from the demands of doing and holding and keeping pace with the rapid swirl of the world. I have allowed the opportunity of illness to be revealing in its potent delivery of directives.

I have used medicine to help me heal—to ward of germs or promote wellness when I haven’t had the impulse or energy to will a change in the state of my body.

Even as I invited a shift in my being, I accepted the possibility that my early morning path would not look the way I hoped it would.

I straddle the worlds of personal, creative power and the mystery of the will of the Gods and biology—one leg each on either side of a seesaw catapulting through space and time.

I finally collapsed into a nourishing rest for about an hour before I needed to get up.

When my alarm sounded, my head was clear. I felt steady and strangely rested. I checked in with myself again and again as I showered and got dressed and rolled my weekend travel bag down the hallway in the dark, my two children draped with blankets in the winter’s night.

I was fully well.

Traveling so early, I found myself on the second leg of my journey in a row of seats by myself. I felt grateful for the extra space. It reminded me of traveling alone when I was very young and before the time when flights are mostly oversold and packed tightly with little breathing room between passengers.

The temperature in the airplane was frigid. The flight-attendant was apologizing and handing out blankets. I layered up all of the clothing I had with me including my colorful, fingerless gloves.

I have been re-reading the books that have most influenced my life and way of being in the world. It is interesting revisiting them as a mother now and noticing the ways in which they sit with me differently.

One of the gifts of having children is the wider lens it offers us unto ourselves. I have found in witnessing my boys’ impulses and needs, their tendencies and humanity I have been able to unearth further the places in myself that have been shut-down and ignored.

In nurturing them I have come to value more my own right to well-being. I have come to forgive more readily my mistakes—like I would theirs.

We all arrive here with all that we need. Remembering who we are—our original essence—and accepting the exquisite lightness of that being is the task at hand.

Huddled in my seat—still fully well—I read and read and then I would occasionally place my head back on the seat, removing the elastic holding my hair in a knot so that I could be more comfortable, closing my eyes and drifting off into a peaceful rest.

Yesterday afternoon it snowed unceasingly for many hours. Jonah desperately wanted to have a family snowball fight. I was the only taker. We decided to go for a walk first knowing the battle would leave us wet and wanting to go back inside.

The snow was still coming down as we walked along our hushed and deserted road blanketed in white. I convinced him to walk all the way to the house with the yellow Hummer in the driveway—its color popping out like a canary on a birch branch.

We walked briskly there—the snow layering up on my aqua blue hat and blending with my white scarf, making my neck wet.

Coming back we strolled more slowly.

Nearing our house again, Jonah stopped in the middle of the road and tipped his head back, closing his eyes. I took him in as his soft, pink cheeks greeted the wet snowflakes for a long while.

When he raised his head up, he told me how good it felt to do that. I said I would like to try. He looked on while I tipped my head back, closing my eyes and allowing the cold dampness to dot my face. I imagined the cool flakes thinning my makeup.

I noticed the refueling of my body engaged in the natural world.

When we got to the driveway, I gathered up the fluffy snow—too soft for a real snowball—and tossed it at Jonah. He took the bait and began running off toward his snow fort for shelter where he could ambush me in safe cover.

The snow we threw at each other separated like powder in the air again and again and we laughed breathlessly finally deciding that tomorrow would be a better day for real snowballs.

We decided to go down to the dock where a virtual tundra surrounded the shoreline. Jonah ventured out onto the boulder like structures of ice wanting to dip his gloves into the icy, watery mix at their base and create formations with this enticing mixture.

I kneeled down into the snow on the dock observing him, trying to notice and latch onto any warmth in my body so that I could stay out a few minutes longer.

Jonah summoned me more near.

“Will you catch me if I fall in?” he asked.

“I will,” I said.

“What would you do?” he pressed.

I replied in absolute confidence from the deepest knowing of my soul.

“I would do whatever it takes to save you.”

 

 

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6 Ways to Enter into Conversation with the Divine

It is an unseasonably warm morning in Southern Maine. Our screen door is open and I am listening to the song of seagulls as they come and go, rocking back and forth across the sky, first near and clear along the rocky shoreline and then dim and fading in the distance. I’m especially drawn to their whistles as they call out to one another. I find their cries soothing and they somehow elevate my insides to a place of quiet contentment. I’m peering out over the sun-drenched mudflats and suddenly notice a bit of movement in the distance, a bit of blue —a “clammer” is there almost fully blending into the landscape, folded at the hips and digging for clams. It seems that we are a world away from one another.

I’m home for a rest day and my children are at school. With a minor cold, I’ve fully lost my voice and needed to cancel my plans for the day. It was interesting to try to capture my boys’ attention this morning in a whisper—a profound contrast to the escalating strength of sound I’ve needed to gather their eyes these past weeks as they have stepped fully into a new chapter of their growth and independence. The whispering proved more effective.

Rising before daybreak this last month has peaked my attention, heightened my inner-listening and brought me more in-tune with a sense of magic and co-creation with the Divine. I choose this term, “the Divine” purposefully. It indicates a quality of pleasure in this process. It speaks to a communion with that which is greater than me. It carries with it a bow toward all that is sacred. This word might be substituted with: God, The Universe, All-That-Is, Higher Self, Consciousness, Spirit, Inner Self or any other word or feeling that resonates. I’ve been noticing the ways in which the Divine is whispering to me as I go about my work in the world and reveling in the flow that comes to life when I am listening. I’ve compiled a list of a few ways in which I have witnessed this conversation playing out for me. My hope is that in considering these observations and suggestions, you might heighten your own inner-listening, come to trust and follow your own unique calling and join me in the journey toward a better world.

  1. Be willing to begin the conversation with a question. I recently came to a place in my work as an artist in which I needed to make a decision about the direction to go in next. I was drawn to three different projects—one of which is to create a piece of art that would be donated for a public space where homeless and disenfranchised  individuals go to gather and eat. Journaling in the morning I made a request for direction and opened my heart to listening. A few hours later, in a quiet moment, I had the opportunity to open a book that I often reference regarding the creative path and turned to a random page. I came across this proclamation  “Make something for someone else, not to be somebody.” Message received, easy as pie.
  2. Trust in and notice divine meetings. I had recently been in a meaningful exchange with a dear friend and fellow artist. It would have been nice to have connected with her for lunch or even on the phone after this exchange, however, both of us had a lot going on and neither of us had reached out to connect in-person. I was in a place that I rarely go at an unusual time. She was there in the same place outside of her normal routines. Together in the crowded space our paths crossed and somehow our exchange/work together felt affirmed. We connected and celebrated the work of the Universe bringing us together despite our unavailability.
  3. Sometimes the messages will be subtle. In some ways I am partial to the more nuanced ways in which the Divine comes through to me. These are the moments in which the hairs on my arms raise up ever-so-slightly or I sense a shift in my energy when I hear or read something. These are the times in which I feel stirred, called, compelled. It’s where the heart comes into play and pleasure, too. What and to whom do I feel drawn? What would I love to do if I were not afraid? These messages can be accessed at any time with a quieted mind and an inward attention.
  4. Sometimes the messages will be really clear. In the fall of 2014, I was spending the day with my son Adrian. Thursday’s were our “special days” then and we would spend the entire day together while Jonah had a longer day at school. On this particular Thursday, we had gone to the library in the afternoon. We picked out some books for him and played a game. As we were leaving the library I suddenly felt compelled to ask the reference librarian if she could look for me to see if there were any books about the art business that I might be interested in checking out. At that time I had been experiencing some of the more subtle whisperings and was in the process of opening myself to bringing my art more into the world. She took me to a “jobs” section where she thought there might be some books about creative work and told me she would be back after she had done a further search. Immediately, a book caught my eye. It was called, “Show Your Work!” by Austin Kleon. I took it off of the shelf, glanced at it briefly and handed it to Adrian to look at while I perused the shelf further looking for something more “specific.” It was bright yellow and appeared to have some pictures, I thought it might occupy him. Glancing down I could see that he was looking at the table of contents exploring the numbers. After a few minutes of looking, I didn’t find anything else that seemed meaningful to me and Adrian handed the original book back to me. I decided that it was probably the only book in the section that was going to be of any use. I opened it up to explore it further and turned directly to the inscription page. It read, “FOR MEGHAN.” Clearly I had found my book! This book led to the entire creation of my website and joining together my art and my writing and opening more doors than I could even begin to count.
  5. Trust in divine timing and believe in meaning. I have come to understand time in a less fixed and more fluid way. I’ve come to believe that things never really end and that all relationships, all interactions—even the painful ones, maybe especially the painful ones—have purpose and potential to propel us toward growth. When faced with seemingly insurmountable challenges with people or events in life, it can be a powerful exercise—at the very least—to offer up these situations somewhere, anywhere! I offer mine up to the Divine and I both grow patient and simultaneously release. I try not to linger in worry and yet my attention is peaked for the ways in which I am being acknowledged by a greater voice. It comes in the message on the highway billboard, the initials on a license plate. It is the cat in the play that looks just like my own. It all matters. Every single thing.
  6. Express gratitude. When I begin working on a new piece of art, I always invite the Divine into the process. When I complete a piece of work, I always offer thanks to the Divine. I do not pretend to know how that translates. All I know is that I can feel the good things grow in my life when I am grateful and that my worries lesson when I release them to something greater than me. It does not explain all of the truly awful things that happen in the world. The only thing it explains is that my ability to give as well as my ability to receive grows with gratitude.

Thank you for your continued support in both my writing and in my art. If you have read these words, please consider this the Divine speaking through me to you. With love, Meghan

 

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“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” —Mary Oliver


I’m sitting again, this time in an artsy, yummy restaurant housed in an old warehouse and my belly is full. My belly is full and my head no longer pounds and I was able to choose both yoga and writing on this chilly, grey day in Maine. I recognize the privilege and offer thanks. Spring continues to reveal herself oh-so-slowly and the fire is lit again and again in our wood stove at home, keeping us toasty even as we watch our yard carefully for emerging green. There have been some sun rays, but our clothing remains layered, our socks woolen. My own socks have grown so thin on the soles of my feet that my skin can be seen through them. I don’t mind, though. I wear them as a badge of honor for having chosen such a place to live —a place with epic winters and meandering Springs. A place where my heart feels that it belongs. My path has been one of listening and of taking steps in the direction of my soul. My path has been one of coming to understand the power of the mind. And now, my path is winding differently. My ears have suddenly become tuned-in to the distant whispers of the wild women who came before me, beckoning me to see my worth. They are coaxing me to know the ways that the droughts or storms of my own being may impact the climate of my children’s inner landscape. 

What better way to bring deep comfort and love to your children—these wild women whisper—than through the arms of a mother who bears witness to her very own right to experience the same? What better way to truly see your children for their inherent value—these wild women whisper—than through the eyes of a mother who recognizes her own worth regardless of what she does or says or is in any given moment? And what better way to teach your children—these wild women insistently whisper—than through the lips of a mother who is forgiving and gentle with herself in the lessons the turbulence of her own bumpy life provides?

I acknowledge these whispers as I page through my well worn copy of “Women Who Run with the Wolves,” and reflect on the fact that I have been gifted with boys in my life.  I reflect on what I would like for their impressions of women to be. I reflect on what their impressions already are—some I would like to remain, others I wouldn’t mind erasing. I am thinking about the way in which Adrian—well into his three year old exploration—loves to nestle into me and smell up and down the arms of my clothing. I nestle into him—and my bigger boy, Jonah, too—trying to hold on to the distant smell of the celestial that lingers even now. I’m thinking about the many ways that they feel free to be themselves—speaking shyly behind my leg to a stranger and floating quietly in the tub and yelling loudly when they feel compelled and screaming in frustration and laughing until they can’t breathe and falling on the floor in a fit and shouting in jest and running with abandon and confiding in a whisper and dancing wildly and being naked comfortably and moving their bodies luxuriously and stamping their feet in protest and singing unabashedly to their own tune and stomping on someone’s work and saying they are sorry and hugging their brother and forgiving their mother and being mischievous and angry and oh-so-very loving. I think about all that they are free to do and feel and say and how uncomfortable it can make me at times. And yet, more deeply than this surface panic that sometimes arises is an otherworldly, inner-knowing about the vast power of this allowance that will surely ripple across the landscape of their lives. I do teach and correct and help to make things right as necessary—and I stifle them at times, too—but in coming to accept the many aspects of myself—some of them quite unappealing—I am also coming to accept many more aspects of my two very precious, very alive, very vocal and very free-spirited boys.

“Coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.” —Albert Einstein

Etched in my mind is the image of my mother on the day she taught me to pray. She is sitting at a table, her back very straight, her hair curly. She brings her hands together in front of her, aligning her long slender fingers—one to the other—her elbows are on the table. Then speaking to us—a group of 10 year old catechism students—she intertwines her fingers and folds her head over against them reverently. She speaks of the, “Our Father” and the “Hail Mary’s.” She speaks of talking to God. I remember her at Mass in those years, coming back to our pew after Communion and settling into the position she showed us that day. I thought then and I believe now that my Mother said far more to God in those moments than the learned words of our Catholic faith. I don’t know what was in her heart but from her posture I knew that she believed that she was being heard. Although we never spoke of the exact nature of my Mother’s faith at that time, I believe that in watching her I first awakened to the idea of a higher being who was listening to and even observing me. This was sometimes comforting, sometimes frightening. I remember attending a youth retreat at our church in which a visiting priest interrogated me, saying to me over and over, “what did you do? what did you do?” because I was crying during my “confession.” My tears were tears of discomfort, tears of sadness even but this priest assumed I must have done something terribly wrong to be crying in front of him. He must have believed in a punishing God. I remember also a warm and loving priest, Father Balthazar from Hungary—lovingly referred to as “Father B” by the many who adored him. He hosted a day for blessing animals at our church and had a laugh that made you feel warm, like you wanted to smile. He was kind and remembered all of our names, the details of our lives, even in a very large congregation. I believe he knew a loving God.

I remember attending a warm and wonderful Baptist church in my teen years on many occasions with a dear friend. It was a humble place with after-service pot-lucks and the preacher’s house rested a stones throw from the chapel. Everyone was welcome. I remember several times looking around the congregation—with a lump in my throat—the many faithful were singing, hands raised up high in the air. I felt enveloped in love in that room. I felt envious and out-of-place and seen all at the same time. My prayer life continued and deepened in the years that followed and I attended both Catholic and protestant churches throughout much of college.

I remember sitting on an airplane when I was twenty-two years old and opening a book titled, “Living with Joy.” My older sister had given it to me and I was trying to ignore the fact that the forward of the book claimed that the writing had been “channeled.” I was trying to ignore the swirling, purple and pink cover so typical of late 90’s New Age books. It was the same year that my sister began telling me that she loved me. As I read the words in this book a tremendous peace began to come over me. I have often thought back to those tranquil moments. I can see myself then—as if on a movie reel—peering out the oval window to my left at mountainous clouds, taking in the warmth of the sun streaming in on me. Although I was ten thousand feet up in the air, I remember finding myself feeling grounded and settling into two very big new ideas. I was settling into the idea of being incredibly valuable just simply in being myself, all that I inherently am—imagined and created by the most magnificent energy in the Universe. In those same moments, I was settling into the knowledge that I was a part of something so much bigger than I could ever begin to be alone. I did not recognize what each of those feeling meant at the time, I just knew that I felt safe and at peace and in control and free and loved and cherished and a part of something and just very, very good for maybe the first time in my life.

I carried that book around with me for months and like an elixir, every time I read the words within I was healed. A fundamental change occurred for me with that book. It was a simple yet profound little book (along with the dozens of other like-minded books and teachers that followed) that took the many pathways that I had been traveling toward God and led me directly to *Him. It was then and over the course of the next nineteen years that I came into my beliefs about the God which I hold dear to me today. I believe that we are spiritual beings having a human experience and that we are here to grow and expand and to heal and become whole. I believe that we have the opportunity to co-create with God through our intentions and our words and even our desires and that we may not always understand why we have created that which we have. I believe there is no such thing as a coincidence. I believe that God hears us and sees us and knows us but in a way that is mysterious and with a wisdom so colossal that it cannot be explained. I believe that communication from God may come through the wisdoms of many different religions and spiritual traditions as well as from the headline of a newspaper or a graffiti scrolled on a highway bridge. I believe that there is a piece of God inside of us, near to our hearts, that is always accessible, but that we are free to ignore for as long as we choose. I believe that God is in the world around us—the acorn with it’s little perfect hat, the curl of a wave. I believe God is in our children—the miracle of their creation, the miracle of their coming here into our lives.

My desire is for my boys to start with God where I found him in my twenties. My desire is that they only know a God of love, not of guilt or need for repentance. I hope that they will know a God of comfort and guidance and feel powerful in their ability to co-create their lives and know their purposes by listening to their hearts. I want for them to know that the best expression of their love of God will be a life in which they use their gifts, are true to themselves and loving toward others.

I’ve been surprised at how readily my four year old Jonah has embraced the idea of God. I’ve been careful not to be heavy-handed, knowing that within him he has access to a truth that for me I’ve had to unearth. I began with regular night-time prayers when he was around 2 years old but then backed off when it began to feel forced. Instead we now do spontaneous praying when the moment feels right. From time-to-time I will pray for guidance in front of him and my littler boy Adrian. We frequently pray for our family and share the things we are grateful for surrounding our breakfast and dinner. Together we attend a weekly service at a Unitarian Universalist Church and Jonah has stated that we go there to learn about God. He likes our having a church. He likes the Pie Sunday tradition that we experienced last week. Adrian does not like being left in the nursery and enjoys speaking loudly over the reverend when we bring him into the service with us. When my husband and I were married we chose to honor the religions and traditions of both of our families and so our wedding was officiated by both a rabbi and a priest. During the preparations, our priest was required to have us sign a document declaring that we would raise our children Catholic. A wise and incredibly loving man, he assured us that all this meant to him was that we would raise our children in a house of love. Let me be a loving example to my children. This is my greatest desire in sharing God with each of them.

Jonah has struggled at times to be gentle with his little brother. It has not always been easy for him to share me and to share my husband with another little soul. Witnessing this has allowed for me to see my older sister in a different light (here is an example of God’s wisdom that I could never have orchestrated myself). I have urged Jonah to listen to his heart so that he may know how to treat his brother. Developmentally I am not certain that it is correct, but I am listening to my own heart when I guide him this way. Last night, as he and his brother were bathing together, Jonah shrieked out in the most delightful and excited way wanting to share something with me. He said, “I listened to my heart! I listened to my heart!” He used a voice that could only be described as overflowing with pure joy. He went on to explain that he had experienced an urge to be less than gentle with Adrian and that all of a sudden he had listened to his heart and made a different decision. I shrieked out in joy with him not because he had done the “right” thing so much as because I could see the light of God in his eyes and hear it in his voice. I will tread so very lightly with this knowledge and try not to “use” it or manipulate this new knowledge of his in any way. I want for him to settle into the truth of his own heart in his own way and at his own pace.

 

*I refer to my idea of God as “Him” simply for editorial ease. The God I know is much too all-encompassing to be categorized as either masculine or feminine. He just is.