It Begins as a Whisper

It begins as a whisper–

light shines

within,

breath 

slows,

then

becomes

steady.

Weightlessness

joining with the

stars, sun, moon, sky

rising to the top

of the mountain to

look out at the

landscape within.

Photo taken at Butterlies & Blooms, SF Botanical Gardens 2013

She Smelled Like the Rain

Two nights ago on September 1, 2013 at 1:36 a.m., it rained for less than 60 seconds. 

I had just gotten out of bed to brush my teeth. When I laid back down, I heard pitter-pat pitter-pat. I kept listening in disbelief. Raining? It was so hot today. I listened for a few seconds more, then I rushed out to the living room to tell M. He was about to come wake me up to tell me the same, but he said he wasn't sure he should wake me. 

We looked outside together but couldn't see the rain. We couldn't even hear it. I told him it was a good thing we didn't paint the table and benches today–the old weathered table and benches we found at an estate sale two Sunday's ago. That table in its weathered state reminded me of my grandfather and of the outside tables and chairs that he used to make with his own two hands–the chairs I used to sit in. I wondered if they were still there or if my uncle had thrown them out.

Then–the rain was gone like it never happened. I went back to sleep with a smile on my face.  A few moments, right after I laid back down, I could smell the faint smell of wet earth. What a wonderful smell. My smile grew. 

Two nights ago, I dreamt of my mother. I rarely dream about her, which I told my uncle recently when he told me that he had dreamed of her. He said, "My sister looked really happy," as he choked back a small rise of emotion.

Her memory is entwined with my existence. 

For a great stretch of my life, I tried to live in a way that would give her spirit a second chance at life, to live in a way that would bring her the peace that she didn't seem to have for the short period of time I knew her. I still have that on my mind, but it has become more embedded within my soul, and in some ways I feel as though both of our spirits have come together in harmony, and now I don't focus on her peace any longer because I think we reached it together–her peace. 

When I look into the mirror, as the years have gone by, more and more, the reflection looking back has glimmers of her; when I see certain pictures of myself, I see her smile; when I cry after reading a short story, I think of her; when I witness certain acts of kindness, I remember the things my mother did for others; when I think of how sometimes it's easier to open up and reach out to strangers more so than family, I think of my mother; when my temper gets the best of me, I am my mother. The positive and the negative are within me. I accept that. I work on and nurture what I can.

It's comforting to know she's with me and within me–that I recognize her.

Two night's ago, I dreamt of my mother. I was in a hospital looking for her. In the dream I think she may have been in an accident. I don't remember. I went to one room–room 103. There was a sign in the hall leading to the rooms that said for staff only. I tried to go down the hall, but I was cutoff and somehow the nurse knew where I was going, who I was looking for. My mother had been moved into another room. She pointed to the next hall of rooms and told me I would find her in there. I was hoping she was alone. 

As I walked into the room, I saw her resting. She had a glow around her and her salt and pepper hair was mostly dark brown and glistened. She immediately sensed me, opened her eyes and gave me the warmest most peaceful smile.  I went to her, beaming with a smile of my own, I bent my head down to her and rested it in the crook of her neck in her nest of hair and breathed her in as though I hadn't seen her in forever. 

She smelled like the rain.

Walking through Life

Indian Prayer

"Great Spirit,
Grant that I
may not
criticize my
neighbor
Until I have
walked a
mile
in his moccasins."


Two nights ago a restless sleep pushed itself upon me. I filled that space with thoughts of a story from Kitchen Table Wisdom about a man who used a visualization technique to help ward off his illness. Together with that story, I reflected back to a class. The teacher took us through a guided imagery to find our power animals. She turned off the lights; many of us took to the floors, laid down, made ourselves comfortable; others stayed in their chairs. It was a small class of no more than twelve. She put on a CD of drums and began guiding us with her voice. First we were to ground ourselves, knowing that we were grounded by the tree, then we were instructed to go down–down, down, down that trunk in search of our power animal. "It will come," she said. And if it doesn't, that's ok. Don't force it, just be." The drums beckoned us. The drum. A heartbeat. A familiar and enticing call.

My animal didn't come. I imagined a dolphin, but I forced it. Dolphin didn't come of her own accord.

Two nights ago a restless sleep came upon me and these moments connected their dots. I didn't force, rather I asked gently, for my power animal to come to me. Two appeared. First a crow, which was not a surprise. But the second: A unicorn. That was a very pleasant surprise. When I saw these two beautiful creatures, the space of restlessness grew into peace. I imagined these two: crow and unicorn there by my side to help me continue in my own healing and offering their guidance to me on my journey.

The quote above has been with me a long time, but today it wanted to come forth. I try to keep it close to my heart as I walk through life, one step–one breath at a time–open to all the wonders and differences of life.

Inside the Void

There is a void inside of me that I cannot fill—and just as soon as those words escape, the ache lessens. I’m a seeker without a clear direction, not having found her way in this world. At most times content, satisfied, knowing there is more—there always is—knowing that on one hand she’d like to have her dream job; on the other hand she doesn’t know what that is.

She recognizes—now from a great distance—that her mother showed these same tendencies. Pouring themselves into each other? Pouring into something, fitting all of their desires and interests together like a great moving puzzle that is never complete—that eludes the present moment.

There is a hunger that ebbs and flows through tidal cycles, pulls the soul along, laying a path of bright stars and spinning planets. Hers is a path about wholeness, about bridging time, connecting stars, finding their center within the great chasm; and in that center is a mother and daughter—two selves connecting through time and space into a galaxy of—

 

Random ~ Trying to Capture the Days ~ Catharsis

I’ve never been one for holiday music, not in a humbug way. But one year I did download an Elvis Christmas and another compilation of festive music. I thought I would dig it up, put it in the CD player and see how I felt about it today. Well, I must say, I wasn’t in the mood for it and when it finished, I felt as though I had enough holiday music. I was at my computer paying bills and on the phone with the cable provider to see if I could get a better deal since the current one expired, bringing the cost of the bill higher than I wanted it to be. So when the holiday music stopped, I opened iTunes and switched to some Jazz.

Yesterday I finished the last of my Christmas shopping and watched the traffic jam in the intersection as I waited for the sign to say WALK. I was glad I had found a parking space on the street and walked to my destination instead of trying to find parking where it seemed there were no empty spaces. I could hear the frustration through the honking horns and screeching tires as people tried to get home, while others most likely were in a mad scramble to get the last of their gifts.

Some time during last week I was walking to the store to drop off a UPS shipment for work. I seem to wear sweaters and sweatshirts wrapped around my waist often. And this particular morning I had a red cozy zipper fleece on and wrapped around my waist was a bright green zipper jacket. It felt festive, but it was also convenient. While I was walking, I saw a lady in her overall jeans and I started looking harder at what I realized were paint splatters on her jeans then I stole a glance at her and recognized her immediately. She said to me, I like your colors. I said thanks and then I said, “Your Blair, right?”

She said, “Yes.”

I said, “I used to work for a flower shop a long time ago and you used to paint our windows. I see your name around and I’m always happy to see you are still painting.”

She was tickled that I remembered and thanked me.  She had a mature exuberant glow about her and she truly seemed happy with life.

It was within that week, last week, that I also had a small “meltdown” at work. You know how when you try to “go with the flow”? Well, after some time, it catches up. One of my largest obstacles remains taking things personally. As my boss said, “You tend to personalize things, Rebbecca.” I listened as best I could. I conceded that yes that was true and I said it didn’t help that I was so sensitive. I told him how I felt, through sobs at our team meeting of three—in the restaurant no less. At first, my defensive reaction was, “I’m done. I can’t talk anymore.” It made it uncomfortable, so I tried to recover. That’s when the tears came and then frustration because he didn’t understand. For me, the most frustrating thing is when you have feelings that you feel and you try to explain them to someone because their behaviors add to your feelings. Everything ended fine, but as any woman knows, when your tears take over in the company of men at work, well, it’s an uncomfortable thing. The good thing is that I kept trying to explain as best I could without being accusatory and also owning my personality components and I felt like he finally “heard” me when he said, “I didn’t know you felt like that, Rebbecca. I’m truly sorry.” That was all I really needed—to be heard—that and an awareness of his behavior and its effects on the whole. Little things add up. I told him I know that I can’t expect him to change and at the same time I can try to “roll with it,”—but sometimes—

The other thing that has helped post small “melt down” is reading the book, Sybil. I had never fully known the details of the story, only the surface. It came up in conversation after a quick reference was made to it in a movie. My significant other asked about the reference and I told him what I knew, which was only that there was this real person who had many personalities and they made a movie about it. That was all I knew. I became more curious and checked the Amazon Kindle store for copies. They did not have one but they did have another book called SYBIL in her own words: The Untold Story of Shirley Mason, Her Multiple Personalities and Paintings. At that moment I became intrigued and decided I would get the book Sybil from the library because I wanted to read that first. It came and I could not put it down. I’ve always been fascinated with anything having to do with the psyche. It was hard to fathom a person who dissociated into separate personalities to cope—separate personalities that each had their own memories, their own experiences, their own outward physical appearances and speech patterns. And all the while, the main person, whom we know as Sybil, not being aware of any of the separate personalities due to her “losing time,” as she would dissociate to such a degree due to the abuse she endured in her childhood, that the other personalities would take over.

How did this help me? First, I don’t want to undermine the severity of this complex. By reading this story, however, it helped me realize something about my relationships with certain personalities—or rather reinforced what I knew. Reading Sybil gave me more to work with. I do not do well with strong personalities that I feel try to overpower me or have a cruel tone and once I reach a point, I start becoming more defensive, sometimes louder, defending myself, being prompted just by a look from them. Something in me detaches and matches the behavior coming at me or develops behavior that makes me feel in control. It made me revisit my reactions in general and take a harder look at some things that I hadn’t quite considered with my own past. I felt as thought there were pieces that made more sense in a way that I think I’ve always had a sense of, but didn’t quite have certain pieces. It made me also feel more compassion toward my mother for the pain that she must have felt and not knowing how to deal with it.

I noticed there is another book on Amazon that questions the truthfulness of the book Sybil and whether the doctor’s behavior was ethical. All I can say is that the story touched me immensely and it was good of Shirley Mason to share her story and to bring awareness when the book came out 1973. I have not seen any of the movies, but plan to sometime soon.

And so this morning as I was paying bills on the computer I started getting a little down at the credit card debt. I took a deep breath, tried to bring myself into focus, looked up at my inspirational corkboard and my heart and soul received what it needed from Mother Theresa. I read it to myself quietly and then read it aloud so I could hear the words.

Lastly, this is a photo of our little Victorian Village. My significant other was at the thrift store and found this set. I was surprised when he brought it home and showed me. He was so excited that he found it and that it was such a good deal. It was only $12. What a bargain indeed. He helps me to be more festive and grounded. He also bought our first Christmas tree. It’s cute and a little slanted.

Wishing you all peace and happiness; and strength and resilience for handling the kaleidoscope of emotions that make us human.

Rebb

“Life is an opportunity, benefit from it.
Life is beauty, admire it.
Life is a dream, realize it.
Life is a challenge, meet it.
Life is a duty, complete it.
Life is a game, play it.
Life is a promise, fulfill it.
Life is sorrow, overcome it.
Life is a song, sing it.
Life is a struggle, accept it.
Life is a tragedy, confront it.
Life is an adventure, dare it.
Life is luck, make it.
Life is too precious, do not destroy it.
Life is life, fight for it.”

—Mother Teresa

A Series of Events: Unexpected Light

There has always been a spiritual home inside of me, and at times, it may have grown dark and cold, but mostly a light was always left on because of my grandmother. When I was "finding" myself in my late teenage years, I rejected aspects of my Catholic upbringing. This struggle would continue as I wrestled with myself and tried to find what was true for me on my terms.

A fading memory flickers in and out, always there, but reawakened on a recent visit to Carmel. I’m in my early twenties, sitting at the kitchen table with my grandmother discussing how the Catholic religion is not the only one that is good. On that she agrees, but I feel her desire to want me to embrace it as she has. At the time, I was exploring Eastern thought.  When I saw the look in her eyes and knowing her passion and devotion to Catholicism, I realized it didn't matter and I backed down. I didn't want to take that from her. At the same time, I didn't want her to take my explorations from me. At that moment, her own wisdom to me whispered in my ear: To respect my elders.

I remember a point in my life, a seemingly long sporadic time of feeling angry at the world, easily upset, slightly depressed. Time shows that there is an order to events that don’t often go in a straight line, but usually connect, disconnect, and reconnect. Amongst the many synchronistic influences and events along the way, one defining moment was when an old friend called me out of the blue with an extra ticket to see a Buddhist monk speak in Berkeley.  I didn't have anything else to do that night so I went along. I didn't know who Thich Nhat Hanh was at the time and didn't know what to expect. I still have the ticket stub. Touching Peace: Thich Nhat Hanh, Berkeley Community Theater. The year is 1993.

I met my friend in Berkeley. He would have to head back home to Santa Cruz that night. We caught up on old times while we waited in the long line to enter the auditorium. Inside, we took our seats. The whole place buzzed with conversation, people finding their seats and visiting with people they knew. The velvet red curtains stood out to me. They looked regal and added warmth. 

Next I remember people taking their seats and the chatter fading to silence after someone announced Thich Nhat Hanh.

Silence. 

As soon as Nhat Hanh walked out to the front of the stage in his robes, the Buddhist nuns nearby, I felt an instant peace in every part of my being. And then he spoke in his calm, loving voice. Nhat Hanh radiated the most positive, loving energy that I have ever felt and it spilled out into the room. I was touched. His voice was low and it was difficult to hear him at times. But because of how he spoke and the genuine smile on his face, the love and compassion—his body language—this made the words not matter. He embodied the words, the teachings—and delivered them with love. He was truly present with every ounce of his being right there in an auditorium emanating with his inner peace, that same love and compassion reflecting back to him. 

Ever since that day, I felt changed. I felt renewed; the light inside of me would be restored. As I continued to learn from Nhat Hanh through his books, I appreciated how he respected all religions and encouraged us to make peace with the religions we were raised in. Over the years in between, I came to embrace Catholicism, mostly the way I remember my grandmother practicing it through her actions, through her loving kindness.

The two spiritual traditions that guide me most today are Zen Buddhism and my grandmother's Catholicism. Nature serves as my all encompassing teacher, which is embedded within and lives in me. I am a human being that connects with her grandmother’s light, connects with human light, who does this on her own terms, where the great blue sky and all the creatures are her guides.

In Carmel, walking through both the monastery grounds and the mission grounds, I feel my grandmother's presence and I also feel Nhat Hahn's presence. I feel the light inside as I walk quietly through the small monastery garden and pathways with images of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the ocean in sight. I light a candle at Mission Carmel, sending positive thoughts to those in heaven and all around.

I feel blessed to have been touched so deeply by two living angels and to know that I have that presence in my being—in light and dark times. For that, I am eternally grateful.

Morning Relaxation

It was a stiff morning, and though my body is still young-ish, it sometimes creaks. It seemed a good day for Yoga. Slow down. Center yourself. Invite peace. Offer peace.

The same CD always brings an instant calm—more than any of the other meditative CDs. Why is that? Was it the one that I used from the very early stages?

And so I begin with the poses that I’m familiar with and that my body yearns for. It’s a brief session; next time, perhaps longer. As I lay there, transitioning toward the end of my session, body face down, head to the side, fully relaxed, the music washes over me, the plucking of the sitar lulls my body deeper into relaxation, punctuated by the ting, ting, of the chimes, a deep breath exits my mouth. I feel all the muscles loosen—a deep calm permeates the tight muscles of my bodily container. I hear the rain outside through the bedroom window. It snuck in—wheels driving by on wet pavement turns to the swish of waterfalls.

I rise out of this pose slowly, carefully, in small stages. After a few more poses, my body decides that my next to last pose will be the warrior and my mind decides it will be for strength.

The last, how I always end, is to give thanks. Today, I turn to the North, East, South, and West, and bow with my hands in prayer, held close together, like angel wings surrounding a beating heart. I then kiss my palms and blow a kiss of love into our home and out into the universe.

Comfort Food

Koi in the pond at a Japanese Garden

Chicken with Mole

On Thursday I decided to buy a jar of Mole (pronounced: MO-Lay) sauce because I know it’s one of my significant other’s favorites and when we were at his mom’s house, I had tried it for the first time. I don’t recall my grandmother making it, but I would be surprised if she didn’t. She would often make something with eggs for me served with a side of beans and rice. That explains why I love eggs so much!

I asked his mom questions about her Mole sauce and she did start with a prepared jar of Mole and then added more chilies and Mexican chocolate. I grew up with Mexican chocolate—round disks of chocolate and cinnamon goodness. This was two months ago and I don’t know that I had any intention of using the sauce because at the time, I liked it, but I didn’t love it. You know how sometimes it takes more than one time for something to make an impression.

When I was trying to think of an economical chicken dish, I thought of her Chicken drumsticks with Mole that she prepared that day. Drumsticks are one of my favorite parts of the chicken. I prefer fried chicken, but that’s not the healthiest, so I thought how can I make these drumsticks more interesting without a lot of acid. I told my significant other about my idea and told him that it wouldn’t be the same as his mom’s, and that for starters I would just stick to the jar to see what the flavor profile was like and maybe next time, I could add more ingredients.

I got two packages of drumsticks, so we would have leftovers and I only got one jar of Mole. I boiled the drumsticks in salted water with skins on. I boiled them a good hour to be on the safe side. Meanwhile, I read the instructions on the jar of Mole. I had to heat the paste up with four parts of a liquid, either water or soup stock, to one part of the paste. I used the whole jar and gradually added three parts of water, and decided that for the fourth part, I would add the chicken stock from the drumsticks for a little extra flavor. Even though I didn’t make the Mole from scratch, with all the stirring I did, I sure felt like I did. I put more love into stirring that Mole sauce than I think I’ve put into anything I’ve made. I was sweating and stirring. The stirring had to be constant because as you can imagine, a cocoa paste is pretty thick and it keeps wanting to roll itself up. I tasted it along the way and it didn’t quite excite me at first. I could detect the heat of the chilies and of course the unsweetened cocoa dominance made it feel slightly bland on my tongue. I counted on the taste elevating when I added the last part of chicken stock, and then brought the chicken together with the Mole sauce.

At last the chicken was done cooking and after letting it sit a while to cool off, I took some pieces out, pulled the skin off and discarded it and added the drumsticks to the prepared Mole sauce. Dinner was served with rice and tortillas. My significant other was pleased with how it turned out. I told him that though it was a jar, I put a lot of love into stirring that sauce, making sure it didn’t burn and kept it smooth. He smiled.

The following day, we both took leftovers. That’s when it hit me. I couldn’t believe how I had missed out on Mole for all my life. I never ordered it on menus because chocolate—in my mind and taste buds—did not belong in a dinner dish. When I took my leftovers out of the microwave, the chicken was tender and juicy, coming off the bone in nice pieces; the Mole sauce had re-softened and I felt the excitement in my mouth that I hoped I would find when I set out to prepare this meal. I was having one of those food moments where you can’t stop the mmmmm’s and ohhhh’s.

Chilaquiles and a Perfectly Lazy Sunday

My childhood home was one house away from my grandparent’s home and I would find myself walking up the sidewalk several times a day for a visit and always for something good to eat. One of my comfort foods is Chilaquiles and there are many variations. What makes it what it is are the tortillas ripped into pieces and cooked up in lard or the cooking oil on hand and then scrambled with eggs. My grandmother knew just how I liked them. Plain, simple, and soft. She would let the tortilla pieces cook until they were tender and then she would add two scrambled eggs, let it set and then flip it over. That was my comfort food and it still is. She used to make Chilaquiles for my brother too. He liked his tortillas crispy and he also liked her to add tomatoe sauce at the end. When my uncle has prepared this dish for me, he makes the tortillas more crispy because that’s how he likes it and he adds Monterey Jack cheese at the end.

My comfort food showed up yesterday along with my Lazy Sunday. I knew that I wanted to stay in. I felt like we’ve had such a non-stop schedule on weekends, that I really needed a break. I told my significant other that I really just wanted to stay at home and relax. I knew that he would need to get out because not everyone can just sit in all day, so I encouraged him to do so—to go out and get some air. We eased into the day. I had already been up and reading and when he did finally go out, I continued reading. When I started to get hungry, I remembered we had some bacon left, so I decided I would have Chilaquiles with bacon. I cut the bacon into squares, added chopped onion and let it cook up a bit, then I added the ripped tortillas, a little butter and olive oil, and when everything smelled and looked how I wanted it, I added three scrambled eggs. I sat at the table and ate my food lovingly, always thinking of my grandmother when I eat this dish. I washed it down with some water and I was back to reading. I spent the whole day inside and it felt amazing. I did take a break and put my laundry away. Then back to reading. Sometimes I take a nap, but when I laid my head down, I was back up quick. It started getting hot. I turned the ceiling fan on in the bedroom. The bright light shined through— and after a gray morning and a light rain! With the cool air from the fan, the bright sunlight for reading, and the whites from the duvet cover and the walls reflecting the natural light, I felt like I was in absolute peace of mind.

Some of my Reading

I’ve recently started reading, Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Funny thing is I owned this book when it came out. Never read it. Wasn’t ready. This time around I’ve enjoyed it very much. I think it’s funny how he swears a lot. The first half of the book focuses on his life, how he became a writer and the second half of the book focuses on the craft of writing in a conversational way.

On a recent visit to the library, I was looking for one book, but found another. Death with Interruptions by the Portuguese writer Jose Saramago. I have not read any of this writer’s works. It sounds different and intriguing. I hope it hooks me until the end.

I read a little bit more of Franz Kafka’s The Trial and I think to myself: Is it possible to get 2/3 of the way through a book, leave it for a couple of years and pick up where I left off? I’ve done this with other books, but is it realistically possible? Can I hold enough of the story in limbo for so long and just begin where I left off? Or do I need to start over?

I did the same with Milan Kundera’s Immortality. It is not the easiest novel to read and a tricky one to come back to after much time has gone by. My favorite part will always be the opening when we are introduced to Agnes. I can only say that the portrait and scene he created—and he did it in one and a quarter pages—will always be a part of me. It’s universal and one who reads it and sees themselves there will know what I mean.

I’ve also read a few short stories:

“The Father” by Bjoernstjerne Bjoernson (1838-1910).

I had read this one some time ago and found it in a free Kindle collection. I was glad to be re-connected with it.

“The Great Stone Face” by Nathaniel Hawthorne.

“The Ice Palace” by F. Scott Fitzgerald. I have never read any of Fitzgerald’s short stories. When I was done with this one, I needed to go right back to the beginning. I am planning on reading it through again. I loved The Great Gatsby when I read it in school.

I’m ready for Flannery O’Connor. The book of commemorative essays that I shared in another post has made me want to read her even more. I started, “A Good Man is Hard to Find” and knowing what the story is about, I’m curious to see how it develops. I left off at the part where the car approaches and the grandmother realizes this isn’t the place. As I mentioned before, I’m surprised I’ve never come across any of her work in an English class and I didn’t venture in her direction on my own. And though I had checked her book of short stories out, I hadn’t cracked it past the table of contents. But her title was enough to inspire my blog, “A Good Pan is Hard to Find.” Something about her presence is calling me. I’m ready for you, Flannery O’Connor!

And so, it was a week and a Sunday filled with comfort food. A much needed long stretch of time to re-fuel my soul.

Happy Reading and Writing & Happy Monday!

River of Peace

Two swords cross
through the center of
a lotus blossom
Four cranes, paper pinwheels
Moon in Libra
Soft green light flows
the color of peacock feathers
mixed with white, fading up
into soft yellow sunshine

Two angels suspended from the edges
of the sword’s handles.
Two smaller swords,
one at top, one at bottom,
both pointing upward. At the tip
of the top, the moon sits—a sliver.
At bottom, the scales of Libra,
a perfect union. Peace.

**

Inspired from today’s Tarot card: 2 Swords: Peace. I looked deeply at the image, closed my eyes, breathed deeply, opened my eyes, and described how I visually see the card.