The Creative Process

 

I recently watched an inspiring documentary on concert pianist Seymour Bernstein.  Bernstein is an eighty five year old native New Yorker who still teaches music.  His specialty is teaching professional musicians how to hone their craft. As a master of his own art, he pays special attention to the nuances of the creative process.

Bernstein’s life and his musical talent are not separate.  He speaks quite frankly about himself, the importance of solitude and how he finds God, not as a deity “out there” as  most religions teach,  but within.  He does not claim to be a spiritual or religious person and yet one could say that everything about him is spiritual. 

No two pianos sound the same, according to Bernstein, even if they are made the exact same way.  This is because pianos are built by different people and the wood used  comes from different trees, which means the wood is not exactly the same and therefore carries the sound a little bit differently.

In the beginning, when learning a new piece of music, Bernstein explains how he plays very slowly until he gets each part down.  Only after he has learned the piece in its entirety does he pick up the pace.  He instructs his students in techniques like posture and breathing, things one might think are less important. And he listens.  He brings his whole self to the process and teaches that everything is important, every last detail. 

Bernstein is sought after by professional musicians because of his unique approach to the creative process. These musicians are accomplished in their own right and yet are willing to discover what they don’t know as he gently places his hand on their shoulder while they play making them aware of the tension held in their body so they can soften just a bit.  And as they do so, the music likewise softens, becoming more fluid as it begins to flow in new ways.  Bernstein also instructs his students in the art of breathing.   These very precise moves help shape not only the music but the musician.  After all, what we bring to our art form is more than just talent or technique, it is the entirety of our whole being, and this too effects the music in very subtle, yet profound ways.   

It occurred to me that Bernstein's approach can likewise be applied to any art form or craft, even the craft of living life.  A craft is something that is learned step by step as we carve out our particular expression; it doesn’t come in one magnificent flash, unless of course it does.  We bring our attention to it by being fully present.  Nothing is irrelevant.  Everything matters.  And if a log falls across our path, we step over it and keep going (Bernstein’s analogy).

In his younger days, Bernstein was a concert pianist.  However, he quit performing publicly when he was fifty because he says he was tired of the pressure, the stage fright, and the whole social scene.  Instead, he began teaching piano, which he says is his first love anyway.  Thirty five years later, at the age of eighty five, actor and friend Ethan Hawk (producer of the documentary) asked Bernstein if he would consider performing for his theater group in New York.  Bernstein decided to accept  the offer.

On the evening of his performance, the piano was positioned in front of a large picture window overlooking the busy streets of New York.  Passersby would stop to watch him play, some even snapping photographs.  I thought to myself, “Why don’t they shut the curtains!”  But they didn’t need to shut the curtains.  Bernstein was not in the least perturbed by the passing scenes outside the window.  He played with unwavering focus and elegance. It was like music from heaven. Now you see why I say he is truly a spiritual person.  You cannot play music like that unless you are infused with spirit, because as the music enters the listener, it effects the whole mind, body and spirit, and one is changed by being in his presence.  

The Magic of Alaska

 I’ve just returned from another Alaskan adventure. My husband, brother and I come to Anchorage every summer to visit my mother who lives in an assisted living group home around the corner from my sister’s place.

 Usually our vacation is filled with a variety of scenic activities interspersed with family time. The highlights of this trip are our visit to Seward, a town in the Kenai Peninsula, and the discovery that Mom, who has Alzheimer’s, is winning at the computer memory games!

Seward, with its subarctic climate, is a small coastal town with a population of approx. 2,500 located 130 miles south of Anchorage.  It is known for its beautiful Kenai Fjords National Park which contains one of the largest ice fields in the United States. These ice fields are the source of numerous glaciers, including Bear Glacier, it’s largest.

This trip we decide to book a whale watching and nature tour that leaves from Seward.  The weather is perfect with blue skies,  sunshine, and a calm sea.  On board ship, we roll up our pant legs and quickly shed  layers of warmth in exchange for the sun’s penetrating rays. 

Here in Alaska, strangely enough the sky seems closer, as if you could almost reach up and touch it.  A brilliant sun with 20 plus hours of daylight lessens the need for sleep. Despite the fact that Alaska is one of the coldest ice and snow covered states in the union, spring here brings a surprising explosion of life gushing forth from land, water and air, as if it has never known the darkness of winter.  It is one of those magical places where the spirit of the land has not been squelched by man.

As our tour boat pulls out of the harbor, we spot a humpback whale playing in the waters of the fjords close to shore where the depth of the waters suddenly plunge 1000 feet.  The curve of its black body rises gracefully out of the water to give us a brief glimpse before submerging again.  

A short distance off, sea otters spin and twirl on the surface of the sparkling sea.  But mostly, they float on their back with tail tucked between their hind legs, letting the currents carry them where they will.  We watch as one of the otters cracks open the hard shell of a clam with its long fang- like teeth. 

Out of the sea jut large walls of jagged rock that house bald eagles, puffins, common murre, to name a few, as well as families of sea lions, their floppy golden bodies basking on the sun drenched rock.  We are close enough to hear their horn- like calls as two of them appear to be sparring, over a female perhaps?  

We see plenty of common murre. The common murre is a medium size water bird, penguin-like in appearance only much smaller.  It spends most of its time at sea, but nests along the rocky cliffs when it is time to breed.  However, the puffins are one of my favorites.  We joke that they look like flying potatoes with their short stubby bodies and short wing span.

Then suddenly, without warning, a torrent of birds descend upon our boat.   If you’ve ever watched the Alfred Hitchcock movie “The Birds”, you’ll have an inkling of what I’m talking about.  However, instead of instilling horror and doom, there arises a cacophony of sound and choreography unmatched by even Hollywood at its best. 

Out of nowhere it seems the birds appear, swooping, flapping, gliding, cawing, in swarms overhead and on the surface of the sea in circular patterns and from all directions, enveloping our boat in all their bird glory.  It is a spectacle like nothing I have ever witnessed.  One of our nature guides tells us that in the sixteen years she has worked for the tour company she has witnessed this magical event only twice.  I guess it was our lucky day.

One of our last stops on the tour is Bear Glacier.  Temperatures begin to drop as we near the glacier and we bundle up in our gloves and hats. The glacier is 13 miles long with large chunks of ice berg floating in the lake at its base.  At this point we are almost completely surrounded by snow capped mountains.  All is quiet on deck, as we take in the breathtaking view of nature’s grandeur.

Four years ago when we brought Mom up to Alaska to live, her Alzheimer’s was progressing rapidly.  Each successive year, we marvel at how much better Mom seems to be than the year before.  She could barely sign her name and now this time we notice a pad of paper in her room where she keeps a journal of sorts, jotting down items of interest throughout her day.  We are surprised at how much her handwriting has improved.   And she is steadier on her feet too, not requiring a walker anymore.  This is almost unheard of with Alzheimer’s, a progressively debilitating disease. 

We continue to speculate why Mom’s health is improving and wonder if it’s not the pure arctic air, or the intensity of chi (vital life force energy) here, or the loving attention of my sister and Mom’s caregivers.  Maybe it’s a mixture of all the above.  How wonderful that we will have her in our lives a little longer.  I’d like to think perhaps it is all part of the magic and majesty of life in Alaska. 

    

Costa Rica, August, 2011

This time of year,  Costa Rica is a living inferno.  I try to stay cool by exposing as much skin as possible without attracting attention.  However, clothing or no clothing, it’s all the same.  100% humidity night and day.

My sister-in-law, her husband and their three teenagers who are vacationing on a mountain top have graciously invited my husband and me to share a rented villa overlooking the lush rain forests and Pacific Ocean.  Mini-van and swimming pool included.

Each morning out on the veranda sitting cross-legged on a leather back chair (common in these parts), I  luxuriously sip my mug of Costa Rican coffee,  mesmerized by the panoramic view of jungles with swooping birds and chirping insects. Over by the garage, the black monkeys howl as they swing from the trees angrily throwing kumquats on the tin roof as a warning for us to keep our distance.

There is little sign of civilization, although we are only a few miles from Playa Giones, a tiny coastal village carved out of the thick vegetation where ex-pats and surfers come to get away from it all. This place is known for its great surfing.  My nieces and nephew, and even my husband, give it a shot. They return with swim suites full of sand and stories to tell.   I prefer to relax by the pool admiring the exotic flowers.

Much to my surprise and delight I discover Playa Giones is the home of the "Nosara Yoga Institute", a yoga paradise with the most spacious yoga studios tucked away in the towering jungles, surrounded by lush foliage, wind chimes, and an aura of serenity. 

 There are no fast food restaurants or chain hotels.  We eat practically the same meal every day - fresh fish, beans and rice, sometimes avocados.  With fish this fresh, you really don’t need anything else.  The roads are dangerous with hair pin turns and ruts the size of monkeys.  And when it rains hard the mud slides make it near impossible to maneuver our borrowed minivan up the mountain. 

The story goes that my sister-in-law Wendy rented the house from a guy named Rusty back in Plano.  Rusty owns a small rustic hotel and beach bar, "Casa Toucan", in Playa Giones where all the surfers with sun soaked skin and tiny bathing suits hang out. 

Apparently Rusty is quite a character.  One morning we discover a sticky pad note on one of the herbal tea boxes in the cupboard that reads “To Rusty.  Heart Heart Heart, Margie.”  We learn from Wendy that Margie is not the name of Rusty’s wife.  Oh, well,  I suppose what happens in paradise, stays in paradise.

The Human Condition

I recently spent a captivating afternoon in one of my favorite art galleries, the Eleanor D. Wilson Museum, on the Hollins University campus. I have a strong affinity for Hollins since I spent quite a bit of time there back when I was completing a graduate degree in liberal studies.  Sometimes I return between semesters when the students are gone just to stroll through the well groomed grounds and wander through the art gallery. I am rarely disappointed by the museum's exhibits and this one was no exception.

On display was the work of an internationally known artist by the name of Tip Toland, Artist-in-Residence at Hollins, February 11 – May 1 of last year.  Several of her ceramic sculptural portraits were so stunningly realistic I had to resist the impulse to reach out and touch them.

The following is an insightful description of Toland’s work offered by the museum:

“A viewer of Toland’s work can instantly assess and acknowledge her familiarity with the human form, bone, muscle, and skin structure.  The inner truths however, require further observation, contemplation, and time.  Beyond the physical presence, the aspect of her work that makes them truly remarkable is the way the artist has captured the individual features, the nuances, gestures, persona, and the inner psychological character of her portraits. 

Ultimately what Toland is trying to capture is ‘the truth of what it is to be human . . . the human condition, without the veneer.'Toland is known for exploring aspects of life from which other artists steer clear, especially aging and the aged.  Often her figures are nude, exposed, fragile and vulnerable; many seem to be in mid-thought, mid-laugh, or mid self-awareness. . . “

This small, but powerful collection, led to my own meandering observations.  Toland’s nude figures are startling reminders of the ravaging effects of time on the body. Crooked and missing teeth, sagging, accordion-like skin folds with dark pigmented spots, and hairless scalps. 

As a reminder of our own mortality, the subject of aging and the aged in our culture often causes one to grimace.  We’d rather put it on the back burner a while longer in order to develop a good healthy dose of denial.  Ads are plastered with pretty young faces and strong rippling bodies.  And yet, the reality of aging and its obvious trajectory are always in the background.  It's the human condition without the veneer.

Examining Toland’s work brought me back to an awareness I had when working in the health care delivery system, and nothing brought this to my attention more than when I worked in hospice care. Being with those who have only a few short months to live causes one to pause and reflect.  The fact is, the dying, as societal outsiders, live at the edge of life. They have one foot in this world and one in the next.  However, because of their unique perspective they have much to teach us about how to live and how to die.  They are intimately in touch with a truth we will all eventually face.  Life as we know it is harsh, transient and short lived.

Yet, a strange paradox exists. When face to face with our own mortality, we often feel more acutely alive than ever before.  We begin to see with new eyes and realize the value of each precious day.   Are we living each moment with eyes open, a full participant in life, or puttering along in the same old ruts and routines?  Are we living the life we want to live, or making excuses?

 If you hang around hospice workers long enough, one of the remarks you will often hear them make is, “People die the way they have lived”.   My observations tell me that the final years or months of life can be met with peace and resolution or struggle and denial.

The stark reality that Toland’s art so poignantly depicts is that when we leave this world, we leave the same way we came in – vulnerable, naked and stripped of all pretense.  This does not mean we relinquish dignity, grace, and hope.  Rather, it means,  relinquishing the conditioned layers of protection that prevent us from experiencing life directly.

As Toland’s work might suggest, aging strips us of our veneers.  Our skin, like the skin of the artist’s life-like sculptures, turns crinkled, thin and fragile, so thin in fact there is very little left to hide behind.  This can be greatly disturbing or surprisingly liberating.

India Bound - 2011

I have been traveling for nearly thirty hours and it’s now two in the morning, India time.   A circle of women in colorful saris standing beneath harsh white street lamps glance our way. Malnourished dogs run loose digging through scattered piles of trash as barefoot children laugh and play in the parking lot of the congested airport.

 Here at last in the bustling, dust-filled city of Chennai, two in the morning appears not much different than two in the afternoon except for the notable absence of a blazing sun overhead.   Suddenly my black slacks and winter boots feel uncomfortably warm and out of place.

The ashram has sent Pravi to fetch my friend, Renate, and me from the airport.  Though Pravi has never met us, he easily identifies our pale American faces in the crowds exiting the airport.  In no time at all our bags are packed in the rear of his cab and we are flying down the road, dust streaming through the open windows.

We head out onto the paved road, weaving in and out of construction sites, dodging buses, trucks, mopeds, bicycles, scooters, some with lights and some without, horns honking loudly, dust swirling.  Chaos.  My traveling companion, Renate, and I are now wide awake despite the late hour.  I soon learn that everyone in India drives like this, and after a few weeks into my journey I begin to notice a rhythm and flow to the apparent madness.  In fact, I have come to view the rather sketchy “rules” of the road as a playful, albeit dangerous, graceful dance.

Now, peering through the windows of our cab, my eyes meet a completely foreign landscape - cows standing and lying by the side of the road, men squatting at open air stands that sell hot tea, coffee and Coca Cola.  Make shift store fronts resemble bombed out shelters,  and amidst the wandering cows and fast food stands appear a multitude of temples, temple upon temple in every size, shape and color, as plentiful as the cows.

One such temple is perched atop a bullock cart festively decorated with fresh flowers and strings of colorful lights.  A procession of chanting devotees follow the caravan offering puja.  Traffic slows then comes to a complete halt in order to make way for the traveling temple to cross the road.  Pravi excitedly points to the caravan shouting, “God, God!”  The worshippers are waving, smiling and cheering.  We wave back, cheering them on.  Today God is colorful indeed!

We arrive in Tiruvanamalai, our final destination, in record time, i.e. under four hours. Tiruvanamalai, a city with a population of approximately 150,000, is located in the southeastern state of Tamil Nadu.  The town was built around a large temple at its center known as Annamalaiyar. It is a city filled with spiritual seekers from around the world as well as religious ascetics called “wandering sadhus” who traditionally shun worldly comforts and possessions in order to pursue the goal of spiritual enlightenment.  I suppose I am here as a seeker in my own right, for the purpose of deepening my meditation practice and to pay homage to the holy mountain.

The ashram staff has gathered at an early hour to greet us with open arms.  Under the direction of Jan, the ashram director, we are given a grand tour of the  grounds as we follow along a winding stone path lined with lush foliage and blossoming flowers.  My only concern is the absence of toilet paper in the bathrooms.  We are instructed how to clean ourselves using cups of water as is the custom in parts of India where the plumbing cannot handle paper products.

The interior of the ashram stands in sharp contrast to the conditions beyond its walls.  Though everywhere dust seems to permeate the air, not a speck of dirt appears on the polished tile floors.  An orderly atmosphere with loving attention to detail imparts a sense of hominess and ease.  I close my eyes, breathing in deeply the palpable stillness of this spiritual oasis.

Awaiting us in the kitchen is a prepared meal of hot oatmeal, bananas, walnuts and tea. The ashram is owned and run by Americans, so we are assured the food and water are safe for our consumption.  Before eating, however, I hurriedly make my way to the staircase leading to the rooftop in order to catch a glimpse of one of the most ancient of sacred sites in all of India, the holy mountain Arunachala, the beloved mountain that has called me here. 

 The “red mountain” as it is called, is said to impart a fierce grace upon all who fall within its magnetic gaze.   I marvel at its rugged splendor.  Overcome with emotion, tears of joy wash the dust of a long journey from my tired eyes. 

After breakfast I retire to my room, dozing on and off as a cool breeze gently flows through the ashram windows carrying with it the sounds and scents of a strange new land where all concerns of a busy life quietly melt away.  I slowly drift into a timeless dimension in which there is not a care in the world.

Speaking the Unspeakable

 

" . . . Profound change begins with one voice speaking out loud and clear in a moment when silence would be easier."   - Flying Edna 

Honestly, I had no intention of writing this when I envisioned starting a blog.  The subject hadn’t even entered my radar screen.  But sometimes one thing leads to another and this morning the unspeakable came knocking at my door.  I’m not sure what to do except to give it a voice.

It began Tuesday morning at breakfast when out of the blue my husband said, “You know, you ought to write about your depression.  I know you’d be putting yourself out there, and maybe that’s not something you want to do, but I think it could help a lot of people.”

I felt a pang in my stomach because I knew that if I wrote about my depression I would have to write about the sexual assault too because the two were intimately entwined and I didn’t know whether I could do that or not.  Yet, I knew what he was saying was true, although part of me hated hearing it.  The truth is that I have been quite content having only a few close friends and family privy to my deepest struggles.

Why then dredge up the past?  After all, I’ve worked years to heal the injustices of childhood, the babysitter’s teenage son who locked me in the bathroom and told me to be quiet and . . .   

Just when life is better than I ever dreamed it would be, why go back and revisit old wounds.  It doesn’t make sense. 

And yet, it makes perfect sense because now, as my husband put it, I am at a place in life where I can speak from a position of strength and healing rather than pain and despair.  While there is nothing wrong with speaking from a place of despair, when in the depths of despair we are struggling to keep our head above water and don’t yet have the strength to care for ourself, let alone care about a higher cause.  When in the midst of tearing down our own walls, we simply don’t have the energy or motivation to help others tear down theirs.  

 Even though remarkable healing has occurred for me, the easiest thing to do would be to put the past where it belongs and move on. On the other hand, the easy path is not always the higher path as it does not serve a greater need.  And the greater need as I see it right now on our planet is for humanity to heal the atrocities that divide us.

However, healing for humanity will have lasting effects only when the division within ourselves is healed first.  Healing occurs from the inside out. How do I know this to be true?  I know only because I’ve experienced it for myself. 

Direct experience is the most potent way we know anything of value and are able to speak from a position of authority.  Believe me, I would much rather go quietly about my life than write the topic of this blog.  The curious thing, however, is that when you traverse a dangerous river and come out the other side, there arises an inner prompting to go back and help others across the river too.  So to sit idle would be going against everything I know in my heart to be true.

Why then should it be so difficult to speak about a pain that effects millions of women?  Because it is my pain too, and bringing it out in the open means being vulnerable all over again and the shame and worthlessness that once drove my life are hard to admit even now. 

As survivors of unspeakable atrocities there is fear and terror as well as a tendency to minimize what has happened by saying,  "I guess it really wasn’t that bad”, or “Maybe I asked for it, or deserved it”, or “No one will believe me anyway, or will think I’m  making it up in order to get attention or feel sorry for myself.”

I wonder how many sexually molested women, men and children, have entertained similar thoughts.  Statistics tell us that, “1 out of every 6 American women have been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime.”  That means 17.7 million American women have been victims of attempted or completed rape.  Yet, from a global perspective, this is only the tip of the iceberg.  Do you know there are women in some parts of the world who are flogged, beaten, imprisoned and even stoned to death because they were raped?

 I’m speaking up not to impart blame or encourage victimhood but to say that healing is indeed possible.  It is possible to move through the atrocities of life and come out the other side.  What comes to mind is the story of a Holocaust survivor I once had the good fortune to meet.

Many years ago, while vacationing in New York City, my family and I decided to take a waterway cruise over to Ellis Island.  The weather was unseasonably cool for June and passengers were milling about drinking hot coffee and trying to stay warm as our boat pulled out into the New York Harbor.  I decided to move to the interior of the boat to escape the damp air and to jot some notes in my journal. No sooner had I spotted a quiet place to write when a woman over by the window caught my eye.

The woman appeared to be in her mid to late sixties.  She wore a dark jacket and long dark skirt that had a small tear at the hem.  I recognized the intentional tear at the hem of her skirt to be a sign of mourning in the Jewish tradition. I had an overwhelming urge to go over and speak to her.

Her name was Bella and she told me I had her mother’s eyes.  I think that’s why she confided in me.  She obviously had great affection for her mother and happy memories growing up in Europe in a bustling household with five siblings.  Then the horrors of World War II erupted.

Tragically Bella and her family were imprisoned in a concentration camp where both parents and her five siblings died.  Bella would have lost her life too had it not been for a kind stranger. As her skeletal frame lay sick with fever on a cold ground, Bella felt herself lifting, floating high above the other children, the barking dogs and barbed wire fence.  Then something inside her exploded and she was not afraid anymore.  The next thing she knew a kind woman was speaking to her in French saying, “Here, take this.  It will help”, as she gave Bella some pills to swallow.

Bella survived the concentration camp and when the war ended she came to New York where she met a man who adored her.  They were married and had many good years together until his death just two weeks ago.  Now here sat Bella with an immense sorrow in her heart, spilling her story out to me on a boat in the middle of the Hudson River. 

Not unlike Bella, when we share our stories to whatever degree we are able, and when the time is right, we give permission to women everywhere to speak out.  We speak out not in order to harm, frighten, or perpetuate old wounds, but to create an environment where open, honest communication and healing can occur.

Wounds hidden from sunlight and oxygen take longer to heal.  The process of speaking our story aloud to even one person has great potential for healing, like a huge weight has been lifted.

Our willingness to lay down our defenses, denials and survival mechanisms (when the time is right) and become vulnerable all over again means we are refusing to perpetuate the lie, the lie that tells us that in order to be loved we must first be “perfect, or “beautiful”, or “worthy”, or . . .  fill in the blank.

Healing thrives in an environment of self-love.  By self-love I do not mean self-pity or narcissistic indulgence, but rather compassionate acceptance of all the myriad aspects of self that make up the complex beings we have become.

As women we are not very skillful at loving ourselves.  We do everything we can to make ourselves attractive so others will love us, sometimes at the expense of our own health and well-being.  The “perfect” image must be shattered.  The one we try to live up to in order to be loved and valued by society.  But there is a deeper element at play here.

 Self-reflection requires turning within to find our own answers, the answers that cannot be given by another.  By traversing our own inner landscape we begin to discover what is true for us.  And as we unleash the shadows and confront our deepest sorrows, we prepare the soil for new understandings.  A new vitality enters our life.

 The 13^th century poet, Rumi, says it so beautifully I think:

“Sorrow prepares you for joy.  It violently sweeps everything out of your house, so that new joy can find space to enter. It shakes the yellow leaves from the bough of your heart, so that fresh, green leaves can grow in their place.  It pulls up the rotten roots, so that new roots hidden beneath have room to grow.  Whatever sorrow shakes from your heart, far better things will take their place.”

Speaking the unspeakable, whatever that is for us, allows more room for the goodness of life to enter.  May we each have the courage to touch that place where sorrow hides and go there in our own right time.

My Dark side of the Moon

          Mid-Life Uncertainties                                     and Ruminations...

  (entries from my journal, December, 1999)

Who am I? 

 Woman, mother, wife, daughter, sister, attendant to the sick and dying, a survivor of past misfortunes.  I am an empty well longing to be filled. This longing has been with me most of my life, the life that longs to know itself, to wake up out of the great silence that comforts me after a good cry or when I am alone and the children have gone to bed and my husband, ever content,  lies snoring beside me.

Growth is a slow, fertile process, the process of a lifetime.  Learning how to step into the feminine, the moon, the sea inside me that tosses and turns and yearns to birth like a fetus in a womb, it does not happen overnight.  And finally, in my mid-forties, I am beginning to find my way, a way that is surprising and tender and sometimes sad but always satisfying because it is more who I am.

I love the winter months, the first sting of cold, the breathless wonder that greets me when I open the door.  It’s a time to move inside to the warmth of wood burning, hot cocoa, sweat pants and long "catnaps".  Glorious solitude. 

Each phase of life holds challenges as well as new possibilities of who we can be which cause me to pause and re-examine, to perhaps dig a little deeper in order to release a pot bound root or constricting perspective.

Joy and sorrow exist side by side like the blossoming gardenias and the rotting tomatoes out on the vine.  I vow to be more present to that eternal place where every past originates and every gift lies.  But it is not easy.

               “Listening to your heart, finding out who you are, is not simple . . .”

In my dreams, dark clouds swell. Life keeps happening and so does death.  Death and darkness are honorable teachers. And rather than meet them with fear I am learning to open just a little. For what is fear but the unknown workings of an inner life trying to be born.

All of life is uncertain and certainty it seems is much overrated. To be quite honest, this urge to write is the riskiest thing I’ve ever encountered.  At times I sense a powerful river running through me and I am teetering on its edge as it readies itself to spill over.  And the thing that will tip the scales is courage.

Growth is a twofold process that requires a time of incubation in order to lay down roots, a strong foundation, and then comes a time to spread our wings and fly.  I know there’s a strange bird inside me, one I hardly recognize at times, and it’s beginning to poke it’s beak into the thin air . . .