Sunday, December 28, 2008

Tropical Paradise

We're in Caye Caulker, Belize. Took a wonderful snorkle trip to the reef this AM with three stops: first stop our guide, Salvadore, led us (seven total with only Frances and I choosing to wear PFDs around our waists) as he pointed out a green moray eel, a sea turtle, various corals including one called "brain" (eerie how realistic it looked), another called "staghorn" and yet another called "fire."

At our second stop (sting ray and shark alley) we were in water so shallow that the guide told us to take off our fins and just walk or float above the sting rays. Sharks have not been seen on this reef recently so we watched the sting rays from the boat while Salvadore held one in his arms and pointed out where the stinger is located along its quite long tail. Their eyes were amazing.

I was perfectly happy watching from the boat when Frances ventured in. She slid into the water too late to see the baracuda that several others were watching. This was where we also had a snack of fresh pineapple, bananas, and oranges ... delicious.

At our final stop Salvatore told us we could go out on our own to view some schools of fish and swim around the barrier looking for whatever we could find. I was too careful, not wanting to accidentally hit or touch the coral or injure myself so Frances had to wave me further into the reef to see more fish. I was also too careful about sunscreen, I guess, and being reluctant to put any on that would wash off in the sea I now feel the heat of a fabulous snorkeling sunburn.

Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, and Boxing Day were spent at Cerros Beach Resort, across the bay from Corozal, Belize. What an experience! The owners, Jenny and Bill, are focused on sustainable and nature-centered experiences. They heat their water and run their electricity on solar, capture their shower and toilet water from the rain, house their guests in four cabanas built with local palm thatch and wood from their property, pick us up and boat us across the bay to their resort, and treat us with great care and attention, feeding us wonderful food that Bill cooks. Each breakfast and dinner were times to share travel stories and stories of life in Belize.

On Christmas Day, Jenny drove Frances and I to a nearby town (Chenux?) where we visited a local family they have befriended. This trip was intended to allow us the experience of crossing a river using a hand crank bridge. The bridge holds two vehicles plus pedestrians. Cars drive on, then a government worker starts cranking and within five minutes the wooden bridge meets the other side of the river and cars drive on their way.

The day before our trip over the bridge a man and his wife drove quickly onto the bridge while it was raining and went straight off the bridge and into the river. His wife couldn't swim and died. The sad remains of their experience sat beside the road ... a water-soaked car with its windshield smashed out.

Christmas night, Bill (our chef, who told us he's prepared a meal for two presidents--Clinton/Gore and Bush/Cheney) made us a pork roast that was shared with us and the other two guests there, Kath and Ian (from London). As an aside, Bill told us that each president always gives a memento to their chef. Clinton gave him a keychain with the presidential seal on it, Bush gave him a small bag of M&Ms from Air Force One.

So many stories were shared between guests and hosts during our three days at Cerros Resort we'll have to tell more later when our internet cafe charges are cheaper. Still can't believe we're here. I told Frances over lunch today that I feel guilty when I think of all my friends and family who are shoveling and layering on coats and gloves and hats and mittens. I'm working on getting over my guilt. The warm salt air and beautiful azure water seem to help.

Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Go South, Senoras, Go South

We´re in the bus station in Chetumal, Mexico waiting for a connecting bus to Corozal, Belize. It´s been a full day trip and more to come....

I forgot to tell the most memorable story of our first night in Tulum. We stayed at the hostel, The Weary Traveller, and spent most of the night fighting bedbugs and too-cold AC (one sheet, no blankets for the bed and no air circulation without AC). The bedbugs were persistent and Frances awakened numerous times throughout the night scratching and complaining.

We moved the bed away from the wall but discovered later from Brett, my world-traveling younger brother, that there were numerous other strategies to fight this plague had we known about them. After moving the bed so that it touches nothing else (i.e., walls, bedside tables, etc.), place glasses of water underneath each leg of the bed. Huh, there were plastic cups under each bed leg. Next, coat the legs of the bed with vasoline. Bedbug escape strategies continued but we decided that our best plan was this: Never stay in another Weary Traveller again.

We´re leaving our comfy bus experience behind the further we go. Our bus this AM from Tulum to Chetumal did not have a TV or assigned seats so people squeezed in whereever they could fit. What a relief to NOT have a TV. Quiet conversation is what I heard--bueno. The price for two for 240 kilometers was $11.80US so Frances calls these bus fares "the best deal in Mexico."

I wonder whether we´ll have similar nights in Belize. In Tulum the music started about 4:30pm and played for several hours. Then political campaigns circled the neighborhoods with loudspeakers and music announcing various candidates for presidente. I usually woke about 3:30am to the sound of dogs fighting and cats howling. Then back to sleep until the roosters started crowing at 4:30 to 5:00am. The birds start singing loudly about this time as well. At night the animals are loud--including party animals--but traffic is quieter. We liked the sound of the jungle in the city. Will that continue? We´ll soon see. We are definitely in paradise compared to the below zero temps and snow in the world that we left behind.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Sol y Mar

We´ve been on the road in Mexico now for almost a week. Finally our minds are catching up with our bodies as we visit our first (ever) internet cafe. We flew into Cancun last Tuesday (16th) and by the time we found lodging and a meal (five tacos and a tamarind margarita) we hit the bed at 6pm and slept ´til 9am the next morning. Monday the 15th was a long day what with finishing up final details for our home and business, shoveling the new foot of snow, and driving at 35-40 miles per hour all the way to Duluth/Superior due to icy roads. We planned to have dinner with friends Robbyn and Jan in St. Paul but instead reached their home at 10:30pm, talked ´til 1:15am and set the alarm for 3:00am to reach the airport for our 6:00am flight.

Our most memorable moments so far ...

Snorkeling Dos Ojos cenote outside of Tulum. Our guide, Sebastian, from Argentina showed us the tiny root hairs of trees that grow down through the limestone roof into the underground waters where we swam. Also, one place in the cave had long shafts of sunlight piercing into the water that Sebastian called ¨the fingers of God.¨ The driver for this trip, Daniel, told us enroute that his first girlfriend when he was 16 called him a pulpo (octopus) because his hands were everywhere. A word is worth a thousand pictures, eh?

We went to la playa yesterday just north and east of Tulum. White sand beaches so beautiful and easy to walk (the sand doesn´t shift underfoot because it is made from coral reef) compared to the shores of Lake Superior. The water is 80 degrees and air temp about 87 but the breeze off the ocean is cooling. We sat next to a massage stand on the beach with four tables and four therapists waiting patiently for clients. Frances just couldn´t pull herself away from the sight. She said, ¨The language is different but the techniques are the same.¨

Today we looked in vain for an open laundry. No luck since it´s Sunday so it´s back to our hotel to hand wash clothes. We may still have time to get to the Tulum ruins but don´t want to rush as we´re on vacation.

The sun and warmth and beautiful flowers are divine. We may leave for Belize tomorrow AM. We´ll see what the rest of this day holds ...

Sunday, December 14, 2008

We're Off!!

This winter Frances and I are leaving the northern tundra for the tropics of Mexico and Central America ... and none too soon. While "tundra" may be an exaggeration, right now we're in the midst of our first major winter storm with whiteout conditions, tumbling temps, dangerous windchills, and nonstop snowfall. We drive to the Twin Cities tomorrow to catch our 6:00 AM Tuesday morning flight. Our fervent hope ... that the weather accommodates our travel plans and we arrive safely in Mexico on Tuesday afternoon.

First stop: Cancun. Then we're off to parts unknown. Our only agenda is to spend time in Mexico, Belize, and Honduras with occasional bouts of snorkeling when opportunities and coral reefs present themselves. From subzero to 80 degrees plus will take some adjustment but we're confident that we'll acclimatize ourselves to the warmth and sunshine.

We'll keep in touch through occasional stops at internet cafes along our route. So revisit "Under the Forest Canopy" in the coming weeks--seven total--as we travel to seashore and jungle, Mayan ruins, and ?? Adventure awaits us ... Hasta luego!

Saturday, June 28, 2008

June is Bustin' Out All Over!

The lupines are out in full force. Radiant spikes of purple-blue with occasional pinks and whites line the roadsides, appear at the edges of forest, peek out of tall grasses, and stake their claim amidst acres and acres of green.

Two nights ago I stopped along a gravel road to pick a bouquet. I felt like a thief! Lupines should truly be left where they grow. Still, I couldn’t resist plucking a handful. These glorious blooms hold an honored spot on our kitchen counter and feed our souls each time we enter the kitchen.

Why are lupines so magnificent? Part of their wonder is in their wildness. They are hardy enough to survive among tall weeds and grasses that would overwhelm other varieties. Yet they seem frail and elusive. Where will they show up next? What colors will be revealed? It’s hard to know until they appear. Locals and visitors both relish these few short weeks of summer that sing with lupines!

But lupines aren’t the only blooms over which we hold bragging rights. Driving back from teaching my t’ai chi chih moving meditation class in Cornucopia last week I saw a field of white daisies. They were so plentiful they resembled snow covering the field of grass. When I attended retired biologist Tom Gerstenberger’s slide presentation on “Special Places in Bayfield County” at the Bayfield Library last Saturday night (part of a 24-hour BioBlitz), he mentioned that same field of daisies. They were fabulous!

Several other beauties of the northland: buttercups spring up abundantly, adding a yellow glow to the summer heat. Orange hawkweed, too, hums its vibrant tune along the roadways. Both varieties are a delicious treat; too delicate to include in bouquets but eye-catching in their natural habitat. I can almost see wood nymphs dancing across their blossoms in frenzied delight!

Blackberry bushes also blossom prolifically; large white flowers that whisper a promise of delicious fruit. I impatiently await the small purple-black berries that will soon hang heavily at the ends of these branches.

Every summer these indescribable wildflowers surprise me with their fortitude and vibrancy. They’re truly a gift of pleasure and presence. Just yesterday this song from the musical “Carousel” echoed into me: “June is bustin’ out all over. All over the meadow and the hill! Buds’re bustin’ outa bushes And the rompin’ river pushes Ev’ry little wheel that wheels beside the mill!” Rodgers & Hammerstein had it right. It’s almost July but June IS bustin’ out all over!

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Rebirth and Death

Spring is a time of rebirth. It’s easy to understand why when we see grasses, plants, and flowers weave upwards through the soil, greening, budding, and flowering; birds laying their eggs in newly-built nests; and bear, deer, fox, and other creatures of the wild delivering their young into dens and deeply hidden places. But this spring has also been a time of death and dying. Frances’ mother died April 3 at age 93. I, too, lost an uncle and then an aunt this spring. They all lived good, long lives but death is always hard to embrace no matter how long-anticipated.

My cat Hiziki’s health (“Zeke”) is also failing. Three or four months ago he started drinking more water. Then he lost weight. In late May he ate a woodpecker and began to vomit, ceasing to eat or drink at all. Oh, how I’ve grieved! Zeke is the family member with whom I’ve lived longest. I moved away from my parents at age 17 but Zeke has been with me for 18, 19, or 20 years. His purr soothes my spirits daily. His beautiful green eyes hold my gaze with love, acceptance, and appreciation.

Zeke shared most of the eight years I lived alone in a Minneapolis apartment. Desperate for attention, he climbed into my lap and onto my keyboard each time I sat down to write at my computer. When I moved onto four and one-half acres of suburban land with Frances, he moved too. Initially frightened, he soon acclimated himself to the excitement of nighttime hunting. He let himself in and out of our front door by lying on his back and wedging his claws underneath the heavy wooden door until he could pull it ajar, flip quickly onto his feet, and run hurriedly inside.

One night Frances and I awoke to feel Zeke chasing a baby bunny across our bodies in bed. Another time he appeared after a battle that left part of one cheek torn away from his face. Though injured, his attitude was one of great pride and accomplishment. “You should see the other guy,” the look in his eyes said.

Our move to the woods north of Bayfield added new challenges. Zeke took to hunting in the wilderness with the same spirit of adventure that he’d shown in the suburbs. This time, though, he was coping with coyotes, wolves, and bears. The story of his face-off with a black bear our first spring here in the woods is described in a previous blog (“Lions and Tigers and Bears … Oh My!” June 30, 2007).

Several weeks ago while he was still unable to eat I found Zeke outside underneath a fern next to our house clenching a red squirrel between his teeth. Maybe he couldn’t eat, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him, dammit!

For the moment Zeke is stable. After a trip to the vet I decided not to use any additional measures to extend his life. No blood tests or x-rays, no fluids under the skin, no updated shots, no teeth pulled. I love and comfort him, give him daily reiki energy sessions, turn on the faucet in the bathroom tub when he wants to drink, and squeeze tuna water out of the can when he wants to eat.

This past month reminds me of the final days in both my father’s and mother’s lives. I was present with both of them when they died and my memories give me the strength to carry on with this beloved cat of mine. Though incredibly difficult and painful, I’m also grateful and filled with love and appreciation for this great grey creature—once 16 pounds—who continues to bring such joy to my life.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Taking Flight

SATURDAY, JUNE 21, 2008, 10:00 am

I’m on the deck watching two goldfinches at the feeder, one adult and one fledgling (?). The one I call fledgling is smaller, less colorful, with a skinnier head and neck and more plain looking ... I’d call him “unfinished.” As they sit on the wire before flying to the feeder, the babe cries out high-pitched needy sounds. Could they be father and son? I don’t know the parenting habits of finches so it’s all a guess.

We’re still anticipating the departure of our eastern phoebe nestlings from their home above the kitchen window. This morning I saw two of the four “twiddly butts”--that’s what Frances calls them--with faces to the wall and butts pointed out into the world. I’m anxious, thinking that they’ll be gone soon and I’ll miss their presence.


SUNDAY, JUNE 22, 2008, 7:30 am

Yes!!! Our eastern phoebes took flight this morning! I was busy with morning chores but sneaked a peak at their nest and saw the fledglings positioned differently. Beaks pointed out from the nest instead of inward toward the house. I felt a sense of alertness and expectancy. An hour later as I prepared my own breakfast I checked the nest again. Only one baby remained. It stood sleepily on the human-built deck beneath its nest then gradually turned its head and blinked its eyes. I sat quietly, watching, since I knew that the end/beginning was near. Before long it casually flung itself into the air and was gone.

I still marvel at the sight of fledglings leaving the nest. (See last year’s blog dated July 2, 2007.) Just 15-16 days after breaking out of their eggshells, eagerly accepting insects from their parents’ beaks, and quickly growing to almost-full size (7”), they venture into the world. They’ve never flown prior to this day yet they glide and lift gracefully into the unknown. They’re good role models for adult humans who hesitate, procrastinate, and exasperate themselves and each other with their timidity and hesitancy to take a risk, to try something new ... to spread their wings.

Ah yes, the next time I’m reluctant to push beyond my comfort zone I’ll remember the eastern phoebe fledglings who vacated their nest on untested wings and soared through the air to their next grand adventure.

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Rise and Shine

Morning quiet in early June. It’s cool—-40 degrees-—but a welcome calm weights the air.

“The woods are quiet, dark, and deep ...” I look out on a world of green leaves and hazy, almost-drippy dimness. An overturned bowl of condensed soup covers the sky, thick white. It rained much of the night and will likely rain much of this day too.

A chorus of squirrels sings from a circle of trees by the south deck. This woodland choir pleases me and I’m reminded of my mother’s favorite wake-up call, “Rise and Shine.” She’d sing the words up the stairwell or through one-inch square holes in the living room ceiling, the heat source for the bedroom I shared with my younger sister. It was a lovely, hopeful, just-right promise for a new day, the “shine” trailing upward in an insistent soprano, then sliding downward to completion.

I can still hear my mother’s voice--and feel her intent--three years after her death. Of course, my sister, brother, and I groaned under the weight of such morning glee. We didn’t want to get out of bed to get ready for school and no song, performance, or enticement made the least bit of difference. It was downright aggravating.

Too late I regret my childish disregard and hopefully revisit this joyful refrain. I occasionally sing “Rise and Shine” to Ander and Lucy as I let them out of the barn. The geese seem unimpressed but I sing it anyway. Some days I sing it to myself, a silent voice bouncing around inside my head in search of a fertile spot in which to take root.

Even though today’s air is heavy with the possibility of rain I remind myself to “rise and shine.” I must create my own light today. What better way than to start, as the squirrels and the birds do, with a song?

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

The Green Mile ... Er, 25 Acres

Vivid greens—-lemon lime ferns; rich, forest green pine branches tipped with tender green; apple green maples, oaks, and poplars—-suddenly crowd the woods. Frances looked out the window at a nearby maple this morning. Bright green light reflected off the vast expanse of each leaf and bounced into the room.

“Wow, those leaves are big!” Frances said, “Have they always been that big?”

“No,” I replied smugly, “Not since last year.”

They DO look huge. “HAVE they always been that big?” I wonder after she’s gone.

All this green is unexpected. Overwhelming. Still, during the transition from winter to spring green is a promise hidden in the trees and plants and dirt. The gradual transformation from bare branch to bud to leaf unfolding doesn’t happen overnight.

A new editing client who works as a doula (birth assistant) told me on the phone yesterday that “transition” is a legitimate part of the birthing process. It’s a short period of time, she said, seven to ten minutes when the woman may shake and vomit. It’s too late for medication but too soon to begin pushing. Stuck, almost every woman giving birth says she can’t do it, said my client. After this brief phase is over the pushing begins, followed by the birth.

An apt metaphor: Like a pregnant woman engaged in nine months of gestation who brings her babe into the world, Mother Earth goes through a similar cycle. Just when I think that spring, then summer, will never arrive it slides into view like a baby’s head breaching the cervix.

The natural world is transformed. I hungrily gobble up greens, inhaling the sights, sounds, and gradations of color. When I glance out the window, a Phoebe pumps its tail up and down as it perches on a wire cage encircling a bleeding heart. From another angle I spy a forget-me-not nodding its flowery blue face. But now, NOW, all is surrounded by green. I feel the way I did at the birth of a friend’s second son. I’ve just witnessed a miracle.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Unfolding Magic

And now the buds emerge ...
They linger on edges
Unable to touch
The gliding raven
Soaring overhead.

They tint the forest
With their palette.
Lime, lemon, rose,
Flavoring the air
With possibility.

They whisper sweet
Promises of hope,
Rebirth,
Longings satisfied,
Unfolding magic.

They embody months
of long darkness.
Snowstorms
and rain alike
Nurtured their growth.

Now they fling themselves
Impatiently,
Recklessly,
With graceful abandon,
Into the light.

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Birdy Twirties

I heated sugar and water then filled and hung two hummingbird feeders yesterday morning. To me, that’s a sure sign of spring. The local wisdom: Put feeders out by Mother’s Day and take them down by Labor Day. We haven’t seen any hummers yet, but more winged relations appear daily.

Two days ago we saw our first rose-breasted grosbeaks. The triangle of red on their breasts is eye-catching and the deep black on their heads and backs, handsome. I admit it, I'm a glutton for the colorful flights and songs of spring. Right now I'm impatiently awaiting indigo buntings and baltimore orioles. Our neighbor Florence, who lives seven miles away, sees indigos each evening on the ground under her feeder. Their vibrant blue-violet feathers are gorgeous. I nervously mentioned my desires to Frances several days ago. "Don't worry," she assured me, "We'll see indigo buntings too."

On my way back from the mailbox several evenings ago I sensed a slight movement in the woods. When I stopped to look, I spied a pileated woodpecker climbing a tree trunk. He was shy and kept his body protected from my gaze by climbing the far side of the tree. Pileateds are fabulous creatures, large (19”) with a stunning red crest on their heads.

Our eastern phoebes were some of the first to return home to the woods and they're busily building a nest. They chose to reestablish themselves on the shelf Frances put under the eaves above the kitchen window. The old nest is still there from last year but it looks as though phoebes, like humans, prefer to expand their townhouse and condo developments. The new nest shares a common “wall” with the old.

Last week we had our first black bear visit under the cover of darkness. Our sunflower seed feeder was pulled to the ground and emptied (but not destroyed!). We’re more careful now to bring feeders in before bed and re-hang at morning’s light.

I overheard another patron at the library a month ago say, "Oh, I get so excited by spring ... Doesn't everybody?" Spring IS a glorious time. Birdsong greets me each morning and a delicious variety of birds linger in still-naked tree branches. I live amid a whirlwind of movement and sound: wings flapping, colors flashing, beaks pecking, bills hammering, birds competing for seeds, songs spilling out -- a cornucopia of delight!

Friday, May 9, 2008

Woodland Morning

Slow to wake, I rest
in wooded stillness.

Seagulls coo,
aloft
in fields of blue.
Breezes whisper by,
a delicate caress.
Cat tongues his fur,
damp with liquid sun.

Woodpecker taps a rhythm
through bone and sky.
Phoebe
Phoebe
Phoebe
pierces forest air to human heart.

Senses roused
By nature’s grand display.
My spirit buoyant,
ready
for this day ...

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Monkey Mind

Quiet … I often think about quiet, bask in it, wish for it. Still, Monkey Mind is ever-present. It interjects itself between me and my good intentions, throws me off-center, and causes me to doubt and second-guess myself.

The Buddhists call our restless, ever-active minds “Monkey Mind.” Just like a monkey swinging from limb to limb, our minds swing from one topic to the next, one self-centered idea to the next. When my first t’ai chi teacher emphasized daily practice, she cautioned: “Monkey Mind will always try to convince you that there is something else you have to do…. Don’t listen. Just do your practice.”

Twenty years later—-and now as a teacher of t’ai chi chih moving meditation—-I continue to wrestle with Monkey Mind though I find more moments of peace in the midst of my moving meditation practice. Recently I listened to the CD, “Zen Howl,” by writer Natalie Goldberg. Like my t’ai chi teacher, Natalie counseled me to ignore Monkey Mind; to just start to write and keep my hand moving. Then Natalie said: “Monkey Mind is a guardian whose job it is to protect your heart.... Can you face yourself and what it is to be a human being?” Monkey Mind suddenly became a compassionate ally instead of an ill-willed, self-destructive influence.

Which inspires me to ask: Can I honor my self, my talents, my weaknesses and insecurities, and not be overcome by them? Can I give myself the gift of unscheduled time to come face-to-face with my own true Self? Can I take time to be?

“Light Years,” a memoir by Le Anne Schreiber, describes the author’s move from Manhattan (at the age of forty) to a rural location in upstate New York. She was, she wrote, seeking light after so many years spent under the unsatisfactory glow of fluorescent bulbs. She longed for inner stillness. Neither was easy to find.

Writes Schreiber: “There is simple basking, which has a lot to be said for it, but most of us lack the sublime temperament for prolonged, purposeless delight. It’s the price we pay for not being lizards.” Eventually Schreiber found an ideal spot, “In my early searches for idyllic basking sites, I had discovered a fallen sycamore whose double trunk spanned the stream from bank to bank, offering itself first as a cradle for my early, failed attempts at basking, later as seat and footrest for my contemplation of that failure.”

Same Spirit’s May retreat, “Nature’s Quiet Miracles,” offers each of us the opportunity to slow down and become better acquainted with Monkey Mind. Nature provides a multitude of opportunities for quiet observation. What’s most important is to keep coming back, time after time, to the present moment. It is here that Monkey Mind loses its power over us. It is here that we experience the essence of life on the Earth.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Nature's Quiet Miracles

Even though the pulse of spring throbs through my veins … It’s still not here! Yesterday I sat out on the deck for several hours just noticing the sounds—and the quiet. It was 50 degrees in the sun (yes, I wrapped myself in a blanket). What a miracle to soak in the sun’s warmth while surrounded by acres and acres of snow!

Today clouds cover the sun and temps are back down to 20 degrees. Both earth and sky are white, the trunks of trees the only darkness in this wooded landscape. I can see a few flakes of snow—and now a growing abundance—drifting down-down-down.

The earth unveils herself a bit at a time … Now we have a large front yard of mud and we “walk the plank” (a 2x4 board we’ve placed over the worst of it) each day to get to the other side. The drive is so snowy-muddy that we parked our car at the bottom early this morning to avoid driving on it, wearing deep tracks into the slippery-slidey muck.

Frances and I (i.e., Same Spirit) are collaborating with Pinehurst Inn B&B on a spring retreat May 15-18, 2008 called “Nature’s Quiet Miracles.” We’re offering a beautiful location, healthful meals, bodywork sessions, daily T’ai Chi Chih moving meditation, meditative walks through the woods and on the beach, group writing and conversation sessions, ritual, and lots of time to nap-read-write-walk-observe-converse-listen-dream-r-e-l-a-x-BE. I’ve been contemplating quiet and wondering …

What is quiet? It’s space to breathe and listen and hear the sounds of nature all around me. It’s making a choice to sit instead of run, lie instead of stand, observe instead of do, and gently float on the tides of thought and senses instead of control what I experience.

Quiet is taking the time to be alone. It is taking the time to hear, see, feel, experience your Self without any need to don masks or personas.…

Quiet is watching the waving branches of a tree, listening to the shuddering flap of bird wings as they flutter away from the feeder, noticing the small brown leaf that has melted its way through the crusty snow all the way down to the earth.

Quiet is experienced in the cheep of a bird flying overhead, the gentle tapping of a squirrel’s paw nearby, the repetitive knock-knock-knock of a Downy Woodpecker’s beak.

When I quieten down, I don’t necessarily experience total silence. Rather, I enter into a state of being where speed, hurry and busyness are purposefully set aside in order to rest—truly rest—peacefully in the moment.

If this opportunity for quiet appeals to you, contact us through our website, www.same-spirit.com, contact Nancy or Steve at 877-499-7651, or go to www.pinehurstinn.com. Ahhh ….

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

Ah, Spring!

It’s the 11th of March, 10 days ‘til Spring Equinox. Pure white snow presses itself tightly against the earth. Its undulating dips and mounds replicate the Earth’s feminine nature. Trees sway their naked branches in circulating rhythms. They look like they’re still asleep but now there’s a whisper—just a whisper—of rebirth. (Their sap is running and it’s time to harvest their deliciousness.)

I can feel it … the advent of spring. It’s subtle, I admit. But there are signs. Signs! Cleaner, clearer skies. More intense shades of blue. Wider, brighter expanses of light. Here and there, an island of dark earth and dry, brown grass emerges amidst the vast expanse of frozen landscape.

The air is different. I can’t tell you how exactly. But spring quivers in the breezes.

The birds’ winter routine is altering too. They no longer vie for their spot at the feeder with the same level of competitive violence. Last week there were a dozen Pine Grosbeaks surveying the deck floor for oily black sunflower seeds. Black-Capped Chickadees, Nuthatches, Pine Siskins, Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers lurked at the feeder. Now, one single Chickadee feeds alone.

The cat anchors himself on the edge of the deck, his head dipping over the side to monitor the squirrels below. He hasn’t hunted that single-mindedly for months. The dog, his light fur coat no match for cooler temps, tends to his own routine of hunt and sniff, hunt and sniff. Last night he came in and out repeatedly as dusk fell. His vocalizations have increased dramatically, another indication that more creatures are afoot in the dark woods that surround us.

Excitement percolates beneath the surface of my skin. There is a subtle, shifting change despite the fact that I continue to wear wool socks, long underwear, layers of polypropylene, and Sorel boots. Something new waits beneath layers of snow and sturdy ice; some new being hides behind well-insulated walls and sealed windows and doors. When will it, she, I, we emerge?

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

Moving Slowly

This morning I practiced my t'ai chi chih moving meditation in front of the patio door. S-l-o-w-l-y. I automatically timed my movements to the drifting, swirling, soft descent of snowflakes. My own words to my students echoed back to me: "Notice how your practice location affects the feel and pace of your practice. For example, when you practice along Lake Superior's shore, your speed will vary depending upon the time of day, weather, wind, wave action, and the sound of the waves against the shore. Why? Because we are all part of an ocean of energy that flows around and through us and we naturally attune ourselves to the rhythm that surrounds us."

This is one of the reasons why my own rhythms have slowed while living here in the North Woods. Divorced from the noise, activity, and stimulation of busy freeways, crowded malls, and frantic workplaces, I can quiet myself down into the rhythm of earth and sky, wind and water. Here I live among acres of trees and miles of land that rest quietly beneath a protective mantle of pure white. During the winter months I emulate the bears and curl up within my protective shelter as I peer out at each new day's layering of lake-effect snow. Oh, the beauty!

After feeding animals and rekindling the wood fire this morning, I read from "Earth Prayers."

The mountains, I become part of it ...
The herbs, the fir tree, I become part of it.
The morning mists, the clouds, the gathering
waters,
I become part of it.
The wilderness, the dew drops, the
pollen ...
I become part of it.
NAVAJO CHANT

Here, under the forest canopy, I feel the oneness of all life and I celebrate that unity. And so ...

The snow, fallen and still falling,
I become part of it.

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

To Have and Hold or ... Have to?

During breakfast two mornings ago a loud thump echoed into the room. Damn! Another bird flew into our patio door window. We've encouraged our flying friends to stay away from our windows in a variety of ways: taped up pictures of predator birds, closed the outdoor screen, and, finally, draped a fishing net directly in front of the door. Still, our south-facing windows reflect and extend the view of woodlands so convincingly that birds can't avoid flying into the glass sometimes breaking their necks or lying, stunned and confused, for long minutes. This day's victim: a female Pine Grosbeak.

Hiziki raced across the living room to the patio door and hovered there, tail waving. "Let me out, let me out," I could almost hear him purring with satisfaction, "This is my lucky day."

Frances and I were mid-breakfast, client due in 10 minutes. Still, she raced onto the deck and squatted, gently picking up and sheltering the semi-conscious bird in her palms. I'm always concerned about being ready and waiting for our clients when they arrive: meals finished, dishes washed and stacked, house neat, front step shoveled, relaxing music playing in the bodywork room, house warm and toasty. But there Frances was, coatless in 15 degree weather, calmly cradling this warm, injured body in her hands and surrounding it with loving attention and healing energy. Her focus and intent was identical to that bestowed upon her human clients.

"First things first," I imagined her saying to me. "Our client isn't here yet. Could you send some reiki energy to this injured bird?"

I looked around the room, scanned for unfinished projects, carried a few dirty dishes to the kitchen sink, and returned to the living room window. Frances now stood upright with the bird in her hands. Quickly I recited the name for the reiki distance healing symbol, positioned my hands toward the bird, and started sending healing energy. Soon enough the bird turned her head, looked around, and within minutes, flew the short distance to the deck railing. There she rested briefly, scanning her surroundings, then vacated the area for the safety of a nearby tree.

This time of year we humans talk nonstop about our New Year's resolutions. Most of these resolutions are well-intentioned efforts to strengthen our commitment to living healthy, positive, productive, well-balanced lives. Here's one of my resolutions for 2008 and beyond: May I have--and hold--all that presents itself to me in each moment without being distracted by the have tos and to dos of my life. May I dwell in this moment--every moment--with presence, peacefulness, and gratitude....

POSTSCRIPT: This morning 11 Pine Grosbeaks, four males and seven females, hopped along our deck feeding on fallen black sunflower seeds. As Frances watched, ten Grosbeaks flew away and one female remained. She pecked at the seeds then picked up one foot and scratched behind her ear. Could this be our friend from two mornings ago? Does she remember a gentle touch? A moment of healing energy sent and received?