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.

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!

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 ...

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.

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 ….

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?

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.