Thanksgiving

Orion was right outside my window when I woke this morning.

The stars were bright and clear in the predawn sky.

Upstairs, I sat in my rocking chair taking in the view.

My body wanted to go outside, so I put on my jacket and followed the trail through the tall grasses.

Near the bike path, the cypress rose majestically, its presence stopping me in my tracks. I stood there for a while mesmerized by its open arms.

The ocean was loud and fierce.

Still I stood at the top of the dunes, listening, watching.

Then I turned and headed home.

I am grateful.

Life is calling to me

Life is calling to me today.

“Hey you, come out and play!”

It doesn’t really care that last night’s canned Italian wedding soup is not sitting too well in my vegetarian body. It doesn’t really care that I was going to wake slowly and say my prayers.

No it’s too busy cracking really bad jokes – telling me Bruce Springsteen is right next to me, if I’ll open my eyes to see.

And before I knew it I was chanting Badlands and then saying, “Hey, let’s go have our coffee by the side of the road.”

David heard it too. So he cheerfully piled falling apart lawn chairs on top of his car and handed me a fox hunt platter piled with toast and coffee mugs.

Still, I resisted. “Take it easy on the bumps.”

“Just use your arms as shock absorbers,” he retorted, hitting the gas. As we pulled out of the driveway, I watched cups overflow and forgot to worry about chairs.

The sun was brilliant as we set ourselves down on the hillside overlooking the vista of redwoods. I was just getting ready for meditative bliss when David’s chair gave way and he toppled.

“See that’s how it’s done,“ he said, one hand rising victoriously from the heap on the mud, still holding a full cup of coffee.

Life’s calling to me today.

"Hey you, come out and play!”

I could tell you about

I could tell you about the dirt path that begins at the fence across the street, that leads through sweet smelling wild grasses, across the bike path, past the tall cypress that holds presence on this ever changing beach, through the parking lot of the state park, over the dunes where it turns into a narrow sandy path that winds through ice plants over the rise to that incredible view of wide open ocean. I could tell you about following my son along this pathway as he rides his toy motorcycle or following both my sons as they run and race, laughing. I could tell you about what I think about when I follow them like that along the dirt path, watching and breathing - my death. This is the moment I'll come back to at the end, I imagine, satisfied and grateful, knowing I have lived.

I could tell you about the sky right now - how huge and wide open it is - with the fog half way in - or the ocean, loud today.

Or I could tell you about the sound of my neighbor's American flag or my own curtains blowing in and out of the open doorway this afternoon, as I lay still in my bed, resting, my inner slate being wiped clean. I could tell you about how grateful I am that I see it now, the sky I mean, that my senses are alive, awake again after a day of rest.

I could tell you about what gives me life these days - rest, silence, earth, dancing - and what leads me down into sorrow and regret.

I could tell you about that sound just then - the one where wind combined with ocean - making me look up to see who's coming - maybe you? - only to realize once again that all is quiet and still in the noise.

I could tell you about writing these words here with this pen that was given one amazing day in Michigan - how it delights me to pen them and listen to my deeper self - bold woman that she is - even though I know these are only words - fragments - like my self - that will one day disappear - the wind carrying them down the dirt path back to ocean.

Still I delight to write.

Sabbath

I am taking today off.

There is a part of me that thinks this is a dumb idea. After all, there are bills to pay, checkbooks to balance, a house to clean, filing to do, not to mention the grocery shopping and straightening up that needs to happen. And that's just on the personal front.

Still, I am taking today off.

Yesterday, today seemed like a great day to write that letter, but during my morning prayer time, the exhaustion in my bones let me know, "This is a good day to rest." As I sat staring out my window, listening to the fog horn, I could barely hear the birds. It's not that they were not there. It is just that my mind was so loud.

I am taking today off.

The fact that I think I can't stop - the fact that my mind is cheerfully jumping from one plan to another - is a pretty good sign that I must. It's time to do what I know to do to shift my body's energy and surrender. It's time to lay myself at love's door and say, "Please come and find me. I have lost my way."

I am taking today off.

Without sabbath, my life becomes an endless chore.

With it, life is gift.