Happy Interdependence Day

July fourth, we citizens of the U.S.celebrate our independence from tyrannical rule. Uh-huh. And that, folks, is as political as I'm going to get in this post. :)

Ever since 1992, July fourth has been about my youngest son's birthday. I used to tell him, when he was small, that the fireworks were for him. They still are. He is a young man with a wonderful heart, at the traditional age of stepping into the unknown (and registering for the draft--ugh!). I wish I could offer him more security, this birthday, in the form of some tried-and-true way to "make it" in our consensus world. I can't. There is simply no way to whitewash the state of this nation and the exterior human "condition". The news out there is grim and angry. He knows this, knows there is no formula, no easy way into (or out of) any role.

Still, he is generous with his smile, his laugh, his future, his vision. He is fair and optimistic and curious. He has no idea what he will ultimately do with himself, and that's ok. He is going to be a good man, in a time when we desperately need good people.

My son has always been able to entertain himself, comfortable in his aloneness when it happens, comfortable with just being boy-of-the-moment. He has grown up with the concept of interdependence, and so accepts it as natural and obvious as his independence. He understands deeply that we are all connected, and that ultimately, every system and circumstance is, too. His thinking is based on network principles. His heart is based on permeable boundaries. His world is a very flexible place, lacking the rigidity that I was raised with.

I look at him, and think: Well, maybe--just maybe--humans will be alright. Maybe we are coming around, waking up on the surface, knowing no isolation...

However, I'm not content with dropping the mantle of responsibility for the fate of the world on the shoulders of my children. That responsibility rests with me--especially since "the world" is at least half my creation! I am speaking of the "storied" world, here--the thick layer of beginnings and endings, cause-and-effect, light and shadow. All of this is, by definition, interdependent. Nothing stands alone, ever. One can spend all day separating the wheat from the chaff to make bread--but every step in that process is dependent on the one before and after, and all the step-ers and step-ees, until there is no birth or death. To be aware of this is to be in balance--mortal and immortal all at once. Whole-wheat, whole-life, whole-being.

There exists no definite cusp between child and man or woman, or human and god, but our nature demands that we create and attend transition, make change, run gauntlets, quest visions. Whether we love or detest our stages, we make sure they are marked, somehow. In a healthy "village", we don't ignore stories--we tell them, to add to the collective wisdom. Transitions are noted both inside an individual and within the community. Someone may be ritually "kicked out" into the wilderness, but is welcomed back as a changed member of the tribe, bringing home valuable experience, personal and shared.

I look around and see a planet full of examples of sick villages, people stifled into psychotic behavior, people so lost that they banish not only each other, but themselves. I see people telling the same story compulsively and ceaselessly, not hearing or seeing the message and path within it, stuck in the spin cycle. I see humans terrified to reach out to each other or unable to spend a few hours alone, in contentment. I see a giant rocking taking place within our systems because of this imbalance, this lack of acknowledging our truth, our interdependence, our wholeness and health underneath. 

I also notice that there is always someone who nurtures the green sprig in a wasteland, the good people on the edge of some devastation, and the tentative joy in the wake of pain. There is always more than one. There is always an understanding, somewhere--an effort to get it out, to tell stories of wisdom, to honor emotion. The interdependent souls, families, tribes and communities exist. Celebrations and blessings, a balance between give and take, a reveling in and respect for both mortality and the vastness of the Only Moment There Is...they do exist!

It is the sensing, the knowing that pure spring below that keeps me sane and out of despair, able to tell my children that all is not lost. We all know it, because we are intimately wrapped in the heart of it, even when that heart appears to be in some kind of arrest!

While we mark our independence, let us also acknowledge our interdependence, and ultimately the love that carries all transition. Take a moment today to dance...if only on the inside! :)

Happy Birthday, Rylan!

Familiar

I had a dream that I was small and dense--just a cell,

a dwarfed red star.

My sensing split apart and became specialized. In the detail,

in the unknowing, I found myself alone and blind and focusing, focusing,

like a manic lens trying to find the best, best picture. I didn't know I was such a creator of worlds,

such a master of complexity!

New roads, new angles, old dreams reborn in a new skin, having lost all the fat of youth,

recognizable only with my lenses closed and the cell walls open. They taste of old granite,

baby cedar and spirit medicine. They smell of life and death

at thirty-three thousand feet.

Oh yeah, I know this place.

I know this place. It feels familiar because it is!

Here is the ancient mother, and I remember she must enter so that I may cling,

the baby to her back, the rider to her horse, the dye to her wool to her grass to her sun--

any way, any way I choose--just see her in. 

Just let her know in her way, the slow way, the way of the full-hand radiating, the way of the

feet-shifting-hips-swaying, of the details cast like pollen on her ocean, of the patterning taken as a matter of course; but swirl-course, sound falling, mouth forming visions.

In this way, in the sweet blindness, I recognize the pulsing red star by feel, by beat, by gravity.

Center of my world.

Mother of all hearts.

An Engaging Tale

The most basic story we live is that of relationship. Without an assumption of initial separation, there is no plot, no play, no beginning or end. There is no leaving, staying, resolution or reunion; there is no vision-quest, no initiation into Elderhood, no welcome-back as a seasoned warrior of the soul.

All the richness, all the creativity we know springs from behind the premise of the falling-apart and coming-together of universes, planets, countries, societies, families, couples, individuals, atoms, philosophies, theories...and our relationship to these relationships. The story is infinitely complex--and quite simple, when boiled down to myself/life.

Even that basic duality is an "illusion", as any deep diver will tell you; life seamlessly and completely lives you, even as you live it. No exceptions, and nothing else to say. To arrive in such a union, confronted with the fact that no one ever actually went anywhere, is a marvelously ticklish feeling...and to rest there is what brings real stability in the midst of seeming chaos. Somehow, there is a center from which I can survey all my parts and personalities, including all things I call "other", knowing full well that I am this simultaneousness, all this sensory flow. Nothing to do, and nothing (still) to say. 

But express we must. Story, we do. There is nothing wrong with participation in the Great Play. It's our unconscious acting that tends to create such difficulty in our personal tales...an unconsciousness that seems to be as necessary as any element in a fully-functioning Being. Fortunately, an equal measure of awareness, of waking to ourselves, is present and alive--going out of its way, it seems, to grab our attention and expand our sense of self to a truer measure. 

All that is required is engagement. A long, much celebrated engagement--a face-to-face in all senses of the word, embracing both the promise of union and battle.

Alas, this is the part where we tend to "chicken out". This chapter is full of wild swings of bliss and loss, where our hero and/or heroine might be diagnosed as somehow schizophrenic (bipolar, at least!) by those whose opinions and approval seem to matter the most...and perhaps even dismissed as hopeless or dangerous! Think Romeo and Juliet, or David and Goliath, or Us and Them. Epic stuff. Hard work.

Never mind that. It's really just self and Self, doing this--you know, human and Divine. Futility and Meaning. 

A full engagement is simply a willingness to be open, suspending disbelief, allowing the lovers their space in the middle of the war...to stand AS that fine line between anything and anything else, undefended and central to absolutely everything. A full engagement is faith in action--a faith that might resemble utter foolishness to a stout ego, dumb persistence in peering through the walls of limitation until it is understood that The Unlimited is exactly where we're peering from. 

The truth, both personal and universal, blossoms here. The truth, by its deepest nature, doesn't just make a brief seasonal appearance in a divided mind, but sends roots and seeds and scent, broadcasting presence and signaling nourishment, beauty and potential meaning. 

What is True is the original relationship between bright light and dark humus--fresh air and composting forms, bursting forth as newly creative being. It's alright to be a flash-point, an incubator, a catalyst, a mysterious bio-psycho-emotive mystery in which many tales unfold. There is, in fact no other way than this!

Feel it. :)

Speaking Personally

Dear Friends, Family and Facebook connections (past, present and future),

(A couple of good friends over on Facebook created a group called "Art of a Beautiful Mind", in which some of my art and writing is being "exposed to the world" directly and through a link to this blog. I am honored that they did this, and quite flattered that so many people felt the urge, for whatever reason, to "belong" to this group.  I'm glad, because this is a personal note to anyone who cares to listen--at this point, the more people, the better. :)

The "Beautiful Mind" referred to belongs not to me, the "artist/writer", but to Us, all of us who read ourselves and paint our lives and so shape our Being. If you look at a piece of art or read a story and feel a response, it's because you are recognizing a part of yourself, growing and perfecting it by sensing and experiencing. It takes all the levels of our Universal Self to make beauty and meaning. It takes an infinite number of connections that we are scarcely aware of to make a personal "wow" moment. Each of us are artists in our own right.

I am aware of this, being a "contemplative" sort; I am also aware that all kinds of connections need to be created and honored in order to invite and expand a beautiful life. I talk about it often.

But talk, as they say, can be cheap. 

Recently, like most of us, I have been fielding some pretty harrowing changes in my life. More quickly than I would ever imagine, the new growth of understanding is springing out of the ashes of loss. Things burn down, sometimes, so you can see better. Hearts break to make room. A series of events has conspired to bring the last several years into high relief, and I am getting a very clear picture of my personal life--some shades of which are indescribably sad.

The sadness comes from the fact that I have not taken my own advice and courted the many faces of Joy--instead, I managed to wrap myself like a frayed rope around the axle of other people's difficult issues. I do this because I am a "caregiver", professionally and habitually; it would be almost fair to say that I was brought up that way, and it has become my primary mode of operation. Although I find this to be satisfying and even rewarding, I forget, most of the time, to care for myself...as if my perception could somehow be removed from the equation of reality--as if my life was somehow irrelevant to living.

I need to knock that off, some very kind souls have informed me, and have some fun! Oh, how right, how wise they are!

Like many "creative types", I enjoy time alone to think, dream and work things out; but there has been a huge imbalance, a lack of real contact and manifestation of heart-stuff into the physical. When I have the time, I paint or write my soul into view, perhaps throwing words and images out like confetti on an ocean. I sit and watch it float away...then I put on my serious business-body, in which a longing for friendship and connection sometimes runs around like an errant ragamuffin, and do errands, and take care of people...in other words, I need to dance more (not just with myself), and stop shushing my own singing (even though I can't really sing). 

I want to talk to people who feel a deep sense of health in the world, even through the apparent sickness running rampant like a designer virus targeting the Heart. If you can't feel it, the natural pulse, then beauty is fleeting and appreciation becomes a manipulative game. I am interested in seeing the genuine love that we are, somewhere, loosed in eyes, in hugs, in smiles, in compassionate holding of peace, in wild leaps and twirls...

I want to hang out, once in a while, with those who agree that working at the mini-mart selling moon pies, Red Bull and bottled (sheesh, it should be free!) water to the desperate or despondent public would be an absolutely irresponsible thing for Maria to do, since what I truly enjoy is a freely creative life--even if my back is up against a financial wall!

I want to hold the hand of someone who understands Us as lovely facets of a Big Love, which cradles our unique patterns in a tough/tender way, and nourishes us by allowing like-minded souls to flow together for a second or a century...

I want to be in the company of the Fearlessly Courageous, who have determined that Being really is worth waking up for, if only to see or do something new and different, or repeat something that genuinely works to add dimension and beauty to the day...

I want to find people who can laugh at their own cynicism, because they know the depth and eternal freshness of loving.

I know you all are out there; chances are good that you are reminding someone like me to stop being so cloistered, to stop pacing the confines of some closet, to lighten up on the tasking. You are extending an invitation to stand up and dance, to see the pain for exactly what it is, to flirt with Joy until she follows and waits at every possible stop. Bless you for caring, for challenging my comfort zones, for leading me with astonished mirth and the balance of a veteran co-creator, for stepping back and allowing me to find my footing...

May we continue to ask for help if we're lost, find and recognize each other!

Love and Blessings,

Maria

Rocky Mountain High

Last week, I took my great blank slate, my flood-plain heart and furrowed mind to higher ground in Colorado. I went to visit my brother, with no agenda and no idea what each day might bring. In such a perfect state of non-expectation, lessons abound and are painted in deep, rich tones...there is nothing pale or tentative about mountain love. 

It will pick you up and drop you if you can't find trust.

It's a long way to the bottom.

                                                                 Birth never ends.

Life always seems to be waiting, though, at the end of the crazy passages...

I'm looking at the view, thus it looks right back. No lack of eye contact here!

I marvel at the tenacious springing of tender things (like myself), hanging on in the most unlikely, seemingly hostile places. Everywhere, there seems to be a natural urge...

...to leap out of the earth (so curvaceous and craggy is She!)...

                                                             ...and DANCE!

The stretching, the reaching for who-knows-what, to get to the top of who-knows-where, only to find some other height before you, is natural and essential.

                                                    So are the resting places...

...and the sight, sound and feel of the rush.

                      (Alright, there may be dragons!)

                                                 
                                     Even a rough climb down is worth the risk!

 I survived the rib-cracking, granite-style bear hugs, the harsh lectures of staying up all night (what, at my age?!), and the evidence of ongoing birth and death on every path. This place is haunted with kills by cougar and weather and the brutal falls borne out of human arrogance and lack of common sense; the sun is so bright that I could see details of myself--flaws and intricacies both ugly and sublime--whether I wanted to, or not.

The last full day of my adventure, the medicine was sweet, and the mountains wore a bit of velvet, in a softer light. Sunshine condensed into flowers, bright souls dancing down the slopes, perching happily on all the edges. I pass them on, directly to you from my heart, scraped clean and still quite alive...

                                                                          Peace. :)

That's Not What I Meant

I remember telling my children, back in home-school days, that life is like a big bowl of Silly Putty--stretch it, bend it, shape it into whatever you want. My artist-self knows that life is a blank canvas or a clean page. My "scientific" self might conceive of life as a sterile growing medium. Introduce an idea, and watch it expand.

It is especially easy to see the original "blankness" and "meaninglessness" of life when a structure of personal significance collapses. The kind of structure I am speaking of is nothing more than a mental/emotional relationship to a person, place, thing or idea; there is some kind of cessation, and then a gap, a void, an emptiness. Depending upon the degree of attachment to the situation (there is always some, or there would be no meaning), reactions can range from mild surprise to intense grief. If identification is strong, it seems to take a fair amount of time and effort to find equilibrium again, to frame the string of events in memory as somehow beneficial in the long run...to investigate where and how the dynamics changed, and to apply any insight to the workings of our lives. We figure out how to move on, how to perhaps do things differently in the future. 

(A brother of mine used to cynically refer to the above process as a "YAFLE"--Yet Another F***ing Learning Experience.)

Having been around the block a time or two, I believe that I'm well-acquainted with various kinds of pain and suffering associated with structure-collapse. I am happy to report that, although pain is what it is and hurts by nature, the amount of suffering has greatly diminished, simply because I have learned not to beat Maria up for too long. The fact that I seem to be determined to live thoroughly and authentically in spite/because of it all probably has something to do with the fine art of pulling myself out of the muck, as well.

In all my emotional tripping, I have acquired another skill, hard to articulate, but as relevant to easier living (in my mind) as the "invention" of the wheel must have been to those folks sick and tired of dragging large burdens over rough territory. This ability involves taking the time to be very aware of the emotional storm surges as they arise, and to look through them, even while feeling the full impact of whatever they are (not necessarily negative). This ruthless honesty is akin to watching a very convincing movie playing out on a huge screen--a screen which must be empty in order to allow the technicolor images to exist--all the while knowing that, at the end of the show, reality again takes the form of a blank, white field; such a field is even now the hidden understanding of the energy pouring across my perception.

In other words, it is the very meaninglessness of life which grants me the supreme privilege of making meaning, for entertainment, for learning, for further understanding...maybe just because I love to.

Over time, I have grown to dread that void less and less, and make friends with its purity and selflessness more and more. I see myself within it (and vice-versa) as a meaning-making being by nature, learning by trial and error to be a life-artist, using the true extent of my own freedom. I don't rush to fill it with another play to prevent boredom, or to escape the brain-boggling fact that its massive spaciousness also fits into every form I encounter, including myself. It is very user-friendly, and much more stable than the temporal stories it becomes. It seems that its qualities as a medium expand along with the understanding and acceptance of its true neutrality.

I am aware that to label Being "meaningless" is itself a meaningless statement; I can only call it "neutral" by contrasting it with the positive and negative currents we tend to get so caught up in--the flows which are not truly separate from such absolute potential. However, I'm not interested in debating semantics or philosophy, here--I have nothing but this experience to use, to relate and to share, and its value seems to lie in how it feels. The feeling is not necessarily "problem" or anxiety-free, although there is always an element of bliss. What I feel while pressed up unabashedly to the naked universe is anything but neutral or meaningless.

What I feel allows me to recognize the difference between real intimacy and ego-stroking, between love and self-serving fear, between courage and defensive posturing. The curious Void is a meaning-before-meaning, an original quality that is most truly apparent in that which can be nothing but Itself. The scripts, roles, and costumes are shed; even the body is dropped like the concept it is, and all that's left is Nothing Most Full.

Perhaps the most profound effect of this willingness to admit such open, boundary-less Reality into thinking and feeling is the respect I have for my ability to choose my meanings, as well as the choices themselves. Yes, it's all on my head and heart, and I know it. Sometimes I feel like a hapless fool, an old blind woman talking to her deaf dog, a hopelessly clumsy little girl in school. But there is an innate love here that holds these characters in great affection, allows them their frustrations and mistakes, and always knows what strength lies yet within. My meanings carry increased responsibility and are far from what I used to think of as "perfect"...but oh, the colors, the songs, the texture! I fall down, my knee hurts, and I'm face-to-face with a whole new world to embrace--one which, in my more "balanced" state, I didn't see...

Hard Truth

A cherished relationship died last week, after a long period of illness. The actual cause of death remains unknown; I suspect, though, that it was just another casualty of the wars that soldiers often bring home with them if they finish a tour of duty.

It seems a cancer of the spirit exists in our human story, created or exacerbated by exposure to ruthless conflict and unyielding, heartless structure. Ignored or denied, it feeds on personal shadows and doubts until it occupies the soul of its host, where it strangles optimism, tenderness, respect and love. The natural flow of nourishment is cut off. Trust gives way to anger, fear and apathy. The illness affects everyone in the family as connections that were thriving and flexible become dry and brittle. Eventually, if left unchecked, it consumes the host--perhaps metaphorically, often physically. Premature death is the result.

All forms change and death is inevitable, I understand. Still, there are certain kinds of pain and brutality that I instinctively view as unnecessary and contrary to the natural order of things...an unclean and complex suffering that spreads like wildfire. The grief left in its wake is compounded by the utter senselessness of the disease. Wildfires, at least, make some logical sense.

Honestly, I can't claim to know what is necessary and what is not. Much as I long to blame something--anything--for this kind of event, I know that it does nothing to resolve the factual pain. It is something that must be embraced and felt through and through, so I don't pass on the crippling sickness of spirit which engendered it in the first place, and so that healing can occur. It is what It Is, and it is never, ever what I think it is.

***

I drive until I find myself at my favorite liminal place--the shoreline--where brine and freshness meet and merge in perfect accord. An eagle's nest overlooks the shifting, hidden depths of the sea. There is a minus tide, and the wet bones of the beach are exposed to the sunlight. I am drawn like a piece of steel to the magnetic mystery of the rock faces normally veiled in white, lacy foam...in this place, it is possible to be stricken with grief, deep in love and swimming in curiosity, all at the same time. Logic, thank God, doesn't live here. There is no pressure to explain anything, not even to myself. Tears fog up my glasses, so I take them off and let the sand and pebbles make good places for my slow steps.

At the very edge of the water, I almost stumble over the roots of an ancient tree, a marker for the forest that once existed on this spot before the land dropped into the sea during the last great quake, maybe three hundred years ago. I put my glasses back on and look at the pebbles cradled in the wooden hollows near my feet. The waves are small and wash gently over and around them; I see a golden, banded agate the size of a pigeon's egg nestled in the mix of colors and froth, and wait for the water to recede again before picking it up. I hold it to the light, and the sun bounces off the milky lines within.

Attention thus captured, a more boisterous wave sneaks up to splash my shoes; I jump back, along with an old man who has materialized to my left. "Whoa! That almost got us," he laughs, grinning at me. 

I smile back, and we have a short chat about the remains of the old tree sprawled before us. I ask him if he is collecting agates, and he shows me a pocket half-full of small ones--gold, orange, gray and almost white. Impulsively, I give him the banded one in my hand, and he exclaims at its beauty. "My wife will be so tickled," he says in thanks. 

My heart lurches and expands in love at the image of this man going home to his wife and presenting her with such treasure. There is some kind of blessing...

I continue on, past the edge of the cove, on a shallow beach made safe by the subdued tide. There is a woman there, combing the rocky depressions, lost in her task. I almost pass her by, but decide to ask the same question I had asked the old man just a few minutes before. "Are you collecting agates?"

Immediately, she crosses the short distance between us and shows me a sack full of all kinds of stones--not just agates, but green, red, black and composite pebbles. "I have a rock tumbler at home," she says, as if relieved to speak her passion. "You would not believe how beautifully they come out!"

"Like jewels," I reply. "My grandfather was a rock collector, down in the Southern California desert. He used to cut, polish...he had a tumbler, when I was a very small child."

She lights up. "Ah! So you know...it takes a month, and the tumbler can only do around a pound at a time...but it's so worth the wait!" I nod, and she continues, "I decided to take a 'me' day and just come down here to look. I can't help it. It feels good and brings me peace...kind of like..."

"...Like a meditation?"

"Yes," she sighs, and her shoulders relax. "Exactly. My husband thinks I'm crazy..." and suddenly, she is looking down, as if slightly ashamed. I take a deep, slow breath.

"It's ok," I tell her, wishing I could reach out and hug her, instead. "He just doesn't understand."

"No, he doesn't." The woman shakes her head, and smiles with a distant sadness. I look at her beautiful face, and tell her that I am glad to have met her, and that perhaps I would see her around...and we move on in our own perfect understanding.

I walk to a big rock spill, where seagulls keep watch. I am now wide awake and alerted to strange beauty and synchronous things. I see pieces of the blue sky sunning themselves on stones.

The bare cliff faces loom over me, casting shadows and reflecting the sea where water seeps down to the coarse sand. I am lost in the strange folds and ridges of this cold, volcanic skin, of frozen ripples and eroded explosions. I touch it, lean against it, look up where grassy fringes grow. I am where the waves normally crash, where the water is over my head and roiling, looking at another truth...hard, uncompromising, happily beaten by the tides, slowly formed, polished and occasionally shown to soft, fragile animals like myself.

I am humbled, enjoyed, amazed.

Hugging the flows of silver, turquoise, jade and rust on my way back, words fail to form. Everywhere I turn with my camera, some stunning dreamscape looks directly into me. I read it silently like a love letter, like a missive full of tough wisdom and reassuring solidity and proof that, hard as being is, the variety of beauty is endless, is there underneath, is there with or without my attention.

The message, as usual, is signed:

By the time I return to my car, I am open and washed as the stones I spent the morning--and my mourning--with. I look up to find that someone has sent flowers...not to wilt upon the grave, but to dance alive, with me.