Posted on by Cathy Edgett

Winter Light

I love the flickering of candlelight this time of year.  Winter in the Northern hemisphere offers reflective space.

John O’Donohue wrote: Candlelight perception is the most respectful and appropriate form of light with which to approach the inner world. It does not force our tormented transparency upon the mystery. 

 I’m still in clean-out mode.  The Mill Valley library is thrilled with the condition and range of the books I’ve donated, and there’s more to go, though it’s not easy. I love books and want them to have good homes, so I scatter pieces of myself out in the world, my choices, shared.  

This poem by Marci Calabretta Dancio-Bello speaks to me as I read of animals fleeing from fire in Australia.  How do we stroke the bones of fear and open out and share the spinal hum?

Ode to this Small Joy


Someone discovered

the giraffe hums

at a harmonic rate

of 92 Hertz,

voice thrumming

the tower of spine

and trachea once

thought to be silent,

and her humming is

like monks chanting

holy and ascetic,

the vibrations rolling 

up the vertebrae

gentle and slow,

a long-lashed

face lifting

from water to sky,

taut dark sides

veined with light

ready to crack 

open the body. 


  • Marci Calabretta Cancio-Bello 

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

The Weight of Things

As a long-time student of Sensory Awareness, and practitioner of Somatic work, I’m aware of weight and working with, playing with, gravity, but in this plunge to purge, I’m even more aware of the weight of things, of the energy objects hold.  In the case of books, wisdom is stored, wisdom into which I can sink when I’m ready, but what I’m seeing in poring through shelves, and then, piles of books is this is a trip down memory lane. I see what I’ve learned.

When I came to somatic work in 1993, I opened into a whole new world. Intrigued, motivated, and curious, I delved into classes and books, my way to anchor what I was learning.  I couldn’t know enough, but now, as I go through this accumulation of stuff, I know I know enough. It doesn’t mean there isn’t more to learn, but there’s an embodiment and acknowledgment I feel and sense.  

The books can go onto others in search.

What’s puzzling though is the weight and work of moving this stuff along.  It’s physical, unlike the luxurious sitting in a chair with a new book, a new opening of space in the body/mind.

Right now, I sit here surrounded by books in boxes, and books on the floor, and shelves asking what now, for perhaps even a shelf has some affinity with weight and substance, and wonders what meaning opens for it now. 

I balance in the honoring of Feng Shui, the movement and shifting of energy and weight. I feel the change, even in the mess.

I think of a tree, water and nutrients flowing up and down, communication with other trees, and then, the tree is cut down, and sliced into planks.

Now I’m reminded of the story The Fir Tree by Hans Christian Anderson which has a sad ending rather than a celebration of transformation and change as we move, explore, weigh down, and release both time and space again and again.

I revel in this pause that allows my back to realign and then I return to the task of bending, shifting, and lifting to give books and shelves new places and ways to be, and me too.

What comes now? The invitation is sent.

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

Books

Books are heavy, not necessarily one at a time, but when there are many, yes they are, and so this morning my sacrum area is asking for a little more ease in the movement and sorting of thousands of books.  One wall of our living room hosts floor to ceiling books. I’m trying to clear that out so that I can move books that cover two walls in each of the other bedrooms onto the living room shelves.

I’m making progress but I see there will still be books in the back of the house and that is okay since books make a house a home but there will be a little more space, and each book will feel comfy with its neighbors on the shelf.

John Keats wrote that “My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.”

Perhaps that’s what these books mean to me.  I am their keeper, and I love what they bring to and inspire in me.  I look around and feel the leaves of their pages feed and nourish me.

It’s the fifth of January, a glorious day here, and I’m happy to fill the monastery of my imagination as I honor the priestess I am.

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

Centering

Rain in the night, then, clear, and now I enjoy blue sky augmented with clouds moving the reins of love through my heart, feet, hands and chest.

I pulse with love like a bell struck with a gong.  The vibrations go on and on.  

I tremble at the fragility of the political situation, pause for guidance. Tears come, and knowing love trumps fear, I center myself in the mud I am, the moving clay, moist with tears of connection.

Liquid, the bearer of healing, tears.

Bees are buzzing in the rosemary, the universal symbol of remembrance.  My father died 51 years ago today. I center in the fluidity of tears.

Rain drops on the branches will soon bring leaves

Rosemary brings bees to my yard

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

Letting Go

Years ago one of my sons decided to let go of his toys.  He is like me, attached and appreciative. He went through Matchbox cars, models, Legos, and carefully and reverently placed them in boxes so when a child opened and received what was there, their heart would leap with joy.

I find myself now having made a New Year’s commitment to type recipes into the computer and let pieces of paper go, and to let go of some of my books.  The way it’s going it will be years. I type in a recipe and sit with memory. I pull a book off the shelf, sit down, think, yes, this is the last time I’ll read this, and then, immerse, and so today, two books have been chosen to go, and I see that this process needs a faster pace, so I find myself doing math problems to assess exactly how long it might take.

If three books departed the house each day for a year, that would be over a thousand books in a year, which is about right, but can I release three books a day, and a year is a long time, so maybe six books and then six months, or maybe, and so here I am. This exploration has led me to realize it’s time to go to the grocery store, and buy some carefully chosen ingredients, and cook.

At least then there is transition, transformation, and flow.

Posted on by Cathy Edgett · 2 Comments

Lie Down

Tomorrow will be 51 years since my father passed away in a motorcycle accident in 1969.

I was in Mexico City and struggled to get back home.  Flights were booked as people returned from vacation and finally the American Embassy stepped in to ensure I got home.

Now, today, fearing the threat of war, I look at an abstract goddess figure my brother gave me years ago.  Her lap is a bowl where you place your wish for the day, week, month, and meditate on invitation, reception, and request.

Right now I have a little red elephant placed there.  I think of the animals destroyed in fires due to climate change. I think of pain ringing through each of us as we take in destructiveness in a multitude of forms.

I’m with these words from the poem “Lie Down” by Nancy Paddock.

Lie down with your belly to the ground

And then rise up

With the earth still in you.

Times have always been challenging, but I believe today is a good day to: 

Lie down with your belly to the ground

And then rise up

With the earth still in you.

As May Sarton said: “Plant Dreaming Deep”.

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

Reflection

Last night we were out enjoying Christmas/Holiday lights.  It’s already staying light a little longer, and one Maple tree has the beginnings of buds.  It’s amazing what sunlight can do.

The news is challenging, and yet the earth continues circling around the sun.

I’ve decided to type my recipes, of which I have multitudes, into the computer, to give them an unspotted, unstained, clearer view of organization and life.  I’m doing it mindfully, no rush. I have a few more years here, and then, who knows. For now, this moment, I wait for day to light.  

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

The New Year

It’s official.  It’s 2020. I’ve already written two checks and used the right date.  I like this new year. It’s easy to remember and stresses vision and clarity.  May we all be curious, joyful, receptive, and well.   

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

New Year’s Roots

In soft morning light, I walk over to my neighborhood park.  I cross over a bridge and peer down into a running stream. I walk along a muddy path, and sit on a bench surrounded by trees.  Light flickers through, and birds twitter, bounce, and perch.

Sun touches my cheeks through trees.  I’ve been going through quotes that have meaning for me, and I sift through them as I listen to the song of the stream.  

Lao Tze: Be still like a mountain, flow like a river.

Lao Tze: Do you have the patience to wait until your mud settles and the water is clear?  Can you remain unmoving until the right action arises by itself.

I want to wait until my mud settles and the water is clear.  I’m aware this is the year for clarity and 20/20 vision. It’s in the date.

As I sit patiently and wait, people pass by with dogs who need a love pat and kiss.  One man tells me his dog is a rescue from China, flown to San Diego, and now here on a path we share.  

Connection flows and I’m with these words of Richard Powers: The bird and the branch it sits on are a joint thing.

Then I remember Rumi: Maybe you’re searching among the branches, for what only appears in the roots.

And Rilke:  If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence, we could rise up rooted, like trees.”

With that, I decide to return home, but along the way I meet neighbors out enjoying the first day of the New Year air, and we talk about how we love living here.  We’ve been here 42 years and many of my neighbors as long or longer.

My roots are here.

Posted on by Cathy Edgett

The New Year

It’s 2020 and we move through an open door to whatever is ours to create. I rose at 4 to meditate, invite, receive. I lean back, then, forward, sway, and believe. Here is an offering for the New Year!