I titled my last post Birthing the Light.
It comes from the title of the Advent Calendar at the Community Congregational Church in Tiburon where last evening I attended the ordination of a friend to become a Zen Buddhist priest. If you are looking for inspiration for this time of year, check this out:
It’s the first day of the last month of the year. I open my Advent Calendar as I listen to the wind and rain.
Yesterday I was at the Community Congregational Church in Tiburon attending the ordination ceremony for a friend becoming a Zen priest. It was an interesting juxtaposition as the ancient ceremony was shown on Zoom so on one side of the altar was a huge screen and on the other a nativity scene. In the middle was the ceremony with rituals handed down for centuries.
Behind the altar is a view of the bay and through the ceremony the sky moved from light to dark, from seeing outside to seeing the reflection of what was happening within.
This is a sacred time of year no matter what our beliefs, a time to light candles and swell in trust that dark turns to light and all revolves as One.
What I love about where I live is that after 45 years, I can still discover something new, and that is also true everywhere. My friend Elaine Chanscherer and I met by the bay on the East side of the Golden Gate bridge on Sunday. We discovered a bar/restaurant with a view and thrilled to the up and down dance of a sea lion. These are some of Elaine’s photos from our day.
Today I curl and unfold within the words of Alan Watts:
In the process of growth the oak is not better than the acorn.
It was a wonderful four days with the gifts of Nature exuberant and generous everywhere.
In the United States, it’s Thanksgiving Eve, a time to gather even as we honor historical complexity.
This is my day to cook as memories jog, and yet before beginning the mixing of flour, butter, salt, and water for pie crust, I read the news.
Shocking, and yet there’s a video on You Tube of a dog and sea lion playing catch at a beach in Santa Cruz.
May we all give thanks for diversity, curiosity, enthusiasm, and heroism on land and sea, especially where they meet.
On Saturday I was with my three year old grandson and the falling leaves from a Japanese Maple tree. We stood under the tree as though it was snowing beautiful red leaves upon us, and then he lay down in the leaves and made a Leaf Angel.
As more leaves fell, I raked them into a huge pile and wrapped them all around him so just his head was out in the air. The leaves became his racecar and then it was as though he entered a peaceful place, a study in bliss, as did I.
Each of us is being sprinkled right now in the memories of this closing year as we integrate and transform, as we are integrated and transformed with what is present and past.
May we receive with ease.
On Friday, we drove to the Merced National Wildlife Refuge to see the migrating Sandhill Cranes. We saw many birds, but though we heard them we didn’t actually see the cranes, and yet the place is so beautiful that as we watched the sun set, it was clear that our journey was soothing, nourishing, and complete.
On November 19, 1863, President Lincoln gave the Gettysburg Address at Gettysburg where from July 1 to July 3, 1863, more that 150,000 soldiers fought in the Civil War. More than 7,000 died in a town with fewer than 2500. Imagine dealing with the dead bodies in the heat of July, and imagine the injuries both physical and psychological, the soldiers carried home to friends and families, injuries that still reverberate through us.
I’m with balance these days as my eyes continue to adjust to the change from sixty years of hard contact lenses to glasses to surgery in February.
How do I balance on serenity and integration as I meet and meld the past and present with what comes?
As we move into increasing hours of darkness and the sharpening guide of slanted light, I’m with these words of Thich Nhat Hanh:
Drink your tea slowly and reverently, as if it is the axis on which the earth revolves.
Last night a treasured friend sent a photo of the first snow last night, and then this morning a photo of her dog in front of the fire.
Memories harvest in my chest.
In December 2017, our family gathered in CT because we knew my brother was dying, and yet, when we saw him, he seemed blooming and healthy, thin, yes, and easily fatigued, but up and dressed. It was the first snow of the season and we Californians were out in the snow taking pictures of ourselves shoveling this delightful gift from on high.
We kept the fire going day and night, talked and talked, ate and ate, and played games, and even now tears come with memories. A fire burns through me, a fire of harvest to warm this beautiful life I’ve lived and still live.
I continue to study Sensory Awareness. As my breathing is, so am I. My heart is touched with the exploration of breath, the knowing this air I breathe is given to me by plants and trees, and so we hold limbs in sharing memories and seasons, present treasured, rooted, and lifted with the still living treasures of the past.
I give thanks.
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