Morning Meditation - Note the Beautiful Moments

 Morning meditation™️. I wrote these words nine years ago, and I can still recall the experience that inspired the words. ✨

#HealingMorning™️  #MorningMeditation™️  #DifferentAndBrightNewWorld

What is today....

http://beneficialbugs.org/bugs/Honeybee/honeybee2.jpg

What is today?  It's Saturday.  Misty, rainy morning has turned to pure blue skies without a cloud in sight.  That will change, most likely, because it's East Tennessee and change is the one thing that can be depended upon regarding our weather.

I'm icing and elevating a wrenched knee, activity curtailed to a large degree for the next several days to allow some healing.

I would rather be outside on my patio, puttering with my plants, breathing in the heavy, moist summer air, but getting out there requires navigating steps.  So, here I sit.  In my Saturday, with a mind wandering.

My ice pack isn't the best, and beads of condensation have soaked through the kitchen towel to dampen already chilled skin.  A fat honeybee drones by my open window, busily searching out lush blossoms.  Momentarily, he hovers at the window and I am sure that we lock eyes.  If I were outside, I would offer to pet him.  He most likely feels sorry for my temporary trapped state, but he cannot delay his flight and zooms off into the blue.

Time for the ice pack to come off the knee.  Grab my journal and my favorite pen to have on hand for jotting down some personal thoughts after I finish this post.  Antiquing on a Saturday afternoon would be so much more entertaining!  Instead, I address myself.  And this day.  And a sense of hush....of quiet....of space.

So much to do, endless lists and chores, none of which can be accomplished with an injured knee.  Turn inward, where there are equal amount of chores to tend.  Sweep that corner first.  It's been dusty and cluttered with forgotten smiles.  Lift them up and see how they fit today.  Some are crooked.  A few are completely inappropriate and have potential for belly laughs.  One is soft, gentle and reserved for a specific person.  That one stays, hovering in the heart, because it waits to be matched.  The others, I leave tumbled back into disorder, because smiles should never be contained and regimented.

Wander into the next room where words are stacked up.  They lie drunkenly across every surface, wildly rambling, stitching colors together there.  Weaving music over here.  That particular fabric is bright and will probably find a home soon.  The one on that rocking chair belongs with my family, soft and worn and comfortable because it is full of weathered lavender threads that speak of love.  Worn so soft and thin that they appear to be delicate, but the words belie that and create a strength that cannot be harmed.

Oh, look....there's a song right here, on top of a stack of words that zig zag, accordian-style.  The melody jitters and jumps erratically, spilling notes in a trill of sunshine yellow.  Daffodil yellow, and happy like the flower.

I glance at the floor and see my footprints in this place.  Casting a gaze behind me, the footprints show different shapes, different versions of me.  The day I wore those gorgeous red heels and made a mark in the world shows a set of crisp steps, confident and empowered like the color of those heels. The morning that I received shockingly sad news, flip flop footprints slew in a jagged, confused stumble...and are melded with the stance of another who offered strong arms and support.  The day I walked barefoot in the woods of home, these particular steps are of every age I have been....wee child, teenager, young woman....and now.  They meander, they swoop and dash, they dance, they mosey and stroll, those bare feet.  Layering all of the Me that has been this time around.

And now, I step through a doorway hung with a blanket and greet memories of my Granny Reagan.  Sitting in her rocking chair, arms open to receive a little girl with white-blonde hair and an endlessly curious mind.  That day, we walked to the mailbox together and discovered infinite worlds along the way.  I wore my pink patent leather shoes, the dressy ones that are supposed to be reserved for Sundays and church, but what little girl can resist sharing pink patent leather shoes with the world? I wore them every chance I got. I could linger here endlessly....

This bright Saturday with the endless blue skies is an inward journey.  Tidying here, stepping around chaos there, blithely ignoring any outward judgment that anything requires more than an acknowledging sweep of my eyes.  Looking into rooms that should not be touched for a while.  Recognizing others that could do with being emptied, but I repeat the blithely ignoring approach. Who knew that a wrenched knee would guide me here?  The strains of a song accompany me as I emerge back into the Now.  Howie Day's "Collide".

My honeybee friend is back at the window, hovering again, regarding my human self curiously.  This makes me question what message this little guy brings.  Research tells me that the honey bee symbolizes the soul that flies away from the body.  Perhaps that is where my inner journey focused, flitting away from my physical body to traverse the landscape of my Spirit.

I am back now, with bare feet dusted in insubstantial glittery cobwebs of my life.  I am sure that my current Self has left new footprints in there.  

If...and if....

photo:  www.paleospirit.com

If I reveal the fractures
                       deep and ragged
will I still breathe?

                                    If I remember
              sweet spring fragrance
will the memories remain?

If I touch
                           the deep well of loss
             will I drift endlessly?

         Ticking echoes
of an empty clock

                If I linger
tasting acid tears
                              will I heal?

If I laugh
                       finding small pleasures
           will I betray?

                                                 Grains of sand spilled
                               marking where
the time chord snapped

                                   If I recall
                                              hands reaching down
will I be lifted up?

                              If I see
that smile shining
              am I letting go?

        tether broken
                             spirit set free

                     If I hear
wisps of laughter
                       will I lose that precious note?

                     If I gaze
                                            at incredible talent
will it become flat and empty?

If I hold
                     arms open
will there be a return?

         If I rest
                                                     will surcease
                        prove ever elusive?

If...and if...
                     and if....

a torment
                                   and a comfort

                 Twining and swirling
insubstantial

All suspended
                    echoing...                

.....the ifs...

                                  Hammering against
      transparent boundaries

fleeting....
              and quickly gone

reflecting what?

                                  If...and if...
and if....

               ...and if...again....
_______________________________________

The poem above is the first thing I've written and published here since December 28, 2012.  That stretch of time is the longest I have gone without writing here at Healing Morning since I created the blog in 2009.  The reason for this silence?  There are many.  Holiday insanity, seasonal commitments to parties and events.  Work encroaching; personal relationships demanding time and attention.  Most importantly, I needed time to absorb and address the loss of a family member who left us through suicide in the summer of 2012.

If you follow my blog, you may have read some of the articles I wrote about that loss when it happened. (Sad Weathering, 7/5/2012, Healing Morning).  For those of you who may have gone through a similar loss, then perhaps you know that processing the emotions and finding a way through to acceptance is a lengthy process.  I'm still working on that.  I am not sharing this poem and these thoughts to indicate that I am still dwelling in that immediate state of shock and sharp loss.  I have healed a great deal.  The thoughts shared today encompass all those doubts and questions that we inevitably confront when we lose a loved one to suicide.  In my healing process, I have allowed the thoughts to come to consciousness so that I could absorb, understand and release them.  During meditation, during prayer, during random moments, they will resurface and demand further contemplation.  And healing continues.

Soft stillness and the night

Photo:  awesomestories.com

I'm feeling nostalgic tonight for some reason.  I have been browsing through my Drafts folder here at Healing Morning to see what snippet might jump out at me to elaborate upon and birth a new blog article.  This one seems to be it.  A stanza from William Shakespeare:

How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank.
Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears; soft stillness, and the night
Becomes the touches of sweet harmony.

I ran across this weeks ago, most likely on Facebook.  It brought to mind summer evenings from my childhood, long before the advent of cable television and the internet.  Indeed, at that time, we had three television channels and were lucky if two of them could be received on our antenna way up on the ridge where we lived.  Thus, many evenings during warm months were spent outside in lawn chairs doing this simple thing....talking.  And looking at the stars.

It was such a peaceful thing.  Being with family, visiting, laughing together.  Or just being silent and gazing upward at the expanse of stars.  Some nights we would spread out a blanket to lie on, and it was then that I would imagine that the stars would drop down to touch my face.  We lived far enough out in the country at that time that city lights didn't compete in the night sky and we could see the constellations clearly.  The Big Dipper and the Little Dipper were always easily discernible...and we would attempt to identify other constellations from the Encyclopedia.

Balmy summer nights, filled with quiet conversation and cicadas humming in the background.  The scent of freshly cut grass, blooming roses and honeysuckle would hang heavy in the moist night air.  If it had been an especially good day, there might be the rare store bought treat of Jiffy Pop popcorn...that miraculous creation that we watched in fascinated delight on the stove top, the shiny aluminum dome poofing up as the popcorn popped inside.

Those days are long gone, and I remember them fondly.  The Shakespeare snippet above brought the memories to mind, soft and misty, like an old photograph whose edges have been gently worn soft with time.  Ghosting along my mind's eye, hovering there with wraith-like purpose, insistent to not be forgotten.


"...soft stillness and the night..."  The words bring a slight ache of wistfulness to go back there again, to that back yard in the country on that side of that ridge...and let the stars drop down, once again, to touch my face.

Ode

Photo:  www.naturesdry.com

This is an ode to....sundried tomatoes and green apples. Why, you ask? Because I love them both, is my reply.

Sundried tomatoes....they bring to mind long, endless sultry summer days. The early morning spent gathering plump, small, sweet tomatoes to cut and lay out on mesh screens, bared to the ruthless rays of the summer light. Small hands venturing a swift touch to ascertain whether the ruby flesh has yet reached that perfect chewy consistency for a stolen snack. Adult hands swatting us away to play in the fields as screens are patiently tended, flipped, and moved to follow the sun's path over the course of the lazy, slow day. Cheesecloths are used to discourage insects and opportunistic bees, although the occasional foray by curious birds happens here and there.

The scent redolent of summer, tangy, causing mouths to water in expectation of a tart explosion of sensation on the tongue. Rich, dark red as they dry, the tomatoes taking on a curious leathery texture, rattling dryly as they are packed into bags for storage. In the winter months, pulled out to produce flavorful meals, sauces and condiments. Rehydrated, the heady bouquet of summer fills the kitchen and brings back memories of summers long past.

Photo:  www.greenbulk.com/-c-.html

Summer wanes and fall brings fruit to the small wizened green apple trees in the fields. More harvesting, preparation and plump fruit layed out on drying screens. Fat, lazy bees buzz about the crisp white flesh of the small apples, the drone soporific and soothing. Bright green notes of flavor hover over the screens, pushing appetites beyond bearing and lightening the drying screens in a surreptitious manner known to all small children. What better forbidden treat than fresh cut, slowly drying apples, fragrant and warm from the sun? I can close my eyes and bring to mind those days, when I was barely tall enough to reach up to the drying screens set on wooden sawhorses in my Aunt Carrie's backyard.

Gentle again, those memories of childhood, as they scroll fluidly through my mind's eye. Fruit dried in the most old fashioned manner producing treats throughout the rest of the year, both savory and sweet delights. Winter kitchens filled with zesty, robust tomato fragrance, followed by rich, tongue-tingling, spicy-sweet apple pies and fritters. Flaky buttery pastries melting in the mouth, eyes closed in rapturous enjoyment. All produced with humble mesh screens, wooden sawhorses, judicious exposure to the warm summer sun and time spent with family. What better reason to wax rhapsodic in this small, personal ode to the fruits and labors of distant childhood memories.

"Get to know Me again"

The above statement was taken from an email from a friend I'm getting to know all over again. I've commented a couple of times recently about the dynamic that Facebook has for reuniting people. I have only been active with my own Facebook page since the middle of this summer of 2009 and have been astonished at all the reunions that have been occurring in my life. I'm reconnecting with friends from childhood, grade school through high school, and from multiple past companies I've worked for over the years. The process is particularly fascinating when the connections are with childhood friends.

With some of these people, I go as far back as kindgergarten years. That's a long time, my friends! Here's another interesting thing - some of the people from school years I'm reconnecting with via Facebook are people that I wasn't that close to way back then, but now am growing strong new friendships with. Others were good, solid connections that just got cut off when high school years ended and people went their separate ways. Revisiting, re-establishing and re-learning these relationships is a joyful thing for me.

We're all familiar with the fact that high school tends to be fraught with tensions, uncertainties, competition, insecurities and lack of communication. I don't know that we're ever really perceived in what we could consider a true light during those years, as everyone is busy with gossiping, judging and trying to keep their own heads above the social whirlpool that high school creates. Most of us get branded with a specific title, or label, very early in grade school and that, right or wrong, tends to be the perception that sticks throughout the whole school experience.

The friend that made the statement above was someone I knew throughout high school, was friendly with, socialized with, but all on a fairly surface level. Now, over 25 years later, we're talking on an adult level without the distractions of teenage angst. This is allowing us both to get to know the true people we each are and so far, it's been a lot of fun.

This getting to know one another all these years later provides a strong mirror for each person. As adults, we're able to be much stronger in our identities, secure with ourselves and as a result, secure in learning who that other person has become. It is fascinating to reconnect with childhood acquaintances and learn who they have become as adults. The things that you learn about yourself as a result of these reconnections are equally fascinating. Cue the statement above, in its entirety:

"You cheer me up, Dawn, open my eyes and allow me to almost get to know Me again."

First of all, what a lovely compliment to receive. I can't think of a greater gift to give someone than to let them know they're making a difference in someone else's life, and that comment gave me that gift. I've said it countless times before - we rarely realize that we DO make an impact on others, unless they let us know. The second, and most important fact about all of this, is the simple pleasure that these old-yet-new-again friendships give us. Regardless of the depth of interactions that may have occurred during childhood growth years, we have history with those people that forges a very strong bond. If we're very lucky, and we choose to seize opportunity when it is presented to us, we are given the chance to develop that bond into a new friendship.

I'm experiencing this with several people from those childhood years. I'm also experiencing it with several people from those various past work incarnations. They all bring new layers, complexities and color to our lives, conjuring up memories of shared laughter, absurd moments and emotions revisited, while at the same time bringing the newest, current version of ourselves together with these people.

If we're alive, we're growing. That's a basic truth. Life throws endless curves, twists and surprises at us along the road. We reconnect with people at various moments, and as a result, we reconnect with ourselves, remember who we were, recognize who we are now and see the potential and the surprising strengths that we have in the mirror of these other people's eyes. That's a beautiful experience to recognize.