Change I Really Don't Want to Talk About

Twenty-eight years ago when we first visited the Northern California coastline above Ft. Bragg, shore life was abundant. Seagulls held vast conventions on selected spans of sand and hovered over fish teeming in frothy waters. Seals bobbed in the waves. Ecoskeletons of tiny crabs littered the seaside as well as seaweed and kelp, opened mussels, and partially eaten octopus and fish remains. Any visit was lively with sounds and calls and wind.

Yesterday we drove with friends to see the shore, and I was reminded of a poem I wrote in 1983 about changes.

I walk along the sandy beach
Watching the break of the waves
Crashing them creeping upon the shore
Returning to watery graves.

You see, the seagulls were few and far between, and, in the course of an hour, we saw five pelicans pass overhead. There was no oily glaze to the waters, but the sand, once white, was gray on top and blackened and sticky underneath. People were net fishing in one cove, but the usual display of birds announcing the presence of the three inch long surf fish (or schmelts as I have called them) was absent.

The changes are upon us, and it doesn't take an oil spill to spoil what nature gave us. We've done it already by ships dumping their waste far out in the waters. We've done it by leaking civilization sewage off shore and downright funneling it into the ocean in huge pipes. Pesticides used on crops and lawns have found their way to the sea. Over fishing has done its part, along with society's attitude of taking more than it needs and wasting the rest.

The ocean's had enough, that's for sure, otherwise there would be more visible life forms still dipping and playing in the summer air. More seagulls, other birds, and animals inhabit dumps these days than they do the seashore.

Are we past the point of no return? I can only hope we're not, but I have a suspicion humankind has pushed itself close to the edge of its existence on this Earthy plane. The silent shore is but one sign of the future.

In the MIddle

With the advent of my mother's descent into dementia, I am slowed in my walk through life much as I was when I ambled with first one toddler, then the second one, hanging onto my finger as they learned to put one stubby foot in front of the other.

I'm looking forward to slowing way down again with this newest grandchild so we can investigate a tuft of grass (taste testing as we go at times), sow bugs (illusive balls of shiny armor when touched), caterpillars (squishy messes when pinched), and oh, so many other wonderful things on the ground.

Walking with my mom is an exercise now in the overview. We watch the wind blow through the firs, the changing pattern of the sun casting shadows, the contours of clouds scattering across the sky.

Where children seek to know everything in their paths, my mother seems to be looking at something beyond this spot in life and time. It's as if she's searching for the way to ascend into her place as a heavenly spirit.

I'm praying to reside somewhere in the middle, between the grounded view of the little one and the sky view of the old one. I'm hoping to be that point of balance in the middle.

About the Novels

Walking in balance is a foundational teaching for all indigenous peoples. Early nations’ writings, whether they be memories documented of elders from all over the world or the retelling of ancient tribal stories, show this basic tenet to be universal.

Disease is believed to be brought by disharmony, and this can be the disease in a human’s body or of their surroundings.

So, as I’ve listened and sat in ceremony for the last 30 years, this teaching has become a personal goal.

Seven years ago, “Balance Point” dropped off a shelf at a used book store into my hands. Now, who could ignore that kind of synchronistic event?

It’s an odd book, only because it seems like fiction. It isn’t. It’s a true life adventure that brings together research and conclusions regarding the devastation of our Earth and the current decline of our society. The best thing about the book is that Joseph Jenkins gives us the gloom and doom as well as offering simple solutions for balance in our lives. His presentation was and is an inspiration to me, one that urged me to tell my own kind of story about balance.

I’ve taken it a bit farther in The Sacred Bundle Series. The four books in this circular tale are not just about economic, political, and environmental balance. They are about personal balance and seeking balance in all relationships, whether it be with ourselves, our significant other or other people, with our spiritual path, or with our Earth.

If you get a chance to take a look at Jenkins’ work, I’d love to hear what you think about it. The web site for his work is www.jenkinspublishing.com. If you’d like to download a free couple pages of “The Marriage Bundle”, the first novel of my series, please visit my web site at www.standinginbalance.com.

You’ll also get put on the list of interested readers and have the opportunity to pre-order a copy for yourself at a discounted price.

We See What We Want To See

Years ago I read about an experiment in a science magazine with instructions to stand at the edge of a robust meadow and looked at the flowers. Sounded fun, so I did. First, I told myself to see the yellow blooms, and I marveled at how many were scattered throughout the green grasses. Then I suggested to myself to view the blue ones. My eyesight shifted and mostly blue blossoms emerged before me. I did that with the color purple then pink, red then white. Each time I suggested a color to myself, that's what I saw. It was difficult to encompass them all. Scanning as an overview did not give me the opportunity to see the details, but I did comprehend clusters here and there as well as the magnitude of the meadow.

I really can't remember the point of the article any more, but the experiment showed me something that has come in handy in my 'Choosing to Change' Seminar, as well as in my private practice as a Personal Growth Facilitator. Human beings have the tendency to focus attention on one thing at a time. This is not only true with flowers but with perceptions and attitudes. If I want to view a situation as fearful, I can. Everything about the people, the environment, even the weather, the color of the sky, the sounds around me, will be scary.

Movie directors do this on purpose to make us get the adrenaline rush they want us to have.

We also choose to do it to ourselves. We look for the elements in our lives that will keep us fearful or hesitant or angry. Pollyanas look on the bright side of life because they choose to. Pessimists look for the negatives.
Someone said, “The only thing in life one can change is one's attitude.” It goes farther than that. Once I get an idea about my life or someone else or something I want, I can feed that perception or decision, because I will only see what I want to see, what I program myself to see. Stepping out of any 'way' of thinking takes courage to want to change the vision, the attitude.

Just like standing at the edge of the flowered meadow, I can stand at the edge of my life and decide to see rosy opportunities rather than weedy walls or rutty sameness. It's up to each of us to decide what we want to see.

In the Night

My home is as familiar to me in the lonely night as it is in a busy day. In fact, I may know the toe-catching corners better and avoid them with more ease than in my hurry-up day mode.

I know my kitchen, bathroom, and living room more intimately because I wander there more frequently these nights at 2 or 3, 4 or 5am. On the Full Moon, when this transitioning spot light casts shadows across the linoleum floor, I can see every piece of furniture, undone project, and paper pile in three dimension. On New Moon nights, I have to use my sixth sense or allow my eyes to adjust to the subtle beams from the multitudes of stars hanging out in the sky.

Night time used to be a harrowing time to be awake because I worked an eight to ten hour job. Now that I'm retired and retreaded and work from home, I have an improved attitude about my wakefulness, while ticking clocks keep me company.

I would like to think of night as the other side of day, but in some areas of cities, there's more activity in the darkness. The desert has more animals roaming. The trees may seem to slumber but they can dance in a wind just as flirtatiously as in daylight.

My mind is just as active. I can work myself up into a good worry or have endless conversations which include variations of all the things I should have said or want to say. Prayer comes easier at night, for family, friends, the state of the Earth and governments. Most nights my mind is tugging my heart into constant prayer about wars, oil spills, our economy. Only after my pleas for peaceful co-existence, salvation for our water, and stabilization of financial institutions will I pray for my health, my home, my family, then comes the specific prayers.

Maybe I should pray for the end to greed first. It seems to be the bottom line of our most recent catastrophes. Then I can offer my most frequent prayer for those suffering from lack of food, water, clothes, and shelter, to be touched by the love of the Divine, however they name him or her, especially if they are awake in the darkness too and feeling alone.