Green leaves of a manzanita bush caught the twinkle of the sun’s last rays as it slid down the other side of the coastal mountains. I hurried to bask my face in the evening glow and say “Good by” to the bright sliver. I felt dizzy when I realized the sun wasn’t slipping away. I was standing on this Earth while it rotates away from the sun. My imagination increased the rotation to a state of careening and spinning. I fell backward at the thought.
When the mountains stood in silhouette against the fading blue sky, I turned away, closed my eyes, and saw a replica of the light and shadow, the design of the sunlight on top and the dark mountains below. When I opened my eyes, it reversed, just for a second. The top was shaded and the bottom was light, until my eyes adjusted, and I was able to see normally again.
Blinking and thinking, I remembered being told about this opposite experience. In the millisecond that I saw the shadow on top and the light on the bottom, I was glimpsing the spirit world. That place which is trying to keep the balance with the world in which we walk. I’ve been told that in that space, inhaling becomes coughing. Reaching is tossing backwards. Everything is a mirror opposite, even emotions and intentions. When we laugh, the spirits cry. When we anger, the spirits become calm. This world is constructed to balance our own.
If this is true, they have a challenging job. They have to make allowances and adjustments for our technologically spinning world. How do they do it? Walk so slowly they never get to where they want to go? While we speed toward our destinations? Wherever that is?
What do they do to counteract greed, anger, jealousy, fear? Do they give their belongings away, remain peaceful, nonjudgmental, and stay positive. Well, that does sound like what a spirit being might do.
But what about wars and disease? Could they negotiate instead of fight, share instead of steal? Perhaps they know how to stay in harmony with themselves so they can stay well.
If any of this is so, they must be working overtime to keep our world on track.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Oooops
My mask slipped. You know, the one that has ‘dependable’ and ‘calm’ and ‘controlled’ written on a placard, dangling from chains, underneath it?
I looked in the mirror of self-revelation and saw behind it another face, creased with rage. Eyes glared red, and, if steam could have come through my nose, it would have joined the spitting words spewing from my mouth like dragon’s fire. All because of a $19 tube of prescription-strength fluoride toothpaste that the skinny little hygienist, who I will name Carol, handed my 91 year old mother with the additional words, “Now just do like I told you, and I’ll see you in six months.”
Of course, the toothpaste was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. That stupid tube was part of the whole scene about a very young woman not taking the time to gauge my mother’s mental capacity. This whipper snapper, if she had bothered to assess my mother, would have known that Mom had no memory of what it was she was now supposed to do differently than she had been doing. Carol would have realized that these instructions needed to be given to a care giver who would reinforce the changes in tooth brushing.
The charge for the 45 minute fiasco (well, my mom at least got her teeth cleaned) was $212. I get more done for $55 at my local dental clinic. I was horrified, and the sight of the charge for the toothpaste took me over the edge. So far, in fact, that I don’t know what I said to the hygienist after I’d dragged her into a private office. It must have been a piece of my mind, because I can’t quite find it now. I know I was out of balance. I have no excuse.
Huffing and puffing, I helped my mom into the car and drove back to her nest in Assisted Living at the Retirement Home. When she was settled, with no memory of having been embarrassed by her daughter’s tirade, I excused myself into her wheelchair accessible bathroom.
The mask of rage I had worn washed away with silent tears of anguish at having the very capable woman, who was once my mother, replaced by this shy and endearing female of 91, who needed protection from inconsiderate and unknowing providers of health care. My mother is now my daughter, and I am being called upon to care for her with the same awareness as she cared for me. I can only hope I am up for the task, no matter what mask I am wearing.
I looked in the mirror of self-revelation and saw behind it another face, creased with rage. Eyes glared red, and, if steam could have come through my nose, it would have joined the spitting words spewing from my mouth like dragon’s fire. All because of a $19 tube of prescription-strength fluoride toothpaste that the skinny little hygienist, who I will name Carol, handed my 91 year old mother with the additional words, “Now just do like I told you, and I’ll see you in six months.”
Of course, the toothpaste was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. That stupid tube was part of the whole scene about a very young woman not taking the time to gauge my mother’s mental capacity. This whipper snapper, if she had bothered to assess my mother, would have known that Mom had no memory of what it was she was now supposed to do differently than she had been doing. Carol would have realized that these instructions needed to be given to a care giver who would reinforce the changes in tooth brushing.
The charge for the 45 minute fiasco (well, my mom at least got her teeth cleaned) was $212. I get more done for $55 at my local dental clinic. I was horrified, and the sight of the charge for the toothpaste took me over the edge. So far, in fact, that I don’t know what I said to the hygienist after I’d dragged her into a private office. It must have been a piece of my mind, because I can’t quite find it now. I know I was out of balance. I have no excuse.
Huffing and puffing, I helped my mom into the car and drove back to her nest in Assisted Living at the Retirement Home. When she was settled, with no memory of having been embarrassed by her daughter’s tirade, I excused myself into her wheelchair accessible bathroom.
The mask of rage I had worn washed away with silent tears of anguish at having the very capable woman, who was once my mother, replaced by this shy and endearing female of 91, who needed protection from inconsiderate and unknowing providers of health care. My mother is now my daughter, and I am being called upon to care for her with the same awareness as she cared for me. I can only hope I am up for the task, no matter what mask I am wearing.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
White Can Be No Color At All
In the darkness of a low-ceilinged hut, I sat with others, men and women, waiting for the inipi ceremony to begin. The man at the door whispered to himself in a language unfamiliar to my ears. The pit in the center of the circle of people was empty. Shivers ascended my back. With only a thin, cotton dress covering my nakedness, chills scattered across my white body. I was the only non-native in the lodge, and I felt that everyone knew it by the ambient light that reflected off my alabaster skin. I didn’t feel like I was glowing, but that I was marked as different than the norm.
It was 1980. My husband and children and I were visiting a multi-tribal encampment in Southern California headed by Grandfather Semu Huaute, a Chumash medicine man. My path into this lodge had been beside my husband who held the belief that we are all a part of nature, not above it. Our responsibility, he believed, was to live with the other beings on this earth, whether it be a plant, an animal, a tree, etc. We were not to rearrange the Earth to meet our needs but to come into balance with what was and is. I had come to believe as he did.
He wasn’t with me this night. I was alone in the sweat lodge, a slang term, to pray for the healing of my heart from the pain of rejection by my birth family. I wanted to learn how I could be more open to the needs of the Earth.
“I am Quilt Man,” the leader said. “I didn’t want to be here tonight. When you all first asked me to pour water for your prayers, I said no and went on down the road until the truck started sputtering.” He chuckled.
“Can’t do anything anymore without the Spirits interfering. So, I came back because they brought me back. Truck’s working fine now.” He grunted.
After a sigh, he continued, “Just got out of a white man’s jail. They said I was stealing. Chopping wood for a fire for my family didn’t seem like I was doing anything wrong. But the white policeman must’ve seen my red skin and decided I was somewhere I shouldn’t be.”
“Now, I’m here. I feel good ‘cause I’m free. Might not mean much to you but free means I can get a drink of water when I want. I can open the door to the frig and take a bite of everything in there. That’s being free.”
With the small arched door uncovered, firelight fluttered into the lodge. I saw his hand lift the dipper out of a bucket of water then splatter the clear liquid back into the plastic container. Water cascaded over itself, tumbling, sputtering, splashing. He did it over and over again.
“One of these days,” he said, “Not too far into the future . . . that sound’s gonna be the only kind of music you’re gonna want to hear.” He sighed deeply. “Times are gonna get rough. Water, food, shelter . . . are gonna be in short supply.” He shifted his weight from one hip to the other. “Don’t want to, but I’m gonna have to learn how to pray for the white people.”
His head seemed to turn in my direction. “Have to learn to pray with those whites who truly want to learn how to pray.” He sighed again. “Can’t say I’m gonna like it.”
My heart shrank inside my chest. No matter that I was holding my best intent to do this ceremony correctly or that my love for our Earth was pushing me to put myself in this demeaning position. I was being judged because I had white skin. Just as Quilt Man had been accused of stealing because his skin was red.
“Let’s do this, then,” he interrupted my thoughts before I could cop an attitude and crawl haughtily out of the lodge.
The stones were brought in one by one from the outside fire and deposited in a clockwise pattern in the pit. Sage and cedar smoke lifted off the red-hot lava rocks. My skin gasped at the searing heat. I wondered if I would survive and begged in my mind that I not embarrass myself or my race.
The door closed quickly. Glowing stones threw shadows around us until Quilt Man drenched them with Mini Wakan, the sacred water. Steam filled the empty spaces around me and the others.
In the darkness, I heard the water and the stones talking, sizzling, sputtering, until they too became dark. While he prayed and while we sang, I became more than my body-self. I entered the moist air, let it soak between my cells, until I wasn’t white anymore. I had no color, neither did the others. We were, in fact, for that little time of sharing, all one.
It was 1980. My husband and children and I were visiting a multi-tribal encampment in Southern California headed by Grandfather Semu Huaute, a Chumash medicine man. My path into this lodge had been beside my husband who held the belief that we are all a part of nature, not above it. Our responsibility, he believed, was to live with the other beings on this earth, whether it be a plant, an animal, a tree, etc. We were not to rearrange the Earth to meet our needs but to come into balance with what was and is. I had come to believe as he did.
He wasn’t with me this night. I was alone in the sweat lodge, a slang term, to pray for the healing of my heart from the pain of rejection by my birth family. I wanted to learn how I could be more open to the needs of the Earth.
“I am Quilt Man,” the leader said. “I didn’t want to be here tonight. When you all first asked me to pour water for your prayers, I said no and went on down the road until the truck started sputtering.” He chuckled.
“Can’t do anything anymore without the Spirits interfering. So, I came back because they brought me back. Truck’s working fine now.” He grunted.
After a sigh, he continued, “Just got out of a white man’s jail. They said I was stealing. Chopping wood for a fire for my family didn’t seem like I was doing anything wrong. But the white policeman must’ve seen my red skin and decided I was somewhere I shouldn’t be.”
“Now, I’m here. I feel good ‘cause I’m free. Might not mean much to you but free means I can get a drink of water when I want. I can open the door to the frig and take a bite of everything in there. That’s being free.”
With the small arched door uncovered, firelight fluttered into the lodge. I saw his hand lift the dipper out of a bucket of water then splatter the clear liquid back into the plastic container. Water cascaded over itself, tumbling, sputtering, splashing. He did it over and over again.
“One of these days,” he said, “Not too far into the future . . . that sound’s gonna be the only kind of music you’re gonna want to hear.” He sighed deeply. “Times are gonna get rough. Water, food, shelter . . . are gonna be in short supply.” He shifted his weight from one hip to the other. “Don’t want to, but I’m gonna have to learn how to pray for the white people.”
His head seemed to turn in my direction. “Have to learn to pray with those whites who truly want to learn how to pray.” He sighed again. “Can’t say I’m gonna like it.”
My heart shrank inside my chest. No matter that I was holding my best intent to do this ceremony correctly or that my love for our Earth was pushing me to put myself in this demeaning position. I was being judged because I had white skin. Just as Quilt Man had been accused of stealing because his skin was red.
“Let’s do this, then,” he interrupted my thoughts before I could cop an attitude and crawl haughtily out of the lodge.
The stones were brought in one by one from the outside fire and deposited in a clockwise pattern in the pit. Sage and cedar smoke lifted off the red-hot lava rocks. My skin gasped at the searing heat. I wondered if I would survive and begged in my mind that I not embarrass myself or my race.
The door closed quickly. Glowing stones threw shadows around us until Quilt Man drenched them with Mini Wakan, the sacred water. Steam filled the empty spaces around me and the others.
In the darkness, I heard the water and the stones talking, sizzling, sputtering, until they too became dark. While he prayed and while we sang, I became more than my body-self. I entered the moist air, let it soak between my cells, until I wasn’t white anymore. I had no color, neither did the others. We were, in fact, for that little time of sharing, all one.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Out of My Hands
My third novel in the Sacred Bundle Series is about women and called, “The Women’s Bundle.” I’ve had a bit of writer’s block about the writing for the past eight months. I’ve told myself it’s because of experiencing so much loss and trauma in our family during that time.
Grief has a way of getting in the way of many activities. I suppose what I could have done was write about it all, and I did take pen in hand and put some thoughts on paper. But scribbling black lines on white pages about the passing of my Reiki Master, our oldest daughter, or about my mother’s dementia, my dying agent, my oldest friend moving away, and my dearest friend battling breast cancer involved more words than I could muster.
I’ve been reading instead. I call it doing research. I’ve got books on survival skills and the history of wood stoves. The writing of women who are currently living as modern day pioneers is insightful as is “Chasing the Dragon” about women with breast cancer. I’ve devoured autobiographies and fiction on life in gold and coal mining towns and reviewed history books about this same era in America. I have pamphlets on dental implants and symptoms of infections.
I think I’ve got enough information now. I’ve developed the story arch and planned the chapters. I’m organized and ready.
The biggest surprise, however, is that what I thought was to be the first chapter, just plain isn’t. How I thought I was going to move through this novel, might be a good plan, but it’s not what’s going to happen. This novel is plainly out of my hands. Every time I logically start the scenes flowing, according to the outline, nothing works right. Pictures, instead, of an entirely different set of scenes are playing like a movie in my brain.
My plans were to write this third book in the same vein as the first two. This one’s so different that I’m going to have to hang on to my keyboard because these women I’ve formulated have minds of their own. I could be in for a wild ride.
Grief has a way of getting in the way of many activities. I suppose what I could have done was write about it all, and I did take pen in hand and put some thoughts on paper. But scribbling black lines on white pages about the passing of my Reiki Master, our oldest daughter, or about my mother’s dementia, my dying agent, my oldest friend moving away, and my dearest friend battling breast cancer involved more words than I could muster.
I’ve been reading instead. I call it doing research. I’ve got books on survival skills and the history of wood stoves. The writing of women who are currently living as modern day pioneers is insightful as is “Chasing the Dragon” about women with breast cancer. I’ve devoured autobiographies and fiction on life in gold and coal mining towns and reviewed history books about this same era in America. I have pamphlets on dental implants and symptoms of infections.
I think I’ve got enough information now. I’ve developed the story arch and planned the chapters. I’m organized and ready.
The biggest surprise, however, is that what I thought was to be the first chapter, just plain isn’t. How I thought I was going to move through this novel, might be a good plan, but it’s not what’s going to happen. This novel is plainly out of my hands. Every time I logically start the scenes flowing, according to the outline, nothing works right. Pictures, instead, of an entirely different set of scenes are playing like a movie in my brain.
My plans were to write this third book in the same vein as the first two. This one’s so different that I’m going to have to hang on to my keyboard because these women I’ve formulated have minds of their own. I could be in for a wild ride.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Impact of Reading
Whatever I’m reading has an unmistakable impact on my thinking and feelings while I’m reading it. If it’s a romance, all I can say is that it’s a good thing I’m married. If it’s a gothic mystery, I find myself jumping at every moving shadow or restless after the sun goes down, because everyone knows ‘something’ always happens after dark. A thriller has my heart thumping whenever I wake in the middle of the night. I had to stop reading murder mysteries while we traveled in our RV because I was sure someone was watching us and planning an attack. My husband couldn’t live with the paranoia.
Nonfiction affects me too. Whether it’s a controversial diatribe on politics, feminism, medical care, or genocide, or a simple autobiography, historical account, etc., I’m on a soap box for months afterwards.
If it’s a self-help book, I become a radical about working on the particular issue of its focus. I work myself silly trying to uncover my hidden agendas, personal archetypes, or my shadow self. I can wring myself inside out by the time I’m done.
In some ways, this could all be a good thing. I’m forever entertained by simply reading and I feel that working on myself is a win-win situation. The moments I get into trouble are (1) when I think I need to describe or read the details of a scene to my husband, (2) I think everyone will be interested in certain quotes which I never quite repeat exactly so they mean less than nothing, (3) I try to help someone through a process I’ve read about but they really aren’t interested in changing a behavior, or (4) I get preachy.
I realized this last problem when I overheard my daughter warn her brother, “Look out! Mom’s read another book!”
The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn is that whatever I read and however it landed in my hands are the exact, synchronistic events which needed to happen to me at that time.
The works of fiction are for my entertainment. The nonfiction is for my education. The ‘how-to’ books are for my self-development. This attitude has taken a lot of pressure off family and friends.
Nonfiction affects me too. Whether it’s a controversial diatribe on politics, feminism, medical care, or genocide, or a simple autobiography, historical account, etc., I’m on a soap box for months afterwards.
If it’s a self-help book, I become a radical about working on the particular issue of its focus. I work myself silly trying to uncover my hidden agendas, personal archetypes, or my shadow self. I can wring myself inside out by the time I’m done.
In some ways, this could all be a good thing. I’m forever entertained by simply reading and I feel that working on myself is a win-win situation. The moments I get into trouble are (1) when I think I need to describe or read the details of a scene to my husband, (2) I think everyone will be interested in certain quotes which I never quite repeat exactly so they mean less than nothing, (3) I try to help someone through a process I’ve read about but they really aren’t interested in changing a behavior, or (4) I get preachy.
I realized this last problem when I overheard my daughter warn her brother, “Look out! Mom’s read another book!”
The hardest lesson I’ve had to learn is that whatever I read and however it landed in my hands are the exact, synchronistic events which needed to happen to me at that time.
The works of fiction are for my entertainment. The nonfiction is for my education. The ‘how-to’ books are for my self-development. This attitude has taken a lot of pressure off family and friends.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Getting into the Spirit of Things
Washing clothes might not seem like a spiritual experience. I never thought of it as such either, until I had what can be described as an epiphany one day.
My husband and I had altered the course of our lives quite drastically in 1981 by selling most of our household goods, a three-bedroom, ranch-style house in the San Francisco Bay Area, and moving into an 8X40 25-year old trailer in Northern California. Our challenges included no running water, no electricity, a propane cooking stove with an oven that didn’t work, and a wood burning stove for heat. We had a thunder bucket for night use and a shovel with a roll of toilet paper on it for the daytime. Our son, in his red wagon, hauled seven gallons of spring water up a steep incline every morning. That's how he got his name, "Running Water".
We had wanted to get out of the rat race of city living. We’d hoped to experience our lives closer to Mother Earth and learn to integrate the philosophies of Native American culture and spirituality. I hadn’t realized what we’d done to ourselves until I approached the washing.
Steven had tugged an extra allotment of water up the hill. My husband had bought me a scrub board and two wash tubs. I’d purchased Fels Naphtha soap and a finger nail scrub brush.
Sitting on a milk crate after boiling half the water, I started to rub and slosh the white clothes across the glass ripples of the scrub board. My back screamed after a half hour. My arm muscles whimpered. I started to sob, “What have we done to ourselves? What have I done to me? My career? My independence?”
Self-pity turned to rage. My hands wrung the wash water out of the clothes with such force, they felt dry. Then I cried some more as I rinsed them.
Midway through the all day process, I poured the filthy wash water onto struggling tomato plants. The rinse water then became the wash water. Mentally thanking Steven for the extra haul, I squinted at the clear, crisp glints of reflected light as I poured the last gallons into the tub. It was like seeing stars in the daytime.
Resting my shoulders, I thanked the sun for keeping my muscles warm and easing their stress. Scrubbing away one stubborn T-shirt stain, I thanked the soap and the brush for helping.
A yellow finch flew so close overhead, I had to duck. Then, I opened my ears to the sounds around me and realized I was sitting in a very noisy clearing. I differentiated five kinds of birds and marveled at a vulture who swooped across the sky. The natural perfume of blossoms and needles intensified as the sun peaked in the sky.
Hanging clothes on the make-shift line that my husband had dubbed my solar dryer, I saw shirts and underwear as white as when I’d purchased them. Colored clothes were vibrant.
Instead of worrying if we were going to have the money to buy more when the kids outgrew these, I offered thanks that we had any at all. My judgment of the filthy water turned into an understanding of how much Earth we’d gathered in our clothes. I chuckled at that circular thought as I returned the last of it to the base of the zucchini plant.
That was almost 30 years ago. I don’t wash clothes by hand anymore, thank God. I still use a solar dryer in summer and give thanks for the abundance of a gas generator, electric washer, and all the clothes I hang on the line.
My husband and I had altered the course of our lives quite drastically in 1981 by selling most of our household goods, a three-bedroom, ranch-style house in the San Francisco Bay Area, and moving into an 8X40 25-year old trailer in Northern California. Our challenges included no running water, no electricity, a propane cooking stove with an oven that didn’t work, and a wood burning stove for heat. We had a thunder bucket for night use and a shovel with a roll of toilet paper on it for the daytime. Our son, in his red wagon, hauled seven gallons of spring water up a steep incline every morning. That's how he got his name, "Running Water".
We had wanted to get out of the rat race of city living. We’d hoped to experience our lives closer to Mother Earth and learn to integrate the philosophies of Native American culture and spirituality. I hadn’t realized what we’d done to ourselves until I approached the washing.
Steven had tugged an extra allotment of water up the hill. My husband had bought me a scrub board and two wash tubs. I’d purchased Fels Naphtha soap and a finger nail scrub brush.
Sitting on a milk crate after boiling half the water, I started to rub and slosh the white clothes across the glass ripples of the scrub board. My back screamed after a half hour. My arm muscles whimpered. I started to sob, “What have we done to ourselves? What have I done to me? My career? My independence?”
Self-pity turned to rage. My hands wrung the wash water out of the clothes with such force, they felt dry. Then I cried some more as I rinsed them.
Midway through the all day process, I poured the filthy wash water onto struggling tomato plants. The rinse water then became the wash water. Mentally thanking Steven for the extra haul, I squinted at the clear, crisp glints of reflected light as I poured the last gallons into the tub. It was like seeing stars in the daytime.
Resting my shoulders, I thanked the sun for keeping my muscles warm and easing their stress. Scrubbing away one stubborn T-shirt stain, I thanked the soap and the brush for helping.
A yellow finch flew so close overhead, I had to duck. Then, I opened my ears to the sounds around me and realized I was sitting in a very noisy clearing. I differentiated five kinds of birds and marveled at a vulture who swooped across the sky. The natural perfume of blossoms and needles intensified as the sun peaked in the sky.
Hanging clothes on the make-shift line that my husband had dubbed my solar dryer, I saw shirts and underwear as white as when I’d purchased them. Colored clothes were vibrant.
Instead of worrying if we were going to have the money to buy more when the kids outgrew these, I offered thanks that we had any at all. My judgment of the filthy water turned into an understanding of how much Earth we’d gathered in our clothes. I chuckled at that circular thought as I returned the last of it to the base of the zucchini plant.
That was almost 30 years ago. I don’t wash clothes by hand anymore, thank God. I still use a solar dryer in summer and give thanks for the abundance of a gas generator, electric washer, and all the clothes I hang on the line.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Morning Rituals
I’m a sleepyhead. I’ve been one since I was born. (My parents often said they were grateful for this habit, as they were ones too. Guess that makes it genetic.)
I love coming awake slowly, stretching and curling in the bed, tensing and relaxing muscles. Gradually becoming aware of how the sheets and blankets feel against my skin, how I’m wrapped around my pillows and my husband. All this is done before I open my eyes so I can test my sense of hearing next, then my sense of smell. The last things I do is open my eyes, especially if I’m trying to hold on to the remnants of a dream. Before my lids lift, I let myself float, allowing whatever loose thread there is to draw me into the fabric of my subconscious life.
When I can hold the full pattern, I scan for its meaning or application in my ‘awake’ life. I know something is there for me to see and ponder.
Then I’m ready to open my eyes.
Not all mornings, of course, are like this. I’m just describing my druthers.
My second best thing to do is wake up before the sun. There’s something about waking up in the hush of the morning, when the birds aren’t awake and no breeze disturbs the oaks and madrones and firs. This is the time when I think even Mother Earth is holding her breath.
Being awake and alone in this stillness creates for me a bond with all women, those from all cultures and eras, who made their way into the day before their families. I can envision us ripening the atmosphere of consciousness with prayer, perhaps a whiff of incense or sage.
This is the kind of morning where I want to wear a shawl across my shoulders as I walk outside. Just as I do on sleepyhead mornings, I keep my eyes closed as I stand in the early freshness. I use my senses to smell the air, listen for sounds, feel for a breeze, then open my eyes to an eastern sky beginning to brighten on the horizon. I wait for the shadows to explode across the landscape.
However I choose to begin my day, I remind myself, “It’s a new day” and try to hold that thought in my heart.
I love coming awake slowly, stretching and curling in the bed, tensing and relaxing muscles. Gradually becoming aware of how the sheets and blankets feel against my skin, how I’m wrapped around my pillows and my husband. All this is done before I open my eyes so I can test my sense of hearing next, then my sense of smell. The last things I do is open my eyes, especially if I’m trying to hold on to the remnants of a dream. Before my lids lift, I let myself float, allowing whatever loose thread there is to draw me into the fabric of my subconscious life.
When I can hold the full pattern, I scan for its meaning or application in my ‘awake’ life. I know something is there for me to see and ponder.
Then I’m ready to open my eyes.
Not all mornings, of course, are like this. I’m just describing my druthers.
My second best thing to do is wake up before the sun. There’s something about waking up in the hush of the morning, when the birds aren’t awake and no breeze disturbs the oaks and madrones and firs. This is the time when I think even Mother Earth is holding her breath.
Being awake and alone in this stillness creates for me a bond with all women, those from all cultures and eras, who made their way into the day before their families. I can envision us ripening the atmosphere of consciousness with prayer, perhaps a whiff of incense or sage.
This is the kind of morning where I want to wear a shawl across my shoulders as I walk outside. Just as I do on sleepyhead mornings, I keep my eyes closed as I stand in the early freshness. I use my senses to smell the air, listen for sounds, feel for a breeze, then open my eyes to an eastern sky beginning to brighten on the horizon. I wait for the shadows to explode across the landscape.
However I choose to begin my day, I remind myself, “It’s a new day” and try to hold that thought in my heart.
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