Heartbreak or Heart Brakes?

Before continuing with gardening stories(which has produced several green salads and just last night the first 'mess' as my grandparents would have said of green beans), I had to write about Bogeysattva or Whopper Jr. as he was called when we met a year ago.

If you've kept up with my Musings or know me personally, you'll know I wrote of Mystery's coming into my life just prior to Valentines a year ago.

Has happens with children so often, I've already noticed how Bogey has fewer second kitten photos than Mystery did as first cat. I could not pass up Bogey's first year anniversay in my life without a story. I write this for my own good. Story reminds me of what's important as well as how life's mystery is ever present and desiring my engagement if only I'm paying attention. Mine and Bogey's courtship was a lengthy one orginating prior to our having ever met.

As Templeton, my cat of eighteen years was making her exit in January 2008, I spontaneously called Jean Houston early one Sunday morning. Having heard her speak of her dog Zeus' love of cherrio oats in the morning, I wanted to share with Jean how important these rituals are, not just for the animals but for ourselves. (Templeton's no longer being at the bedroom door awaiting my morning attention nor my not cradling her as I was accustomed as I walked downstairs were my first realization of important these rituals were to me. And it felt too late.)

I got Jean's answering system, Jean herself, very early on the Oregon coast and began to share with her my ephiphanies. Jean ever the teacher very quickly explained that if I wanted to see Templeton again I should begin to talk with her about the fact that she was going to rehab in the Great Beyond where she would get a new body and fourth paw since she only had three in this lifetime. Jean conveyed a sense of urgecy as she said I should only do this if I wanted Templeton to eventually return. I began the conversation immediately.

Good-bye became preparation for hello as my sorrow shifted to anticipation of getting to meet Templeton in her next lifetime in this lifetime. I felt like a mid-wife of sorts explaining to Templeton that she was going to a place of healing after which we would meet again preferably sometime after my Memorial Day birthday in a few months. I asked that she give me a sign of sorts so I would know 'it' was her and not end up adopting the wrong kitten. Templeton died in my arms a few days later. Just as I told her during her passing, mourning doves arrived within minutes of our burying her and commemorating her importance in our lives. These were not typical mourning doves doing their usual pecking around for fallen seed beneath the feeders. Instead they came and sat surrounding Templeton's grave while one stood on the rock wall at the back of the lawn sentinel like as the others sat in silence for at least half an hour.

Two weeks passed and Mystery arrived totally unexpectedly. I never intended to have a cat prior to Templeton's return, yet thanks to the lessons in Templeton's passing, I opened my heart to Mystery and the mystery - or so I thought.

May's eventual arrival prompted a nervousness in me. What if I missed Templeton? My anxiety increased everytime I looked in the newspaper in the animal adoption section. I wanted to strike a balance between being awake and aware and not being negligent or trying to orchestrate the situation. This was going to be tough. There were so many kittens available. I realized I did not specify where our meeting would take place. Often on my birthday I could be found in Oregon. I quietly feared Templeton could be found there wandering the rocky beaches of Bandon seeking me while I was in Tennessee scouring the newspapers, going to kitten adoption centers and the city's shelter.

I'll never forget stopping by the Cat Shoppe in early May to buy Mystery's food only to discover Spring is when the shop is filled with kittens needing homes. This day I walked in to find Plexy, Morty and a myriad of their pals running about the story. Plexy, a tiny ball of gray fur, had been heard in the wall at a local government complex (thus the name Plexy) and rescued just days prior. This could be Templeton's mode of return since she had years prior gotten trapped into our floor joists overnight during a renovation project and I heard her meowing in the floor which ultimately led to our finding her. I watched and wondered. Plexy played with a pal that had been found under the hood of a parked car when a customer had taken her car into her mechanic for work. I began to make daily excursions to the shop to watch Plexy and her playmates as well as hold feral kittens which weren't able to roam freely just yet. None of these kittens felt like the right one nor gave me 'the sign.'

One day I panicked fearing Templeton might be awaiting me across town at another shelter while I'm holding cats in the wrong zip code. I drove to an adjacent town to hold kittens; I looked on-line at kittens, but none felt like Templeton. One morning I opened the paper to find a photo of a kitten that I just knew was her. I raced to the shelter to be there at opening only to find myself being cut off by a woman in a car repeatedly who I determined was heading to the shelter to get Templeton herself. Alas I arrived adn the woman did not. I asked for the kitten in the paper only to learn the photo was of a kitten adopted a week prior.

Then there was the day I heard from a neighbor that a liter of kittens had been born on Kirkwood nearby and all had been adopted out quickly. What if Templeton had been born on a street related to my name and I was so busy trying to find her that I missed her right under my nose? What if fear and not trusting the process had kept me ultimately from Templeton's return?

In the beginning of my search, people would inquire as to what type kitten I was seeking. It took time for me to eventually confide that I was looking for my deceased cat whom I had asked to return. The first time I said this the listener said, "I've done the same thing .... and I finally found my cat." After this, everytime I shared what I was really doing, I received a beautiful story of how the listener had done likewise. The only time this had not happened was when someone told me they had sought their returned dog.

My birthday arrived and Templeton had not. Of course I specified she show up after my birthday but I had grown weary and feared I would not find her. I was actually playing golf on a Thursday after my birthday when I thought, 'Templeton should be here by now.' The next day, a Friday, I went to the Cat Shoppe one more time to no avail.

That evening though, a panic arose in me. I knew I had to find Templeton's first photos. There she was not looking at all like her adult self but instead looking like a little gray tabby which I had forgotten.

The next morning I awoke still panicked. I could not go out of town hiking as planned until I returned to the Cat Shoppe. I couldn't explain it. I knew from the evening prior that there were no tabby's at the shop but I had to return. Jerry the most patient man on earth just encouraged me and said take your time.

I entered the Cat Shoppe that Saturday morning just past ten, to find Whopper Jr. the tiniest gray tabby with his butt and back to me sitting on the entry rug. He took my breath as I exclaimed, "Where did he come from?" A customer found him at Burger King the night prior and left him at the cat shoppe door overnight. Chris, the store owner, found him still sitting at the door that morning. Whopper had his sights on new friends and not me. Everytime I tried to talk to him, he walked away. His only interest was play. I scooped him up and asked if he was Templeton to which he refused to look at me or give me the sign. I held my breathe as a little girl walked in and played with him. I feared I was witnessing Templeton's being snatched from me without having an opportunity to be certain it was her. I was so relieved to learn the girl's father had cat allergies so she couldn't have a cat at home. Her grandmother brought her to the shop to get her cat fix.

This was the beginning of our month together during which time I would race off to the Cat Shoppe as soon as my work day ended and squeeze in time to hold Whopper Jr. or be ignored by him as was the case. I would discretely walk around with him trying to make him look at me or lie on the floor with him on my chest hoping he would give me the sign.

What was the sign? I had asked Templeton upon her return to suck on my neck like she had done as a kitten the life prior. (I thought this was the dearest thing when I had first gotten her until the vet explained if I didn't wean her I would have a full grown cat leaving marks on my neck for all my friends to see.)

Whopper refused to even look at me let alone get near my neck. He just wanted down to play with friends. He was like the kid in class who made friends with everyone. He never met a stranger except for me. I continued to visit but tried to remain open to other adoption options as new kittens arrived. Yet I always inquired as to Whopper Jrs. status when I spoke with Chris at the shop.

I was a month out from my birthday when I realized I had my sign. The one thing that Templeton taught me in her passing was to always pay attention to and care for my heart. She was speaking to me this time entering my life just as she spoke upon departing months prior. She was using the heart's language. I had gotten my sign a month prior when I followed my intuition and went to the shop suddenly that Saturday to find Whopper Jr. awaiting me. My heart had not put on the brakes, I had. I had my sign. Yet not trusting my heart, it was on the verge of giving up on me.

I will never forget the afternoon I backed from my driveway enroute to get Whopper now known as Bogey. Ever since I was a child, I've wanted to make the world a happier more peaceful place. This particular day, as I started the car, I thought, 'The world may be filled with all kinds of distress at this very moment, but I don't care because I am following my heart and that's all that matters in this moment.'

I drove to the Cat Shoppe feeling free and filled with joy because I was following my heart, saving myself and thus adding to the joy in the world.

In case you've forgotten, how could anyone resist the cute little face peering over the arm of the chair (Templeton's favorite place). Yet resist I did. I resisted getting attached and the ultimate heartbreak that's part of being involved with living. I've known so much sorrow from silent heartbreak. Come to think of it much of the sorrow has come from heart brakes, not saying things I wished I had said to those I loved or love out of fear. Maybe that's one of the biggest mysteries....what if the world is healed or 'saved' through heartbreak and not heart brakes !!!

This is what I love about story. I didn't realize any of the above until writing it this very moment. This is what I love about digital cameras. I can share two more photos ensuring a 2nd cat gets equal time to the 1st. I'd be remiss to not add: Read about Mystery's entry into our household in the Feb. 09 post titled "Jumping Jacks of Joy" and -ponder the healing of the world through heartbreak! Love, Dawn

Bogey climbs his first Christmas tree only to discover it's artificial. 'What kind of tribe have I been born into?' he quietly wonders.

Being one with the sofa....or how relaxation can save the world.

Grow-Notes from the Octogardener

Like a seed in soil, I’ve been in the dark this past month, not from intentionally conserving electricity but a darkness born of the heavens and hormones. The one-two punch of Pluto and peri-menopause affected and afflicted my body, mind and spirit. As I lay on the sofa recently on a ‘work’ day, I thought about how we don’t ‘be’ very well in our culture. Our language and interactions are all about doing. You meet someone new and it’s “What do you do?” You see a friend and hear or ask, “What did you do today? What are you doing this weekend?” Vacations are book ended with queries like “What are you doing on vacation?” and “What did you do on vacation?” For someone like me who wants to be sure I don’t miss my life, my anxiety increases ten fold during a dark time as I think, “What am I doing? I’ve done nothing with my life.”

We certainly don’t do darkness very well. We’re too busy to sit around and just ‘be’ in it. This for me at least means I’m not ‘accomplishing’ things, tackling my ‘to do’ list or determining what I'm doing here on Planet Earth. But darkness isn’t to be done. It can only be experienced and honestly I’m more afraid of it than I realized. I have been burned out, worn out and exhausted in the past but never quite in the place I found myself the day I befriended my sofa. I offered myself very little of the hospitality for which we Southerners are known. I was not good company even with myself. I was further immobilized by an assortment of anti-being messages that invited themselves over, a support group of sorts. Were they ensuring their seat at my internal round table out of fear that Pluto was about to extinguish them?

I was in a place that was beyond words and for a Gemini who thrives on communication within and without, this was freaky. (I was so depleted that the week prior I had lost all the files on which I keep my writings and didn’t really care. I found myself relieved.) Being wordless, I reached for others’ words among a stack of books recently retrieved from the library. I scanned two Joan of Arc books. Joan wasn’t short on stamina. I read inside the cover of Donald Spoto’s book on Joan, “Anyone who follows their heart has the power to change history” as well as lines from the play “St. Joan” where Joan says the voices she hears come from her imagination which is how all of God’s messages come to us.

This only served to intensify the darkness as I feared my stone heart would never feel again nor would my imagination be resurrected. I set “Joan” aside and opened “Longing for Darkness” by China Galland which I didn’t realize until much later was oh so appropriate for the pit in which I found myself. An inner part knew I was reading exactly what I needed to be reading as I called the words but couldn’t assimilate the message. I was still in the dark. I ate chicken pot pie because it was found under "comfort food' on a to-go menu I had from a nearby restaurant, but the puff pastry filled with peas, carrots and potatoes brought no comfort. I went to bed.

The next morning I put into semi-coherent ramblings everything that had been rolling around in my head to which my dear listener said: “Of course you feel bad, you’re getting pummeled right now on just about all levels.” In that moment, like the old hymn goes: I saw the light. Being heard combined with a bit of progesterone and realizing I could work with the planets rather than struggle against them, created just the shift that I needed to sit in the darkness while discovering light. I didn’t suddenly jump into doing mode, if anything I went even more slowly because I wanted to harvest everything I could from this place. This is when I noticed my lettuce seed had sprouted.

From the dark soil of the little peat cups, my lettuce sprouted as had my spinach! Although I grew up with paternal grandparents who gardened, I only dug potatoes which was like finding treasure when visiting them. Now I marvel at the little green wisps that poke from the soil and grow a bit daily. I now recall that over month ago I had awakened in the night hearing: Teach people to feed themselves. I was bewildered. Did this mean teach people to grow their own food or more metaphorically speaking, feed their souls creatively? I forgot the message and planted my few seeds without remembering.

I felt such joy sitting in the presence of little sprigs of green. I took a multitude of photos that I flip through in my digital camera at stop lights or the bank drive thru. I’m the one smiling at her lettuce and spinach which is a far cry from the drive thru breast exams I covertly did upon turning forty some years ago while at stoplights.

Like parents who proudly show photos of their children, I’ll show you my pride and joy,
my little ones, my crops. The media covers the octomom. I’m the octogardener on my
way to having more seed packs than my little raised beds can handle.

Why have I written the world's longest blog about seeds sprouting? Because

I want to spread the joy of miracles. It is miraculous that a meal can come from
a speck, something the size of a flea. (In case you've never actually seen a seed,
of course, I've a photo of one. That's the seed on the left juxtaposed to an egg sized shaker.)

These seeds resurrected my heart and imagination. Now after seeing plants at the local co-op, I, the recovered do-er of course feel far behind. Store bought plants are at least six inches tall and mine are just getting started. I feel so behind. I should have been doing this a month ago. I rush to the store to buy soil and fall for miracle grow rather than good old fashion manure and compost. I’ve decided I will return that but for now, I sit with my lettuce and spinach and continue to take photos and BE.

As I listen I’m offered profound seeds of wisdom or as I’ve heard Jean Houston say, I see the all in the small. Each tiny seed embodies the male and female. Female energy is receptive. The seed is receptive to the water, nutrients and warmth of the sun. Male energy is active. The seed when the time is right goes into action, breaking out of its little shell and reaching for the light. The seed holds the tension of two opposing ways or energies, being and doing. Then the plant sinks its roots into the dark earth while reaching for the light above. This is how I am to be and do, keeping both in balance so I can grow.

I notice that what emerged as one leaf initially has now become two. Contrary to the marriage vow I’ve heard couples take where two become one, my lettuce is the opposite. One has become two. If my head of lettuce is normal, soon two will become three, three will become four and four five etc.

Then I recall a quote from the Talmud, I believe, that reads: Every blade of grass has an angel over it that whispers: Grow. I bend over my little plants and whisper, “Grow.” We are earth angels to the plants and animals and I have angels (planets like Pluto and people like my listener) that desire my growth. That evening I plug in the tv to hear President Obama’s news conference. His responses related to the economy are peppered with the word: Growth. There it is again. I ponder: How do I want to grow?

I go lie in the yard, on the earth which if you really think about it is internally very dark yet filled with possibility. I've pen and paper nearby in case the seed of an idea sweeps through looking for fertile ground. For now I could not be more content, just me and the seeds, being and doing in a hopefully more balanced choreography which is just what I'm to be doing in my life. For me, this is Good News.

- From Dawn The Good News Muse

PS – The day I complete this I read an email that I’ve received from many sources regarding a bill in the house of representative. Not surprisingly, HR 875 is supported by Monsanto, corporate seed and feed, as I call it and ultimately could be devastating to organic farming. I immediately went to house.gov, typed in my zip code and got the email and phone number for my congressman in Washington whom I contacted immediately and said, Do not support HR 875. No wonder Agribusinesses are trying to pass HR 875. The seed holds the secret of creativity not to mention learning how to feed ourselves.

Trash & Treasure - Messages in the Mess

Lately on morning walks, I often wish I had remembered to bring along a bag in which to collect trash. Earlier this week while walking and wishing, I heard a honk from behind me. On cue, Jerry stopped and yes, had a bag, one of our many cloth ones, in his truck.

Within a half mile of foraging, this modern day hunter/gatherer's bounty included a filled bag as well as a portion of a car fender which I carried in my free hand. This probably didn't qualify as legitimate foraging. Foraging implies hunting. I took no more than three steps from the sidewalk to pick up each item collected.
The most unusual of my finds were the smallest and largest objects, a tiny pink pacifer lost possibly by a strolled child and a car fender, black and plastic with a partial frame still attached on the backside.

Walking along, I studied the fender. Suddenly I realized its shape was that of a head, the metal frame being the open jaws of an animal. Curious as to what else I might discover, upon returning home I laid out my collection to find a telling assortment of things, a collage to our petroleum-based culture.

As the photo shows, I had an assortment of 'pacifiers,' a myriad of food related ways in which we potentially pacify oursevles from candy, beer and soft drinks to the more health conscious water and nuts. I'm not anit-eating or any of the above food stuffs, but it only took a moment to realize my mess held many messages.

Seen symbolically the jaw-like frame represents the dying industrial beast we've collectively created consuming without consciousness as to what we put into our bodies as well as into the Earth and the atmosphere.

Of course, most everything I collected was packaging. Only a short time ago, foods were packaged in their skins and peels which were often eaten for nutritional value. (Now we buy vegetable washes to remove chemicals from the peels and place them in garbage disposals or garbage cans.) From magazine covers and runway models to boxes and containers, we've become a packaging oriented society. Outer's been valued more than inner.

The products my imaginal animal consumes makes me also consider what we now produce and how we value production. We formerly valued the hand-made. We needed it for survival whether it was crafted, quilted, grown, sewn or thrown (as in pottery). More recently we've valued the technical, which allows me to write and send this story around the globe in seconds. The hand-made has morphed into the hand-held ie. the cell phone, computer and gaming devices through which we text, twitter, facebook with friends in this dimension and face-off with x-box creatures from other dimensions.

The value of products is determined by how much a share of stock increases which is connected to cheap labor (from those worlds away) and materials (from earth) rather than how inter-connected something is to the web of life or its true nutritional value if it's a food product in the case of my collage.

As I thought the messages in the mess were exhausted, I realized the deeper message. What if the imaginal beast is spitting out what it no longer wants, not just spewing packaging into landfills, but saying, "Enough. Come on, people, quit competing and controlling. Get cooperative and creative. Get out of the package of small mind. Break open the package of your unused capacities."

Then I got another level of the mess. My car fender beast is black, representative of our shadow (unconsidered actions) but also symbolic of the void from which all new form arises when we marry consciousness and creativity thoughfully. The tiny pink pacifier represents the birthing or rising feminine energy present in men and women as we open to learning from one another and working relationally and collaboratively.

The treasures in my trash or the messages in what I considered a mess reveal the Old Story giving birth to the New Story which is the Whole Story, not a story of black and white or good and bad, but a beautifully evolving story. Through our consciousnesswe've participated in being the beast and through consciousness we're birthing another part of the story.

Imagine the shift if next time you take a walk, you foraged for the experience awaiting you. Take time to see what's beneath the obvious. Listen to your experience. In every seeming mess, there's a message. That's Good News - Dawn, the Good News Muse

P.S. Be part of the cloth bag revolution started by Nashville's Green Bag Lady. Featured on CNN, Teresa VanHatten's given away over 3,000 cloth bags of donated fabric to folks in a multitude of countries.

Learn more about deeply seeing the New Story with Jean Houston through Social Artistry, a new paradigm for the leader in each of us especially needed in these times.

Middle Tennessee poet Russ Peery forages for experience on daily walks then writes about it. Check out Russ at http://www.russpeery.com/

Jumping Jacks of Joy

A year ago tonight my heart leapt as I peered in the window of my neighbor's home. I don't make a habit of looking into neighbor's windows. I had reluctantly walked down the street to view a kitten that had been described as 'embodying love.'

The last thing I wanted was a new kitten. My cat of nearly 18 years had died just two weeks prior. I told my neighbor earlier in the day when she called to say she thought his kitten was 'mine' that I just wanted Templeton back. I wasn't seeking a rebound cat.

Debating whether to walk down the street, I asked Templeton what I should do and immediately heard, "Listen to your heart." Templeton in her last days had provided me with a crash course in presence and love, showing me how I had ignored my heart for much of my life. Inside I knew that everything I espoused learning during her last days would be useless if I didn't obey this inner voice and at least give this little creature a glance.

In Depak Chopra's novel "The Return of Merlin' Merlin states, "We are living a mystery. Hopefully we are not too busy to miss the vital clues." That night I got a clue.

My heart literally jumped when I saw the lively calico kitten chasing the wire toy shared by the little girls in the room. Templeton had had three paws and was active but never this active. I couldn't imagine this hyperactive bundle living in my unchildproofed home. Yet my heart jumped. I felt it move inside my chest. I held "Patches" once briefly but she squirmed to get down and continue playing. This cat had no attachment to me regardless of my heart's calisthenics.

I went to dinner and considered the options. If I didn't agree to a one night sleepover, I would always wonder if I had missed something. I returned to get "Patches."

At five am the next morning, I lay in bed sadly thinking, 'I have adopted this kitten. I have opened my heart, the heart that two weeks prior had felt such sorrow, yet I have not been adopted.' On cue, Patches crawled from the foot of the bed and curled up under my chin purring loudly. I lay there smiling. The adoption was in process.

Patches became Mystery who has truly been the embodiment of love. In the beginning she would look at me with her head cocked as if to say, "Dont' you get it? Templeton sent me to ensure your heart didn't harden."

She's right. I now know those little jumping jacks of joy I felt when I saw her told me my heart was more alive than it had ever been thanks to Templeton's teachings as she passed. That is the Mystery. The heart through deep presence alchemically changes sorrow to joy.

Imagine the shift as we become attentive within and without, attentive to see, hear, feel and sense the clues to the Mystery that's unfolding in life in this time through our bodies, hearts and minds. (If you'd like the story of Templeton's teachings, email me at dawn@imaginetheshift.com and I'll send it to you.) That's Good News

- Dawn, the Good News Muse

The Kiss - Loving the Unlovable

Rodin sculpted The Kiss. Faith Hill sings, "This Kiss." Jesus was betrayed by Judas' kiss.

This is my kiss. Although the photo doesn't do justice to the actual pucker on the lips, this kiss hangs on a tree in my front yard facing the street. As I walked up my driveway from a recent morning walk, The Kiss caught my eye. I notice it often but this day I really saw it. It caught my heart's eye for I had been thinking of love a lot or the lack of love in the world. I had been somewhat haunted by how I concluded my January 23rd Musing.

It read: At any moment, with presence and mindfulness we can return to our hearts and open to who and what we find there. In doing so we return heart to the world." Within hours of writing that, I was reminded of the severe lack of heat in the world.

I had just begun "Three Cups of Tea," Greg Mortensons’s inspiring story of building schools for girls in Pakistan’s mountainous villages when my heart sank. The newspaper carried a story of the Taliban’s resurgence resulting in the destruction of over one hundred schools for girls in the areas of Afghanistan and Pakistan. I momentarily wondered,’ “What’s held in the hearts of those who destroy these schools?’

This news was shortly followed by my coming upon an interview with Siddharth Kara discussing his book "Sex Trafficking. In 2007 alone over 91 billion dollars was made through the trafficking of adults and children. My simple story of opening to my own heart seemed insignificant compared to the hearts of those harmed by the illegal trading of human bodies for sexual purposes and monetary profit. What could have happened to the hearts of those who use women and children for their own gratification sexually and financially? One’s heart would have to be numb to use people in this manner, not to mention the numbness of trauma with which the victims are accustomed to living. I went to bed disconnected and numb, for me primary ingredients for guaranteeing an emotional morning hangover.

I’m already morning-challenged especially in winter when my coffee doesn’t stay warm and my dry skin itches. This particular morning when I sat down for my quiet time, also my writing time, all I found when I looked within was someone grumpy and irritable. I did not want to ‘practice presence’ as I had earlier written or ‘opening to who and what I find in my heart.’

Within thirty minutes of waking, Bogey my kitten was in time out for using the new television as his platform to access the fireplace mantel on which he’s not allowed. On the sixth trip to the mantel, he got stuck astride the television his front legs in the back of the set and his hind legs pawing at the screen clambering to find something on which to grasp. During rounds one through five, I had tried giving him positive attention, cuddling him after removing him from the mantle since a friend said maybe this was just attention seeking behavior.

Paper and pen in hand, I was angry with Bogey as well as myself. I take what I write seriously. The seeming absence of integrity in today’s world troubles me, yet if I’m not practicing what I write then I’m lacking integrity. I felt like a fraud. Between Bogey, cold coffee, dry skin and repeatedly adjusting the thermostat while intermittently wondering what the next gas bill would be, the last thing I wanted to do was be present to what I found in my heart let alone be open to it. If we’re all interconnected as quantum physics states and indigenous people have always taught, then I was personally increasing the anger quotient or grump-factor one thousand-fold in the world and I didn’t care.

I decided to Free Bogey and start over with a fresh cup of coffee while listening to rain on the tin roof of the sun room. A change of scenery might help. Listening to the rain without the pressure of having to do anything other than ‘be’ might induce a new mood in me and Bogey.

Bogey ran to his window perch and peered out the frosty window, a great vantage point for watching birds and squirrels. Wildlife meditation immediately calmed him. A geographical cure worked for Bogey, not me. I pressed the ignition switch on the small gas heater repeatedly, many more times than the five recommended. Nothing happened. I waited the suggested five minutes and tried again, waited five more minutes and tried again to no avail. Bogey was blissful while I accumulated negative karma watching myself become increasingly irritable just when I thought that was impossible.

Nothing cooperated. Was it too much to ask that my coffee be warm in a room that’s over sixty degrees while my kitten’s calm? Yes, at that moment it was. My need to control was in my face. It’s embarrassing to admit that I was this upset over the nuts and bolts of one insignificant morning in my small life when children are being used for sex and new schools are being destroyed. To be open in this moment to who I find within is unpleasant. To be in this moment without struggle seems nearly impossible. It’s at this juncture that I heard, “A walk would do you good. It always does.”

I bundled up to go outside despite the tantrum my insides were throwing. My walk was the perfect example of what my friend Kay Dayss recently shared: “Doing juices being.” As soon as my umbrella opened, I received something better than rain on the tin roof. The rhythmic pattern of rain on my umbrella brought me home to myself. This is big for someone who not so long ago was ‘allergic’ to being in the rain. The events of the morning had conspired to get me out of the house and no, not ‘singing in the rain,’ but certainly thinking of song, one particular song.

Steve Conn sings, “You’ve got to love everybody, that’s all you’ve got to do.” The rain fell on me as the pieces fell together within me. Loving everybody is the easy part. Loving myself is the hard part especially in times when my unlovable aspects are front and center. I considered calling Steve to suggest that he include a line that goes “You’ve got to love everybody, especially the ugly, unacceptable, controlling parts inside of you” or me in this case. Someone later said maybe he wrote quantum lyrics so the many characters to which he refers in the song actually represent parts of our unlovable selves.

What does this have to do with the Kiss? Upon seeing it today, I thought, ‘What a great place to have the kiss. It hangs on this tree quietly sending kisses to passers-by.’ Now I realize that I desperately need its kisses too. The parts of me that are known and unknown need to be kissed and blessed and yes, opened to as I had initially written.

If I concern myself with the lack of love in the world, yet love is lacking in my own inner world, I contribute to the greater disconnect and global misplaced heart. If I do not love myself, especially the parts deemed ugly, I’m contributing to self-loathing in the world, even the hidden self-loathing of those who profit monetarily from trafficking as well as those who spend their money in this manner. If these people knew true self love surely they wouldn’t treat another in this manner or put themselves in this position.

Is it possible that it’s not lack of heart or love as much as the lack of awareness that fuels so much of the suffering and strife in the world? Remember Bogey’s repeated attempts to scale the heights of the fireplace mantel? Bogey didn’t need my attention as much as my insides did. What if human trafficking is attention seeking behavior on a deeper level calling us to heal our sexual selves individually as well as the remnants of repression culturally which are used to sell goods as well as people. What if the path to understanding the heart of the trafficker begins with opening to what my own heart holds? What if change in the heart of the trafficker or Taliban member starts in my own heart?

Imagine the shift as we open truly to whom and what we find in our hearts, giving a kiss to all but especially the frightened, controlling parts. Future Musings I’m certain will come back to this. For now I authentically smile knowing that loving all the parts of me does hold a key to returning me to my heart and the heart to the world.

For the lyric's to Steve's song "Love Everybody" click on the title and to heart my interview with Beth Nielsen Chapman who co-wrote lyrics to Faith Hill's "This Kiss" click www.seedsthestory.com/wakeup . Scroll down to 02/09/08 for an inspiring interview with Beth. For more on what's being done to address human trafficking as well as other issues affecting us all go to www.sofia2010.org - Dawn, the Good News Muse

Returning to the Heart through Beauty

I could hardly complete my earlier walk due to snapping photos of nature dusted by a morning snow. I've been contemplating the conclusion of my last Musing. It went something like "with presence and mindfulness we can at any moment open to what and who we find in our heart and in doing so return the heart to the world."

After writing this, I found myself thinking about what that really means especially after coming across an interview on PBS about sex-trafficking and the billions made annually in trading women and children. What must the hearts of these people be like, those who are used and those who are the users and profiteers? What is the path of return to their hearts?

I suspect my morning's walk held a clue. Imagine the shift in the hearts of these people, those who buy and sell others, if they could appreciate the simple yet deep beauty in nature. I mean really see the colors, the textures and tones as well as hear the messages of the snow melting onto rock, the brillant blood-red berries juxtaposed to the pureness and innocence of white snow surrounded in life-filled leaves.

In this space and place of what feels like such heavy news, I draw inspiration on this winter's walk and that is Good News. Hold with me the many lives and hearts touched by human trafficking. May we all experience simple beauty and love.

Finding One's Juice or The State of My Internal State Department

Last evening, I lay on the sofa berating myself. Not a loud, harsh berating but a subtle, just below the radar of my consciousness berating. I had just written and posted a piece about the New Story and was quite upset the piece didn't have the juice or energy I like my writing to have. The truth was I was the one missing 'the juice.' Of course, I didn't realize this. In the moment I blamed hormones and my imminent period. Then I blamed the planets. I knew from a prior reading that Neptune's on my Mercury or something like that leaving me without the communicative, creative skills on which I thrive especially as someone ruled by Mercury which is all about communicating. I furthered my disconnected, juiceless state with a glass of red wine while watching news reruns of members of the new administration greet and talk with employees of the State Department. It wasn't until I shuffled down the hallway that I glimpsed what was going on in my 'internal state' department.

Like a shooting star, a thought from nowhere shot across my mind's night sky. It went something like: "I hope I don't loose this house." Last year through a series of synchronistic events, I bought a house in the country, a home that I literally felt had been awaiting me. Why would I suddenly think about loosing it?

Then another star shot past. "What if Bogey's dying?" Bogey is the tabby kitten that showed up the week of my birthday, the exact week I had asked Templeton my cat of nearly 18 years to return to me during her decline and death a year ago this coming week. Two hours earlier while I wrote the juiceless story about the New Story, the old story was being enacted in my heart as Bogey lay curled by my head at the top of my recliner. In the quiet, the only sounds were the periodic tapping of my fingers on the computer key board and the noticeable sound of Bogey's swallowing. The unavoidable sound reminded me of Templeton's final days. I did not want to hear this sound but couldn't avoid it. In pauses I would think, 'I don't want to loose this cat, but will if I must' and kept writing.

It wasn't until I lay in the dark bedroom that I realized my internal state department was filled with fear and mistrust. I have said at times that I've a defective wanter, not in the sense of our consuming, materialistic culture but in the allowing one's heart to long. Having grown up with Disappointment as a companion, I thought I had mastered not longing or wanting.



Fortunately over the recent years as I've embodied my personal shift, little green shoots of longing have emerged from what has felt like the cold earth of my heart much like the little plant in my garden that around New Year's was waking up to new life.


Yet in the dark of the night, I discovered that I didn't trust that both my new home and kitten would not be taken from me. Maybe the punitive, hell-fire-and-brimstone God of my childhood had not yet experienced or imagined the shift. My internal shift was in the process of being killed off by my lack of consciousness. The fear-based messages hanging out on my insides were draining life from me or the juice to which I was accustomed, just like a cold blast had killed the plant that two weeks prior had been greening.
Yes, this is the little plant. The Good News is I'm quite certain that in a few weeks I'll be able to post its resurrection thanks to the life juice that courses through it combined with just the right mix of elemental ingredients.


As for me, my 'juice' returned as soon as I became conscious or aware of what was transpiring inside me. The quiet fears of loss had resurrected the barrier around my inner garden, a fence around my heart allowing me to glimpse just enough love, beauty and delight, but not too much lest I get attached to a place, person or pet and have to suffer its loss.

What would happen if I consciously removed the barrier or took down this fence? What would it look like if I felt much delight or joy? Messages like winter cold fronts arrive. I hear: "Don't get all wrapped up in yourself." (Translation: You won't be liked if you're self-centered.) Another follows quickly with: "I don't want to be around when the other shoe drops." (Translation: Loss and pain are sure to follow your attachments.) Regardless of wine, Neptune or hormones, it was quite obvious that I had not been communicating with my own internal state of affairs. I had parts of myself that needed the reconciliation and diplomatic efforts of which I had earlier heard Obama, Clinton and Biden speak. I was the one experiencing juicelessness or aliveness not because I was afraid but because I wasn't aware of what was going on inside me.

Then I realized the barrier had been not only kept fear in but kept good ingredients out. Yesterday held two affirming interactions with strangers, each who temporarily infused me with excitement regarding a writing project on which I had just recommitted to work. My excitement was hardly even temporary thanks to the barrier.

Realizing all of this brings a smile and a sense of sinking down, resting into the soil of my Soul. From this place lively shoots of green immediately begin to sprout again even on this gray, winter's day.

The Good News - The juice of life awaits us even when the harsh weather of unchecked fears and attitudes temporarily block the flow. At any moment with presence and mindfulness, we can return to our hearts, open to what and who we find there and in doing so we return the heart to the world. - Dawn, the Good News Muse