Harvest Moon Meditation

Lighting Your Inner Lantern

I sit this morning with a steaming mug of tea.  Must be Fall!

Our meditation circle reconvened this week after summer hiatus.  We are blessed with new faces. As I light the candles, I feel the warmth of being back together.

After getting re-acquainted, we lower the lights and play Marina Rayes' Liquid Silk, native flutes weaving through the sounds of nature.  It's perfect for conjuring the Spirit of the Earth.

We anchor ourselves to the warm womb of Mother Earth, progressively releasing accumulated tension. Allowing gravity to settle our bodies and minds. Drawing vitality up through our energetic roots, we inhabit our bodies with fresh awareness.

I feel a little rusty.  Did I forget this or that?  Is everyone comfortable?  How many of us are still struggling to get out of our heads, smile.

Soon my voice ceases and we are left with the music.

The woodwind flute, lending a voice to longing.

The echoing notes of the loon on a misty morning.

The call of the owl through the forest hush.

A stream splashing over stones.

So soothing for our (formerly frayed) nerves.

As we sink in more deeply, the roof seems to sail away into the moonlit sky, leaving us exposed to the late summer whispers of nightfall.  The trees cast long shadows, back-lit by the fat harvest moon.

The Great Mother herself  is weaving  us into communion.  Like winding yarn into a ball, she encircles us in strands of red, orange and yellow light -- over, around, and underneath us. 

The energy of the group, re-ignited.

Such is the way when we recede into silence.   Tethered to the ground of our being, our awareness opens, shining like the brilliant moonlight spilling across lawns and ledges.  May this inner lantern shine for us as the nights lengthen and the year wanes.


All are welcome to join us next Monday evening, September 23.  Details can be found under Workshops above.

Storm Rolling In

I find myself in solitude on the first evening of September.  Dusk gathers early.  Yellow leaves drift onto the lawn.  Melancholy nibbles at the edges of my awareness.

I put aside what I'm doing and decide to do the work,  as Byron Katie calls it,  on the disintegration of what was once a cherished sisterhood.   I pull out her book, Loving What Is, open up a word document, and sink in ... to my bruised heart.

That's when the inner storm starts brewing.

My discontent spills out, sprawling across the screen like a swollen stream overrunning it's edges. As my fingers fly over the keyboard, anger rumbles like distant thunder.  A decidedly cool front moves in, a rush that rips dying attachments from their moorings and tosses them in a tumult.  Relief comes in the outpouring. It blows through, and in it's wake there's a quiet sense of calm. 

Next morning, as I step out for my walk, the metallic sky portends rain.  I smile at the familiar synchronicity of as within so without.  Before long, I've found the rhythm that opens the pathways to other realms.  I become a bridge for the Spirits of Earth and Sky to traverse and heal. It's a two way exchange, where I offer my healing gifts to them and they graciously return the favor.

As this connection takes hold, a geyser, a surging fountain of energy, swirls up through my being, dislodging energetic debris.  I yield to the flow, the up-welling of cleansing and clearing.  All the stuff I hide from myself -- anger, sadness, frustration, the dreaded judgment, excuses, procrastination, laziness, failure, self sabotage and vulnerability -- wheel out into the spacious open sky of awareness, like Dorothy's house uprooted from the plains of Kansas.

Why hide all this?  It's my humanity. Shared with everyone else on the planet.

A fresh perspective from the  eye of the storm.

Rumbling thunder brings me back to earth.   A literal storm is upon us!

Needles of rain slant across the sidewalk. I pick up the pace, feeling exponentially lighter.

I stop at the dock, snug under my umbrella, only vaguely concerned that it's spider-like skeleton is aluminum. The pond is eerily deserted.

Scanning the shore, I spot her -- a beautiful lone heron. The bare branch she stands on extends low over the water like a graceful arm, whose open hand offers her footing. A tableau of balance and ease.

My husband calls to check on my whereabouts.  I don't tell him that I'm on the dock in the rain, taking lessons from this heron.

She's poised over the pond, upon the open hand of God. While her watery reflection wavers, the great blue heron waits out the storm.

Holy Trinities?

Everything seems to be happening in threes.

Recently I came across a basket of stones collected from here and there -- beaches, river banks, the edge of a stream. One is triangular, it stands up on it's own.  So I placed in on an end table with some other treasures.

Then my daughter and her love go to visit my parents in the Adirondacks.  I ask her to bring some stones if they hike up to the falls.  I have a photo of the last time we climbed there, years ago -- my mother, my two daughters, my sister, and her two girls.  Three generations of women with the falls cascading behind us.

So Meredith returns with, yes -- another triangle.  It's a larger wedge; it also stands up on one side.

Now I encounter a trio on my morning walk.  As I approach the pond, a heron takes flight.  Off she goes across the water, out of sight beyond the rushes. Seeing this, another heron alights as well.  They are both the same color as the pond -- gray green -- and would be indiscernable from their surroundings if not for the movement of their wings.

Then these two beauties reappear, with a third  in tow.  This one is smaller.  All three flying low over the pond, each set of wingtips seeming to touch it's reflection on the water.

Pondering all these threes, I realize  this has  happened in the window of the recent Star of David planetary alignment. Astrological charts of the constellation reveal the intersecting triangles. The downward-pointing triangle, shaped like a chalice, represents the feminine, while it's upward-pointing opposite, shaped like a blade, represents the masculine.
   

So what's up with all these triangles?

Might they portend a new paradigm? A new holy trinity?

Instead of the Father, Son and ephemeral Holy Ghost, perhaps the alignment of stars in the heavens invites us to resurrect the feminine principle -- the Goddess -- and restore her to her rightful place in the creation energies.

Father, mother, child.  Hasn't it always been so?

The potent union of these two life-giving aspects of creation yields wholeness, integration and balance.  We find our power when we blend masculine strength and feminine wisdom. Thus a new consciousness is born -- one that embraces the gifts of both halves of our divine inheritance.

Don't you feel her stirring, the Goddess?

Arranging triangles beneath our feet and across the heavens, inviting us to mine the meaning of threes upon threes.

Kindling the Fire of the Sacred Feminine

Our meditation circle gathers.  We take turns, reporting how we've been since last week.  Each woman's experience is received with a nod, a knowing smile, laughter.

Kathy, only 54, is undergoing hip replacement surgery this week. So instead of our usual sharing after meditation, I suggest that  we quietly make our way  to the adjacent sun room and give Kathy a healing.  Anticipating their, I wouldn't know what to do, I suggest simply placing hands and intending the most benevolent  outcome for our sister of the circle.

They're intrigued.  And willing.

As I chime the end of our meditation, everyone moves silently into place -- Kathy on the table, the rest of us encircling her.  I indicate where each one may place her hands and   murmur an invocation. The women can tune in or tune me out, per their own guidance.

And then the magic begins.

Mary, another trained healer posted at the right hip, whispers to Kathy's body, thanking the worn-out hip for it's service, alerting the surrounding muscles and tendons that the hip will be removed and replaced. She invites the entire area to accept the new hip, acknowledging the wisdom of the body to knit itself back together -- cell and soft tissue, bone and blood -- each part is invited to assist in the healing of the whole.

I rest my palms on the back of each healer's heart, supporting them in getting acquainted with their innate power to nurture in this way.  The energy being generated is visceral, pulsing in waves beneath our hands.

My sense is that Kathy is relinquishing the old -- and embracing a new way of walking in the world.

Moving forward will no longer be fraught with pain.

Pushing will be balanced with allowing.

Exertion will be balanced with rest and repletion.

The feminine aspects of her being will  rise up to balance her masculine aspects.  The inner feminine strengths of intuitive knowing, receiving and surrender will temper the inner masculine strengths of logical analysis, giving and asserting. 

These parts of herself will inform each other, yielding a greater wisdom than either side can accomplish on it's own.

The marriage of these polarities transcends either/or, becoming both/and.

All of this feels larger that one woman's journey. The air shimmers, reminding us --  as within, so without.

This what the shift of ages portends.

The Piscean Age, the patriarchy of the last 2000 years, has been one of conquest.  As we recover the lost  sacred feminine, duality gives way to unity, competition evolves into cooperation, and survival of the fittest becomes recognition of the One Being that we are. When the sacred masculine and feminine energies merge, a new age is born.

Withdrawing our hands, everyone is glowing with awe.  Kathy's hip pain is gone; she hugs each of her healers in gratitude. Each healer has been initiated -- her connection with the vast field of universal intelligence confirmed.

Later, at Kathy's request, I let the ladies know the outcome of the surgery.  It took less time than expected.  She was walking within an hour of leaving the recovery room.  By day two, she had graduated from the walker to an aluminum cane.  Kathy never rated her pain level (on a scale of 1-10) at more than 5. She requires no physical therapy.

Such is the power of intention when women gather. There's something primal in the ritual of tending to one facing an ordeal, summoning up one's presence in service to another.  The sacred feminine is born in moments like these, when healing power leaps to life like flames kindled by light and love -- illuminating an inner sanctum that has been too long dark.

Entrainment

Dreams will not be thwarted,

Faith will be rewarded

Our meditation circle  gathered on Monday evening, a blustery night.  The women came in, along with the gusting wind, ready for some peace.  Each one related daily difficulties -- the death of a loved one, a troublesome diagnosis,  being surrounded by negativity. 

Our inner journey that night had an unusual destination:  the sacred space of the heart.  To satisfy our minds, I gave a preview of the trip.  This is an opportunity to anticipate obstacles and ask questions so that once we get started, we can let go of all that and enter into the creative, imaginal realm, where intuition takes over and sacred magic transpires.

Now for the real thing.  Everyone settles in comfortably.  After the usual progressive relaxation, we connect with the earth, the sacred feminine aspect of creation.  Next we open to connect with the night sky, the divine father creator of All That Is.  Then we invite these energies to mingle in our heart chakra, knowing ourselves as a divine child of divine parents -- a holy trinity.

This earth/sky connection is familiar to the group.  We feel ourselves as bridges for  gentle, powerful, opposing energies to flow through -- male and female, giving and receiving, acting and waiting, yang and yin.  Together, they make us whole.

Yet we have not ventured into the heart itself.  And here we are, on the threshold.  Gently, using the visualization I had laid out earlier, we set the intention (prayed) that any obstacle to entering be removed, permitting each woman to enter her own sacred heart space.

Then, like a ghost gliding through a wall, each one made her way into her physical heart.  Most found it dark.  I was guiding them with excerpts from Drunvalo Melchizedek's Living in the Heart:  How to Enter into the Sacred Space of the Heart.  Per his instructions, I said, "Let there be light."  Each woman was gifted with an experience of her inner sanctum, her chamber of creation.

Now we enjoy silence for 15 minutes --  potent time to explore inner worlds.  This is my opportunity to offer healing to each one, if only briefly.  Some ladies are lying on the floor, one is perched on the hearth by the fire, others sit cross legged or on the couch.  I visit each one, placing my hands you-know-where.

To my amazement, every single woman's heart chakra is open and flowing, spinning with strength and tenderness.  If the heart was quiet at first, it blossomed in the grace that filled the room.  As I went from heart to heart, the word entrainment came to mind. An invisible, yet tangible, momentum was fueling our experience.  

So this morning I look up the word  "entrain:  to draw in and transport by the flow...."  Yes, the power of the group enhanced our individual experiences.  We somehow brought each other along for quite a ride.  And even though this definition describes how women's inner wisdom is contagious, I like my pocket dictionary definition too.  It simply says, "to board a train." I smile, thinking of Springsteen's lyrics from Land of Hope and Dreams:  Dreams will not be thwarted, faith will be rewarded, on this train."  

Grace

Last Saturday morning we woke up to the thinnest coating of snow.  It's only 13 degrees outside but I  bundle up and go for a walk.  As I round the corner, the sidewalk is unmarred by footprints; it's a snow-white carpet, scattered with sparks of green and blue, orange and yellow.

It must be the angle of the sun coming up over the rooftops, fracturing the snow crystals into tiny rainbows, strewn not just on the pavement but across frozen lawns as well.

So I blaze a trail on this pristine path, joining other footprints as I round the corner onto Two Rod. I wonder about this pair of footprints; perhaps they belong to Joan and Roseanne, neighbors who are usually finishing their walk as I'm starting out.  Or, could they be Joe and Alica?  No, these are women's sneaker tracks etched in the snow.

As I traverse my usual route, I wonder about the souls of the soles I encounter.  So many patterns, I give them names -- horseshoe heel, windowpane, fish bone, Nike ninja, herringbone, starburst.  So even though I'm walking alone, I feel as though I have company, these snowy sojourners who have come before me. I glance over my shoulder to see  my footprints mingled with theirs and sense an odd unity, a strange melding of time and space, like dimensions colliding.

I make my way as usual to the reservoir.  Here at the dock the snowy crystal coating at my feet remains untouched.  Farther out, the wind has swept the ice clear.  A trio of geese huddle out there, looking taller than usual on their webbed feet.

I don't sit down because if I do, I'll get chilly.  I survey the winter pond. Backyards are exposed, branches are bare, shore stones are edged in ice.  And it's so still.   The silence is vast, hovering over the frozen lake.

I gaze at the handful of prisms scattered on the ice at my feet.  The surface of the pond is three of four feet below the dock I'm standing on.  My focus softens and the sparks of light seem to rise up and fill the air in front of me.  Tiny flecks of green, blue, pink, orange and gold float in the space around me.  This seems  to be an embodiment of grace -- the field of grace that grants access to realms beyond reason.

For me, insight often comes in images.  And this image makes the elusive concept of grace leap to life.  As I turn toward home, I thank the Great Mother in her winter raiment, for rustling her gown and leaving sacred sequins in her wake, seed pearls of wisdom for my healers handbook.