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.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Cold Moon Visitor
The other night, as usual, I went around the house closing up. When I turn off the last light and close my laptop here at the kitchen table, the stars are visible out the back slider. I usually open the door and gaze for a moment or two, but this night the sky is so open and clear, I make my way through the dark house, pull on a jacket, and step outside.
The moon is just past the half, illuminating the crusty snow, the bones of the gazebo, the sentinel trees. Branches overhead intertwine and entangle, yet the stars peek through. I'm looking for Orion's Belt -- the three stars in a row that point to one of the brightest stars in the winter sky, Sirius. Each step on the ice-encrusted pavers interrupts the night's quiet.
There they are, three points of light, recognizable amid the jumble of winter constellations whose names I don't know. Orion is the mythological hunter. It seems we are all hunting for something in deep winter.
Standing on the frozen ground looking up at the heavens orients me somehow. It banishes anxieties, large and small. And there have been some large ones. The death of my husband's mother. Starting a new job. Under the stars, perspective enlarges and stresses take their place in the order of things. Breathing in the frigid air feels like inhaling eternity.
As I walk back to the porch, my echoing foot steps disturb an owl! I look over my shoulder to see him flying in utter silence, white wings gliding. He settles himself on a craggy branch. He is marveling at how little I know about his territory -- the dark night, the frigid winter, the sprawling stars.
The owl teaches us to abide these mysteries. He possesses silent wisdom, vision in the night. Nocturnal omens like these are charged with the import of dreams. Some underground river of knowing unfreezes and begins to yield it's secrets.
The moon is just past the half, illuminating the crusty snow, the bones of the gazebo, the sentinel trees. Branches overhead intertwine and entangle, yet the stars peek through. I'm looking for Orion's Belt -- the three stars in a row that point to one of the brightest stars in the winter sky, Sirius. Each step on the ice-encrusted pavers interrupts the night's quiet.
There they are, three points of light, recognizable amid the jumble of winter constellations whose names I don't know. Orion is the mythological hunter. It seems we are all hunting for something in deep winter.
Standing on the frozen ground looking up at the heavens orients me somehow. It banishes anxieties, large and small. And there have been some large ones. The death of my husband's mother. Starting a new job. Under the stars, perspective enlarges and stresses take their place in the order of things. Breathing in the frigid air feels like inhaling eternity.
As I walk back to the porch, my echoing foot steps disturb an owl! I look over my shoulder to see him flying in utter silence, white wings gliding. He settles himself on a craggy branch. He is marveling at how little I know about his territory -- the dark night, the frigid winter, the sprawling stars.
The owl teaches us to abide these mysteries. He possesses silent wisdom, vision in the night. Nocturnal omens like these are charged with the import of dreams. Some underground river of knowing unfreezes and begins to yield it's secrets.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
Cold Moon Meditation
Give Yourself the Gift of Serenity in 2013
Join us for our Winter-into-Spring meditation series on Monday evenings, January 28 through March 18, from 7 - 8:30 pm. This will take us through the first quarter of the wheel of the year.
Each evening will offer instruction to facilitate ease of meditation. I will present chakra dynamics, showing how these influence your health, overall sense of well-being, and relationships. In addition, we will explore other tools for getting in touch with your inner wisdom, whether it be aligning with the rhythms of nature, using oracle cards, or discovering your spirit guides.
Using guided imagery, I will lead the group into meditation, with increasing silence as the group decides. We will vary the background music from week to week so you can find what works best for you. Each meditation is designed to calm, center and ground you within your being in order to contact your divine essence. We will become increasingly comfortable residing in stillness and silence.
The atmosphere is open and relaxed; wear comfortable clothing and bring a cushion or two. Photos of our beautiful meditation space are available here on the blog -- please browse to view the space and get acquainted with me. Invite a friend or two for these evenings of deep nurturance.
The fee for the eight week series is $80, payable on the first evening, unless other arrangements have been made. To reserve a spot, you may comment below, leave a message at blueheronhealingct@gmail.com or call 860-563-5682.
Friday, January 4, 2013
Give Yourself the Gift of Meditation in 2013
In the very near future, I'll be posting specifics about our upcoming meditation circle. I plan to resume on Monday evenings at 7 pm until approximately 8:30. If you are interested in joining us, save that space on your calendar.
We will most likely begin on Monday, January 28th. I'm not sure about content but will firm up ideas and let you know what to expect in the coming weeks. Let me know if there's something in particular that you're struggling with or interested in learning more about. In any event, there will be a guided meditation every week, with increasing amounts of silence as the group becomes comfortable.
Please invite anyone you think might benefit from this calming practice. The charge will be $10 per evening and I may extend the number of meetings to 10. So the fee for the series would be $100.
Looking forward to co-creating a sacred breathing space for us all as we enter this blessed new year.
Julie
Saturday, December 1, 2012
Snow Falling and Night Falling Fast
The other day we had gently falling snow. I was driving by the pond and slowed down, as I usually do when going by there -- checking to see if the heron is hanging out. And sure enough, yes! There she is.
So I stop and back up. I'm guessing this alone will cause her to up and fly away. But it seems she could care less. I open the window for a close-up view.
This is a different heron. She's beige, perched on a fallen branch, level with the water. Her webbed feet rest on the snow-encrusted limb. She's hunched, accumulating snow on her shoulders. Her feathers are a tawny blend of bone white and light brown. The coloring above her eyes is a shade darker than below. Her beak is long, yellow and sharp.
I take out my phone to try and get a picture, but I have what I refer to as an antique cell phone. The kind you flip open. It takes an extremely LAME photo of this magnificent bird. She looks like a little speck in a lovely curtain of softly falling snow. The snowfall is so perfect it looks like a movie backdrop, something out of White Christmas.
I've always thought of these lazily falling snowflakes as blessings from the sky. Accumulating on our shoulders. This recalls my essay, The Blessings of Breast Cancer (an Unlikely Title, I know). It was just published in The Door Opener, our regional magazine for healers and holistic practitioners. So I've been hearing from friends, applauding my account of how even the most frightening experiences can yield blessings.
I'm overcome with a deep sense of gratitude. 2012 has been a tumultuous year to say the least, and yet blessings abound. We are in the midst of a great awakening -- the end of an epoch and the birth of a new humanity of oneness and compassion. These ideals are hard to practice in everyday life where the tension of what's unsustainable is mounting. What's no longer working is inviting change -- that mysterious unknown we're so frightened of.
Ushering in a new self or a new world -- it all seems possible in quiet moments like these. In the hush of the snowfall, peace descends.
I need to get home. Like a ghost, the heron seems to fade into the gathering dusk. I think of that line from Robert Frost: snow falling and night falling fast.
She seems content to remain in her meditative stance, gathering blessings.
P.S. You can find my essay on line at dooropenermagazine.com. The December issue is due out any moment. Thank you Dory for this wonderful resource!
So I stop and back up. I'm guessing this alone will cause her to up and fly away. But it seems she could care less. I open the window for a close-up view.
This is a different heron. She's beige, perched on a fallen branch, level with the water. Her webbed feet rest on the snow-encrusted limb. She's hunched, accumulating snow on her shoulders. Her feathers are a tawny blend of bone white and light brown. The coloring above her eyes is a shade darker than below. Her beak is long, yellow and sharp.
I take out my phone to try and get a picture, but I have what I refer to as an antique cell phone. The kind you flip open. It takes an extremely LAME photo of this magnificent bird. She looks like a little speck in a lovely curtain of softly falling snow. The snowfall is so perfect it looks like a movie backdrop, something out of White Christmas.
I've always thought of these lazily falling snowflakes as blessings from the sky. Accumulating on our shoulders. This recalls my essay, The Blessings of Breast Cancer (an Unlikely Title, I know). It was just published in The Door Opener, our regional magazine for healers and holistic practitioners. So I've been hearing from friends, applauding my account of how even the most frightening experiences can yield blessings.
I'm overcome with a deep sense of gratitude. 2012 has been a tumultuous year to say the least, and yet blessings abound. We are in the midst of a great awakening -- the end of an epoch and the birth of a new humanity of oneness and compassion. These ideals are hard to practice in everyday life where the tension of what's unsustainable is mounting. What's no longer working is inviting change -- that mysterious unknown we're so frightened of.
Ushering in a new self or a new world -- it all seems possible in quiet moments like these. In the hush of the snowfall, peace descends.
I need to get home. Like a ghost, the heron seems to fade into the gathering dusk. I think of that line from Robert Frost: snow falling and night falling fast.
She seems content to remain in her meditative stance, gathering blessings.
P.S. You can find my essay on line at dooropenermagazine.com. The December issue is due out any moment. Thank you Dory for this wonderful resource!
Monday, November 26, 2012
Go Placidly Amid the Noise and Haste
I set out for a walk but the blustery gusts give me pause. Brrrr.... Since I'm trying to shake a lingering cold, I decide to abbreviate my route.
At the Highland Street pond, a new owner has shorn an overgrowth of shrubbery on the property, exposing the house in a naked sort of way. A tumbledown stone wall is being precisely rebuilt. But they also stripped the pond of surrounding shrubs and trees, so now the herons only have a few clumps of tall grass to hide in.
The pond narrows to a waterfall which flows under the street and out the other side. The stream meanders through wooded backyards, swift or sluggish depending on the rains. As I approach, I see a heron standing vigil where the underground culvert opens into a small pool.
With the leaves fallen, it's easy to spy her in time to pause. She is the exact blue gray as her tangled bramble backdrop. She blends in like a piece of driftwood caught among clotted leaves dammed up by slender fallen birches. I approach quietly. Although she doesn't appear to notice me, I know she knows I'm there.
She is standing in profile, all scrunched up. I take a silent step closer. She is putting on a show of utter disinterest, but I know the moment I get too close, she'll fly away. I can see every individual feather of her slate-colored wing. The precise, fan-like pattern looks like an example of sacred geometry.
One more cautious step. I wonder, where is her neck? Where does her long, slender neck go when she hunches up like that? She looks braced against the cold too.
With one more step, I'm as close as I can get without getting wet. Just then, she stretches out her neck, drawing herself up to her full height. I see that her neck was folded back so as to rest on her "shoulders." Before she looked guarded, now she looks regal.
I surmise that elongating is a prelude to flight. But she simply strides away, one long leg in front of the other, right down the middle of the stream, leaving a rippling V-shaped wake behind her.
What kind of a wake do we leave? Is it chaotic and breathless? Or is it placid, attentive, aware, like the heron? Unperturbed! She is utterly unperturbed by me. I respect her space; I ask permission before coming closer and she gifts me with a simple lesson that brings peace. Through the lens of my heart, I see her as an embodiment of Mother Nature, the Spirit of the Earth, who bestows grace when we open to the gift of what is.
At the Highland Street pond, a new owner has shorn an overgrowth of shrubbery on the property, exposing the house in a naked sort of way. A tumbledown stone wall is being precisely rebuilt. But they also stripped the pond of surrounding shrubs and trees, so now the herons only have a few clumps of tall grass to hide in.
The pond narrows to a waterfall which flows under the street and out the other side. The stream meanders through wooded backyards, swift or sluggish depending on the rains. As I approach, I see a heron standing vigil where the underground culvert opens into a small pool.
With the leaves fallen, it's easy to spy her in time to pause. She is the exact blue gray as her tangled bramble backdrop. She blends in like a piece of driftwood caught among clotted leaves dammed up by slender fallen birches. I approach quietly. Although she doesn't appear to notice me, I know she knows I'm there.
She is standing in profile, all scrunched up. I take a silent step closer. She is putting on a show of utter disinterest, but I know the moment I get too close, she'll fly away. I can see every individual feather of her slate-colored wing. The precise, fan-like pattern looks like an example of sacred geometry.
One more cautious step. I wonder, where is her neck? Where does her long, slender neck go when she hunches up like that? She looks braced against the cold too.
With one more step, I'm as close as I can get without getting wet. Just then, she stretches out her neck, drawing herself up to her full height. I see that her neck was folded back so as to rest on her "shoulders." Before she looked guarded, now she looks regal.
I surmise that elongating is a prelude to flight. But she simply strides away, one long leg in front of the other, right down the middle of the stream, leaving a rippling V-shaped wake behind her.
What kind of a wake do we leave? Is it chaotic and breathless? Or is it placid, attentive, aware, like the heron? Unperturbed! She is utterly unperturbed by me. I respect her space; I ask permission before coming closer and she gifts me with a simple lesson that brings peace. Through the lens of my heart, I see her as an embodiment of Mother Nature, the Spirit of the Earth, who bestows grace when we open to the gift of what is.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Moon in the Morning
Last night we set the clocks back, so tonight, or rather this afternoon, dark will come early.
I find myself resisting it. And lots of other stuff too.
I have a troubling, ongoing dynamic in my immediate circle. Trying to be discreet here, honoring privacy and so on -- but also trying to be honest with myself.
So on my walk this morning, my intention is to let go of resistance to a certain person. To let it drain into the Earth with every footfall.
I make my way around to the dock. Because the sky is a brilliant azure, the water is sky blue and inky navy. The light breezes are at cross currents today. Further out, the wavelets are blowing northward, while closer in they're leaning south.
I sit cross-legged on the wooden slats, my back to the sun. A disseminating, three-quarter moon floats high in the sky this morning, about 9 am. It looks like a crystal satellite. Even though I can only see three quarters of it, in truth, it exists whole, complete, round and full. The rest is hidden from my perception by the shadow of the earth.
So, in keeping with another truth, as above, so below, I close my eyes and look within, at my resistance. I know that what I have so much trouble accepting in another person is the very stuff I'm likely hiding in my own shadow.
What are these traits that I can't seem to abide in another? Neediness. A need to control. An expectation that when she has a need, everyone will drop everything and trip over themselves to meet that need. When this doesn't happen, the need becomes a demand and then things really get ugly.
Hoo-boy! This is the fun part!
Breathing ... letting my resistance drain into the Earth. The Great Mother accepts it with grace and compassion: it's fuel for transformation.
So, I ask myself, am I needy?
Answer: of course! But do I show it? No.
My neediness is tucked away in my shadow, where it won't inconvenience anyone. I cover it up with a persona of self-sufficiency. I'm low maintenance, don't worry about me, I'm fine.
Sometimes this is true, but sometimes it's bullsh*t.
Moving on to control. Do I like a sense of control?
Who doesn't?
When things are beyond my control I get anxious.
I'm learning to surrender to what is. I'm flexing trust like a muscle; it strengthens the more I rely on it.
But can I always go with the flow, not knowing what's out there? Nope. I prefer a guarantee before proceeding with anything risky or whose outcome is unknown. But where can you find a guarantee like that? It doesn't exist!
So yeah, let's concede control is an issue.
Do I have everyone running around meeting my needs? Hmmm, this one's not so obvious. The sun is bathing my back, melting my resistance. I let it go with every breath. The waves gently slap the stony shore. A leaf-blower drones in the distance. Three snow-white swans sail across the lake, leaning into the wind like the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria on their way to a new world.
And I see that yes, it's possible other people are getting tired of meeting my needs. In some ways, I'm high-maintenance, having set exacting standards not just for myself but others too.
Exhausting.
Moment of humility. Tears fill my eyes. And I hear those words again: fuel for transformation. Self-awareness is fuel for transformation.
It feels like this person who has exasperated me for so long has been holding up one of those mirrors you see at the carnival -- your body might be short and squat but your head is three feet tall and pinched. She's reflecting a distortion. It's me, wearing a mask of self-sufficiency, an image of placidly going about my business like a Zen master, when in truth, I have legit needs and a desire to wrap my mind around things that are messy and complicated.
The world is still spinning on it's axis while I admit these things that I have judged as flaws and banished into my shadow. By accepting them instead, I release their power to haunt and taunt me. They just are, without the negative charge.
In this way I am like the moon in the morning. Part of me is hidden in shadow, but in truth I'm whole, complete, round and full. I reflect divine light and it contains All.
I find myself resisting it. And lots of other stuff too.
I have a troubling, ongoing dynamic in my immediate circle. Trying to be discreet here, honoring privacy and so on -- but also trying to be honest with myself.
So on my walk this morning, my intention is to let go of resistance to a certain person. To let it drain into the Earth with every footfall.
I make my way around to the dock. Because the sky is a brilliant azure, the water is sky blue and inky navy. The light breezes are at cross currents today. Further out, the wavelets are blowing northward, while closer in they're leaning south.
I sit cross-legged on the wooden slats, my back to the sun. A disseminating, three-quarter moon floats high in the sky this morning, about 9 am. It looks like a crystal satellite. Even though I can only see three quarters of it, in truth, it exists whole, complete, round and full. The rest is hidden from my perception by the shadow of the earth.
So, in keeping with another truth, as above, so below, I close my eyes and look within, at my resistance. I know that what I have so much trouble accepting in another person is the very stuff I'm likely hiding in my own shadow.
What are these traits that I can't seem to abide in another? Neediness. A need to control. An expectation that when she has a need, everyone will drop everything and trip over themselves to meet that need. When this doesn't happen, the need becomes a demand and then things really get ugly.
Hoo-boy! This is the fun part!
Breathing ... letting my resistance drain into the Earth. The Great Mother accepts it with grace and compassion: it's fuel for transformation.
So, I ask myself, am I needy?
Answer: of course! But do I show it? No.
My neediness is tucked away in my shadow, where it won't inconvenience anyone. I cover it up with a persona of self-sufficiency. I'm low maintenance, don't worry about me, I'm fine.
Sometimes this is true, but sometimes it's bullsh*t.
Moving on to control. Do I like a sense of control?
Who doesn't?
When things are beyond my control I get anxious.
I'm learning to surrender to what is. I'm flexing trust like a muscle; it strengthens the more I rely on it.
But can I always go with the flow, not knowing what's out there? Nope. I prefer a guarantee before proceeding with anything risky or whose outcome is unknown. But where can you find a guarantee like that? It doesn't exist!
So yeah, let's concede control is an issue.
Do I have everyone running around meeting my needs? Hmmm, this one's not so obvious. The sun is bathing my back, melting my resistance. I let it go with every breath. The waves gently slap the stony shore. A leaf-blower drones in the distance. Three snow-white swans sail across the lake, leaning into the wind like the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria on their way to a new world.
And I see that yes, it's possible other people are getting tired of meeting my needs. In some ways, I'm high-maintenance, having set exacting standards not just for myself but others too.
Exhausting.
Moment of humility. Tears fill my eyes. And I hear those words again: fuel for transformation. Self-awareness is fuel for transformation.
It feels like this person who has exasperated me for so long has been holding up one of those mirrors you see at the carnival -- your body might be short and squat but your head is three feet tall and pinched. She's reflecting a distortion. It's me, wearing a mask of self-sufficiency, an image of placidly going about my business like a Zen master, when in truth, I have legit needs and a desire to wrap my mind around things that are messy and complicated.
The world is still spinning on it's axis while I admit these things that I have judged as flaws and banished into my shadow. By accepting them instead, I release their power to haunt and taunt me. They just are, without the negative charge.
In this way I am like the moon in the morning. Part of me is hidden in shadow, but in truth I'm whole, complete, round and full. I reflect divine light and it contains All.
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