It started a few weeks ago, this mitzvah, this gift of my life.

In the corner ledge of my porch, on a little shelf there is an angel.  

Literally.

A statue of a little angel,

Holding a bird ready to fly.  

She was sitting right there when I moved in.

In her lovely silence, the angel protects my front door, standing just a few feet away, 

Guarding me and my spare key.

OOPS, now you know how to get into my house.

Well, welcome.

Looking out my kitchen window, I have birds-eye view of her. 

Speaking of birds, one morning a few weeks ago, looking out the window, which is just a few feet away from Said Angel, I noticed a mess; 

Twigs and sticks and schmutz-in-general were accumulating.

The makings of a nest?

I kept an eye out for the unknown builder.

Sure enough, eventually, a nest manifested.

Sure enough, eventually, on the nest, a bird manifested.

A mourning dove.

There she sat, 

Tucked between 

The angel and the corner of the porch.

Ms. Google was helpful.

I always thought they were morning doves, as in the a.m. hours, a time in which I imagined they were most active.

Nope.  

Upon investigation, Ms. Google told me my new neighbor was a mourning dove, due to her cooing, mournful sound.

She had built a nest, behind the angel.

And there she sat.

Tail mostly raised at a right-angle, I became fascinated by her dogged presence.

Focused,

Committed,

Connected,

There she sat.

Nothing to do

And

Nowhere to go,

She sat,

Allowing life

To manifest

Through her.

She became a mirror; there I was, in my full Me-ness, watching emotionally, with sporadic and random data-gathering.

I cannot tell you how long she sat,

But sit, she did.

I watched her

Almost-every-move.

Pandemic time is distorted;

Was it a week or two?

She sat for a while,

Days passing.        

Entering and leaving the house, I offered her one silent mantra:

I will never hurt you.  

Never.

Usually, just one round was needed

To get me into the house.

Sometimes with packages

Grasping them oh so quietly,

I hoped,

A second round was needed.

I will never hurt you.

Never.

My life-bearing neighbor was only a few feet from my front door.

I never saw the eggs,

Or

The miraculous transition

From shell to life.

After some time—a week?  Two?

Little blobs of feathered life emerged,

Merged into 

Their mom’s feathery body.

Undefined,

Unformed.

And I watched.

She would leave the nest.

For food, I imagined.

I would worry.

What if something happened to her?

What would become of

Her family?

The babies got bigger 

How perfect a mirror she became,

For me, for how I attend to my moment.

Of course, I would worry,

Of course, I would

Doubting life’s capacity

But no matter how long she was absent from the nest,

She would come back,

Or a look-alike,

A mate?

I made that up,

Waiting and watching for her 

Or her bird/knight/partner

In soft feathers.

(Google told me mourning doves are monogamous, mating for life.  I am surprisingly touched by that.)

Once she was gone overnight.   

Oh, how I worried,

Of course, I would worry.

That is who I am.

My first response?

I worry.

I counted myself 

A full-fledged (ha!) member

Of the Family of Mourning.

I continued

To watch.

Feedings were

Miraculous,

A synchronized dance,

A bobbing up-and-down,

Between mom

And 

Bird-Baby.

When she would leave,

I could see the babies better.

They got bigger.

And bigger.

When would they fly?

When would they

Leave

To explore,

To fly,

To trust the air

To hold them?

A week?

Two?

~~~

One morning,

Here they stood.

The bigger sister,

Always more active,

One morning,

Ready to go. 

I could almost feel

Her readiness,

Feet curled on the ledge,

To fly.

I did not see her departure,

Her fledging.

She was just—

Gone.

Her absence took away my breath.

The smaller birdie

Now stood alone.

I imagined,

I projected,

Her loneliness.

Of course, I did.

I am lonely.

I imagined,

I projected 

Her lack of readiness

To leave.

Of course, I did.

As I wonder about

My lack of readiness.

Hours and hours passed,

While the smaller baby sat there,

Alone,

No sibling,

No mom,

No food.

Sometime that afternoon,

She was gone!

Breathless again

I became.

The emptiness

Of the nest was startling,

Imagining her finding her way,

Flying through the air.

Until I looked to the other corner

Of the porch.

There I saw

On my camping chair

The little sister.

The smaller bird

Watching. 

Not ready yet,

I imagined.

Not ready yet

To fly.

She left the nest.

And now she sat

On my chair,

Watching the world,

As I watched her.

Nothing to do,

Not my business,

No way to help her.

Like me,

She was

Watching the world.

Like me,

Not quite ready

To soar.

~~~

Hours passed.

She sat in the chair

All morning.

Sometime in the 

Afternoon,

The chair was emptied.

She was gone.

My heart leaped.

She flew!

As I looked up at the nest,

She was back,

Back in the nest!

There she sat with an adult bird.

I imagined it was the father,

For no real reason,

(Was this bird’s breast rosier?)

I missed the transfer,

The flight,

From chair 

Back to nest.

Did the parent bird urge her?

Pick her up?

I will never know.

But there she sat,

With her parent,

Preparing her

Some more

For leaving.

Their feeding was magical.

Oh, how I had worried she was hungry.

Their synchronized bobbing dance.

Oh, to be nourished with such rhythm.

I was—

Delighted.

Enthralled.

Relieved.

Blessed

By this enactment

Of life.

I watched and

I watched.

And hours later—

The next day—

She was gone.

She

Had

Become 

Entirely ready

To fly.

~~~

I was grateful and sad,

Loved and honored.

The nest was empty.

~~~

I swept the porch,

Always wondering

How my 

Landlady

Judges my

Cleanliness standards.

Thank goodness!

That

I read that sometimes

The doves

Might 

Return.

They 

Might

Return

To a successful nest.

Was this a successful nest?

I left the nest

As it was.

~~~

And now

There she sits again.

Was it 48 hours later she reentered?

Unclear.

How

I saw myself

Through them.

How

I saw life

Re-create

Itself,

From nothing

Came

Everything.

My only role?

The blessed witness,

Blessed by the 

Enactment

Of life

Feeding,

Renewing,

Claiming

Itself.

~~~

And now, in celebration of life, one of the best songs ever wrote, according to this aging hippy-wanna-be.  Appropriate now for this moment, and for all moments:

I confess upfront; this blog is rooted in a memory-based in my assumption about how I was perceived.

A slippery slope, indeed!

During the last few years at Kripalu, I believed I was seen by the new administration and my new boss as being hardcore, a Teacher of The Heavy, that my tendency was to teach dense and scary and internal stuff, aiming to make people cry.  

Yes, I love the deeper work.

Yes, I have been long branded a deep-diver.

Yes, people have been known to shed a tear or two in processing my programs.

And damn, friends, I am funny.

If you know me, you know I have the capacity to soften and lighten and relax the air in a group.

We know that.

Slightly offended, I did my best to hold ground and ignore my suspicions, in a mature, avoidant fashion.

It was an era in my department of—let’s not get too heavy for our guests, GOD FORBID—or so I thought.

I felt fussy and righteous about my commitment to The Deep.

During this epoch, my boss asked me to create a workshop on joy.

Joy.

JOY?

It seemed—God forgive me—frivolous.

What the heck is joy, anyway?

Before the pandemic?

That was hard enough.

Now?

Who can imagine?

Truly, I am more suited up to live into, to teach the hurt, the angst, the Grit of Life.

Give me a good crisis.

Nevertheless, I obliged my boss’ request, with some silent snickering.  I created a seasonal program, Leaning Toward Joy, A Summer Primer.

Or, An Autumn Primer.

And, A Spring Primer.

No, I did not prime us to enjoy winter.

I did not.

Simply said, I believed that angst was more “spiritual” than joy.  

Little did I understand their interwoven connection.

You all taught me that.  I learned so much from you guys, our guests.

Opening the topic, hearing your ideas……listening to our memories of joy, of summer joy…….

Here’s what I discovered about joy with you, our Kripalu guests, pre-pandemic.  

• Our capacity to feel joy is contingent upon our willingness to feel grief, loss, transition, & pain.
• The practice of being present with whatever is happening truly is the doorway to joy.
• We get it all, all the feelings.
• Deny the hard stuff?  Joy slips further away.
• Commit to being present?  Joy offers herself to us.

Other discoveries—Joy is:

• Body-centered
• Fluid
• Spontaneous
• Contagious   
• Our opening to the flow state 
• Flushes though, comes and goes
• Available sometimes when a physical limit is reached
• Alive in nature
• Will live in deep body memory

Listening to people’s summer joyful memories was a teary, touching thing—the preciousness of those shared experiences moved me deeply.  I could no longer feel huffy about “being given a topic.” The topic of joy, filtered through your insights and your memories, opened my heart.

~~~

For you, I ask:

What memory do you have of summer joy?  Perhaps it was decades ago, perhaps minutes ago.  Consider.  Write it out.  Send it out. To me, to somebody.  Share it.  Remember it.  Live into it.

For you, I ask:

What were the circumstances that you created that helped the joy to come forth?

What did you do then—to allow yourself to be available to the flow state, to the fluidity of joy?

For you, I ask:

What can this summer be for you?  What do you choose?

In this time of so much loss, how can you create the circumstances in which you are available to joy?

~~~

Here is Rumi on joy:

No one knows what makes
the soul wake up so happy.
Maybe a dawn breeze has
blown the veil from the face of God.
A thousand new moons appear.
Roses open laughing.
The body turns entirely spirit. 
Leaves become branches in this wind. 
Why is it now so easy to surrender,
even for those already surrendered?
There is no answer to any of this.
No one knows the source of joy.
A poet breathes into a reed flute,
and the tip of every hair makes music. 
~~ Rumi

~~~

And because my psychic told me I must listen to music daily, I’ve been dancing around the house to this oldie, but, oh, so goodie.  If you choose, here is Joy to the World by Three Dog Night:

This is a memory from many yesterdays-ago.  

I was living in an ashram, Our Ashram, Our Kripalu.  

Every morning this summer, I wake early, a slice in time before the dawn.

I sleep with my bathing suit on, to ease, to quicken my waking,

so eager am I for this new day.  

Perhaps this is true?  

Is that memory accurate?  

Do accuracy and memory need to meet?

Sleeping in clothes during girl scout camp was a sound strategy, both keeping me warm and making entry into the new day quicker—not a moment to be wasted, in so rich and fantastic a world.

Parallels between my beloved girl scout camp and my beloved ashram abound!

Back to my memory:

Bathing suit on, now shorts and sweatshirt, dirty, bent-back sneakers, I hurry downstairs, open the heavy door, and breathe in the majesty, the never-ending glory of our Kripalu view.  With dawn just breaking, I scurry, half-jogging, down the hill, skipping, running, racing with myself, racing against myself, racing against the dawn, to arrive at the water’s edge. 

Crossing over the little road, onto the path, even more excited now for the water’s approach.

Almost sprinting, internal leaping, making my way.

And there, the lake!

The lake.

Our lake.

Today a thick, heavy mist covers the water, 

Turning pink now with the dawn.

It is glorious—

Pink water!

I wade into it, this magic water, 

Descending into, 

Enveloped into, become one with the pink mist.  

The water, warmer than the air, comforts me, welcomes me.

I release myself into its arms, covered now in pink mist.   

Water, sky, legs, arms—all pink.

Ecstatic, I swim outward, into the arms of the lake.  

Blissed out, I marvel at the oneness, the pink-wholeness of the moment.

It is delicious, seductive, glorious a swim.

Swimming in pink, one with all.  

Blissed out and stronger than now, oh, so much stronger, twenty-five-years-younger-stronger, I swim on.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Bliss.

Until… I realize after a time, with a quiet, creeping awareness in my belly, that I feel turned around.

I feel directionally unclear.

I stop swimming, poke my head out of the water, and attempt to orient myself.

Am I heading toward the Tanglewood beach, to my left?

Or am I facing the center of the lake?

Perhaps I am swimming to my right?

I realize, with a pang in my belly, I do not know.

I do not know where I am in relationship to the shoreline.

My breath catches.

I cannot see the tree-line, which daily serves as my most reliable compass.

Not today.

Today there is no compass.

I feel a numbing fear creep and worm its way into my belly.

I do not know the direction.

I do not know my way back to shore.

Frantically I turned to the right, sure this is the way.

Stroke, stroke, stroke.

Head up, to assess.

No clue.

No, this way, I think, adjusting.

Stroke, stroke, stroke,

Head up, to assess.

Less of a clue.

I am not clear how long I do not know the way.

I pride myself on knowing the way.

I am not clear how I manage to somehow realign.

I pride myself on being able to realign.

Not this morning.

Time passes.

This morning, I am lost, lost in Lake Mahkeenac.

The voice of my existential terror increases its volume:

I cannot find my way back.

When will they notice I am gone?

How will they ever find my body?

I think of my community, my ashram family, women and men, 

Committed to serving, to growing, to learning.  

I love us so much.  

I am them, finally, at home.  

I do not want them to be gone from me.  

I do not want to lose them.  

The thought of it brings a surge of energy into my heart.

Is it twenty minutes?

Is it twelve minutes?

In  that moment, that moment of thinking and feeling my community,  I do not know how, even in the moment, I do not know how—but there, the tree-line emerges, creeping into vision from behind the dense fog, no longer pink, no longer so seductive.

A rush of energy surges through me.

Now! I recognize the shore-line, I swim with whatever strength I have not fearfully frittered away.

Arms tired, legs dragging, I push on toward the now-gloriously revealing-itself-shore-line.

The rocky bottom finally emerges beneath my feet—never so happy to have my soles been to meet these little rocks.

Never so relieved have I been to have my soul return to the soul group up the hill,

The soul group that was My Ashram.

That was My Kripalu.

That always will be My Ashram.

That always will be

My Kripalu.

~~~
I did not die that day.

I did not drown.

I got born.

And I continue to get born, through the light and the love of the Kripalu community.

The community, the connection, the bonds developed between us in the ashram literally created the work that changed our lives and the lives of you, our guests, over the decades.  

The Kripalu ashram will always been the rooted earth of the great Kripalu Experiment, in whatever form it inhabits.

~~~

To belong somewhere.

To be on somebody’s roster, 

Somebody,

Somewhere.

Desmund Tutu tells us:

My humanity is caught up, is inextricably bound up, in yours.
We belong in a bundle of life.
A person is a person through other persons.

This is so reminiscent of Swami Kripalu teaching about Vasudhaiva Kutumbakam, the whole world is one family, such a relevant reminder now.

Here is a short and lovely clip of Bishop Tutu: