This is about Prayer

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

~~~

A bird
Named
Buzz
Taught
Me
How to pray.

She
taught me
How to be
In relationship
To reality.
~~~
Here is the story.

This is Buzz, my teacher.
She came to me in a dream.
I scooted her away.
After all, I was living in an ashram.

Who needs
To listen
To dreams?

Then she returned
In a mediation.
Most insistent,
Claiming her place
In my life.

This time
I listened.

And there she was.
At the pet store.
Waiting.
Tiny, 
A baby 
Fuzz-Thing.

She was Buzz. 

She took her place
In my world,
My ashram world,
With more ease
Then I had.

She sat on my shoulder
As we walked down
The long Kripalu halls,
Attending meetings,

Thrilling our
Animal-starved
Guests.

Together
We lived
Our ashram
Life.

(This was indeed
The older Kripalu.)

She attended
More meetings
Then any bird
Or person
Should.

She loved 
Chanting om
In the meetings.

Om sent her
Into what we called,
“big birdie syndrome”,

Wings extended,
Simulating flight,
Ready to 
Take off.

Or so it seemed.
~~~
One day around Thanksgiving
(100 years ago)
I was cutting her flight feathers,
An easy-enough thing.

She spread her wing
And blood smeared the wall.

I had hit a blood feather.

Rushing her
And me
To the vet,
Heart in throat,
Bird
In 
Carrier,

Intensity
Beyond
Intensity.

After cauterizing
The feather
The vet said,

“Keep her warm.
We’ll know
In the 
Morning
How 
She 
Does.”

Covering her
With 17 blankies,
Turning on
Every
Heater
I could
Allocate,

Weeping
And 
Praying,

I said,
“Goodnight.”

Turning off
The light
In our room,

I spent
Much 
Of that night
On 
The 
Floor
Of the bathroom.

Weeping,
Praying,
Mumbling.

I had learned
About prayer
In 12 Step Program.

“Pray only
For the
Knowledge
Of God’s 
Will for
You,
And
The
Power
To carry
It out.”

I’m a good girl,
Especially then.
I am committed 
To doing it
Right.

Especially then.

I’ll do it right.
And then 
Will you
Love me?

Praying for
Preference
Was inferior,
I did believe.

It was 
Flawed
I did believe.

I had struggled
To ask only for God’s will,

To be a good sober
Girl.

BUT IT HAD A PREFERENCE.
I HAD A PREFERENCE.
HOW HORRIDLY
WEAK
OF
ME
TO
HAVE
A
PREFERENCE.

And Buzz taught me that night.

She gave me the prayer that 
Said:

“Please, if it be Your Will,
Please let Buzzie live.

And give me
The courage
And
The willingness
To be present
With what is.”
~~~
Buzz the Bird
Taught me the value,
The righteousness
Of my own humanness,
Of my own preference.

She taught me
How to ask
For what I wanted
And
Needed 
And
Hoped 
For,

And then,
So importantly,
To surrender
Into 
What happens.

She taught me
About my relationship
To Spirit.

And—she taught me
How to begin
To accept
My humanness.
~~~
OH!
The end of story:

Next morning,
Opening her many
Cage coverings,
I was met
By a bird, 
My bird,
A teacher,
My teacher,
Buzz,
Who 
Looked
At me

And 
With clarity
And Commitment,
She said,
“Pretty bird.”

(The full content
Of her 
vocabulary.)

She was beyond fine.
She lived many years
As a happy Kripalu ashram resident.
As a commuting Kripalu employee.
As a suburban animal companion,
Living at home,
Watching the world
Out her window.

Buzzie
Taught me.

She
Taught me
Among 100
Other
Things,

How to pray
As a human,
To that 
Which
Is
Greater
Than
That
Humanness. 
~~~
Prayers lives in so many forms.  

It lives in movement, in silence, in words, in actions, in flow, in animals, in nature, in art.  

Ad Infinium.

Prayer lives in music.

Of course.

Here is an extraordinary piece by Stile Antico, a British vocal ensemble specializing in polyphonic early music composed before the 18th century.  The group has no conductor.  The singers rehearse and perform as chamber musicians, an approach that has been praised by critics.

To mark forty days of lockdown in the UK in 2020, Stile Antico has created this socially-distanced recording of Thomas Tallis’ legendary forty-part motet, (a sacred choral piece) called,  Spem in alium, using smartphones and tablets. Its intention to offer hope and strength is remarkably woven into this music.

Being a folk and light rock 60’s kid, I know nothing of this music.  

I thank my dear June H. for widening my world and opening my heart.

The song, Spem in alium is a 40-part Renaissance piece by Thomas Tallis, composed in 1570.  It is considered by some to be the greatest piece of English early music.

It translates as: “I have never put my hopes in any other but Thee, God of Israel.”

Here is Stile Antico offering us this prayer:

Joy—A Simple Primer for Complicated Times

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

Complicated can be a word
We could use 
To describe this moment.

Along with other words—
Such as
Despairing,
Tragic,
Immoral.

Complicated can be one description.

How do we live during a time
Of so many feelings?    

So many conflicting feelings.

I found myself walking down
A quiet little dirt road,
Little Nik at my side,
Sniffing and smelling and exploring,
Doing her job.

Me, doing my job/my un-job,
Breathing in the quiet and beauty
With a quiet, internal joy of being.

Suddenly
A gust of wind 
Blew over me
And I was
Instantly swept 
With reminders
Of the devastation that covers our planet, 
The cruelty of civilian suffering,
The rise of authoritarian power.

How can I be walking in this peaceful
Gloriously beautiful Berkshire moment,
While all this unfolds?
How can we embrace all our feelings?

Without denying any of the other feelings,
How do we lean toward joy?

We deserve joy.
And happiness.
And serenity.
No matter what
Is happening
Around 
Us.

How do we create
The circumstances
In which 
Joy
Can
Emerge?

Surely not to deny the horror of this time.
Surely not to spiritually transcend them.

But to honor all of it,
To live
Without
Conflicting       
Paradoxes. 

How might we create the circumstances
In which that woosh of joy,
That energetic,
That body-centered,
That rush
Of feelings,
That opens
Us up,

That fills us up,
That flows through
And leaves
Us
Even
More alive?

~~~
Joy =
a feeling of extreme gladness, delight, or exultation of the spirit arising from a sense of well-being or satisfaction. 

The feeling of joy may take two forms: passive and active. Passive joy involves tranquility and a feeling of contentment with things as they are.

(Psychology Today)

~~~
For me, for this wacky-foible-filled human—
For me, here are memories, moments, slivers of joy:

From yesterday–
Watching
Niki
And her friends
Spenser and Clementine
Run like the wind,
Around and around the field,
Flying and darting,
Jumping and swirling
Chasing and catching
Chased
And
Being 
Caught.

Playing,
Freer
Than
Free.

From two hundred years ago–
Watching
Myself, age 12,
Catching that ground ball
In the JCC gym,
That
Magical catch,
I instantly 
Threw it thoughtlessly
To first base

Two out!
We won!!

Rushes of joy
Physically
Flooded me.

Never to be
Forgotten.
~~~
We don’t create joy.
We don’t will it.
We don’t force it.

We create the circumstances
For joy
To emerge.

Joy is a gift,
A blessing
That
Tiptoes 
Into our bodies
And
Wakes 
Us up,
Leaving
Us
Even
More
Alive.

~~~
For me, for this wacky foible-filled- human—
For me, to create the circumstances specifically looks like:

• To get outside (essential!)
• To move my body (not-negotiable)
• To have consistency in my day
• To give myself consistency of mealtime, of wake and sleep times
• To be mindful about my intake of news 
• To avoid disturbing images
• To hang out with my doggie
• To expand the limits of COVID previous restriction
• To imagine, to intend,
• To commit
• To being
• Open 
• To
• The 
• Joy.

“Like a Son or a Daughter Returning Home”*

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

Impermanence.

Everybody’s
Favorite
Topic.

Where to
Even begin?

In pondering 
Impermanence,
I consider—

What did I most deeply 
Love
In my life,
That 
Was
Taken
From
Me?

The most adored part of my childhood,
With full merging into it,
With heartbreak of 
Its seasonal rhythms…

I loved-beyond-love
My Girl Scout camp.

It gave me
Freedom from the
Literal bonds 
That tightly tied me
To myself
For
The rest 
Of the year.

School,
My stuttering,
Having to talk in class,
Wanting to kiss girls,
Feeling so deeply 
And desperately separate—

All released
As we drove down
The sacred dirt road
Leading to
Girl Scout 
Camp Archbald.

For two months
Each summer
I was freed.
I was loved.
I was competent.
I was—
A part of.

I know now
Summers there
Probably saved
My life.
~~~
And what of the end of summer?

What can I remember and learn?

With summer’s ending came
Crushing heartbreak.

Heading away 
From the light.

Driving away
From the fun.

Back to school.

Back to aloneness.

I cried and 
Got 
Quiet 
Again.
And
Again.

I was
Speechless
With 
An adolescent
Grief
That
Colored
My world.

I counted
The months
Till camp reunions
At Christmas time, 
With the hope of
Our beloved counselors
Coming home from college
To visit.

Did it ever happen?

Or was imagining 
December,
Easier
Than
Imagining
Summer,
So far away?

And then—
Springtime
Opening up,

And then!

Summer
Packing,
Heading
North
To 
Kingsley,
Pa.

Camp Archbald.
She held my growing,
That camp.

She held my hope,
That camp.

She held my potential,
That camp.

I had to practice
Leaving
And
Coming 
Back.

I had 
To practice
Impermanence.
~~~
I wanted camp to never leave me.
I wanted to never leave camp.
What I know today,
From this vantage point
Of myself as a
“Green, juicy crone”,
(thanks, author Jean Bolen):

I am that camp.
I am that child.
I am that lake
Softened by
Decades of
Girl scout pee.

I am that flagpole
I am that 
Dining hall.

I am all that.

It is me.

~~~
Absolutely nothing
Comes to stay.

It all comes to go.

Every 
Single
Thing.

All things.

Come
To
Pass.

Bodies.

Beloved animal 
Companions.

Feelings.

The cells
In our bodies.

The seasons.

A kiss.

A memory. 

A rush 
Of connection.

A flush
Of disconnection.

The fluidity
Of the moment
Is beyond
Our minds’ grasp.

Impermanence
Is the true nature
Of our lives.
~~~
I know this
Except 
When
I 
Don’t.

I understand this,
Except
When
I can’t.

I practice this
Mostly,
Except
When
I am
Unable.

When I relax
With the rhythms 
Of life,

When I let
The season
Be
What
The season is,

The moment be
What the moment
Is,

I am that kid driving down
That dirt road,
Summer stretching
Before me.

I am 
That 
Free.
~~~
Here is Pema Chodren, beloved Buddhist teacher and writer and dear soul, on her eightieth birthday, six years ago.  It’s about seven minutes long—please listen to the end.  The closing prayer, oh!  The closing prayer, from which the title of this blog, “Like a son or daughter going home” is taken.*

Pema Chodren at Eighty—Relaxing with Impermanence

Rinse and Repeat

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

Practice truly equals:

Rinse
And
Repeat.

For example—
The practice 
Of being present.

Let’s remember.

The bottom line,
The
Cosmic truth 
Is simple–

What’s happening
Is happening.

Conversation over.

Sort of.

Yet
We of the human species
Have things to do,
To interact
With 
That 
Present
Moment.

From the place
Of presence 
We can then
Offer right action into the moment,
To participate in change.

And
When all is said
And all
Is done,

What’s happening
Is happening.  

And then
Rinse
And
Repeat.

Reality is relentless.
It wins.
~~~
The gifts of the practices
Of mindfulness,
Of living yoga,
Give us 
The capacity
To live 
Both
In spite of
And
Because of
What is happening.

We are not charged with
Changing the moment.

We are charged with 
Partnering 
With 
It.

We get to relax into it.
We get to let
The feelings come
And let
The
Feelings 
Go.

And then?

Rinse 
And
Repeat.

~~~
Practice is.

It doesn’t end.

We don’t graduate.

We keep
Coming
Back
To
The
Riverbanks
That
Hold us.

For me?

To be with what is.

To do 
My best.

To make
A
Difference
When
I 
Can.

When I can’t?

Rinse and repeat.

And when I can?

Yep, you got it.

Rinse
And
Repeat.

~~~
Comforts for this week, for me, for my strong and tender heart, have been two songs of healing, of different yet the same ilk.  

The first is a Jewish prayer for healing, Mi Shebeirach.  The prayer asks God who has blessed our ancestors to bless and heal us and to heal our loved ones.

This is a beautiful version created and sung by Debbie Freeman, who was a Jewish singer and songwriter, a feminist who strongly influenced both Reform and Orthodox congregations.  She is called a “religious bard and an angel for the entire community of Jews.”

Hundreds of temples utilize her version of the prayer.  In the Reform temple I been a member, our rabbi requests us to call out names of people to whom we would send the light and love of this prayer.

Perhaps you can do the same:

A Prayer for Healing with Debbie Freeman

March—Outside My Window

Spring Birds Chirping in the Background

This blog post is also available on my Facebook page to make sharing it with friends and family easy for you to do.

“Memories bring back
Memories
Bring back you,”

Says the song.

What do I believe
About memories?

How does aging
Impact
Not just my biologic
Capacity
To remember…

But the shading,
The nuance,
The perspective
Into which
My
Aging
Brain
Contains
My history?

(Sidebar, please:

I remember,
During my lesbian-feminist days,
I would never say
“history”.

I would say,
“HERstory”.

So—
I 
Stand
Corrected
By the 
Memory 
Of
My
Younger
Self.)

Memories bring
Back memories…

~~~
When I wrote my
Second memoir,
A family member
Read it 
And
Descended
Into deep silence.

Eventually I broke
The
Oh, 
So
Familiar
Silence
And
Asked,

So?

And they said,

“That’s not what happened”

My response,
Decades ago
Was:

My memory.
My HERstory.
My memoir.

And now?
My response now?

Perhaps and hopefully,
It might be:

We all
Have full
Permission
To Remember
What we remember.

Full permission
To forget
What we
Forget.

Permission
Granted.

~~~
When considering my past, 
Sometimes I wonder—
Am I making this up?

Have I added this detail,
Tacked it onto reality
And it has
Over time,
Over
Internal
And
External
Retelling,
It has
Latched on,
Morphing
Itself
Into 
Its own truth?

Maybe.

And—so what?

My memory.
My HERstory.
My memoir.

Permission
Granted.

~~~
Inspiration found me this week through three pieces about memory.

The first one—an article from the NY Times Guest Opinion section.  Written by Dr. Scott A. Small, he explains his perspective; that our brains have the inherent ability to forget parts of the pandemic and that forgetting is healthy, appropriate, and necessary for our mental health.

His final paragraph reads:

“Forgetting some of this fear will allow us to more clearly recall the details we want to remember. For me, those include the astonishing resilience, bravery, and sense of collective spirit that emerged two years ago this week as my hometown became an epicenter of this pandemic. Those memories make me hopeful for the future.”

I always thought the work was to keep memory sharp and alive.  He offers an interesting shift, the essential need to forget.  The full article from March 9th is below: