This Moment

If all I have is this moment, then what?

I slide into the perfection of support from the genuis of an Adirondack chair.

I gaze out from the deck into the enchanting forest inhabiting the island.

I see the sun rising in a quiet peek-a-boo through the trees.

I listen to the sounds as the winds dance in whispers around limbs and leaves. 

I smile as the sun's shine paints in hues of warmth and glistening effects. 

I admire the fluttering leaves above dripping like diamonds against new morning skies.

I thank God for allowing me, in this moment, to be in "it."

Little notes from the A-frame on Islesboro Island, Maine. 

A Fork in the Tree

It was the last morning at the A-frame on Islesboro Island, Maine and the sun was shining in full strength for the first time in a few days. The surrounding landscape of trees, the enchanting forest, started to come alive.

In one unfolded moment, a beam of light projected itself onto a tree to my right, illuminating first a section of its branches then the leaves. The branches formed a couple of V-shapes with my mind bent toward this thought, "A fork in the tree."

What followed next goes a little something like this: A chipmunk scurried up the trunk of tree. Like a fork in the road it hit a point of decision, where two branches meet. One going this way, the other going that way. And unlike the human-way...the chipmunk at the fork in the tree, with great instinctual nature and without a moment in hesitation—made its choice.

Time and Space

A middle of the night thought, time and space, still present in the early morning waking. Time and space, time and space — on my mind.

It has been said by many, "Time heals all wounds." I believe that and have experienced this phenomena of time as healer. As time ticks on the density and depth of a wound fades to a misted memory. Like the fading memory of a distant dream.

Space a gap of time yet not ticking like time. A place of expansion and growth, like ground to roots. The absence of time, people, places and things. To be, to feel, to absorb the rich offerings from the passings of time — to fully embrace and understand and put them in their proper place. Inside the heart.

Photo courtesy of Paul Tibbets.

Divine Decades

When I first purchased my vintage Spanish Revival bungalow 10 years ago, it was a dream realized. I never dreamed however, that I would burrow-in as a single occupant for this long. Looking back, I never consciously had that as my intention—it was not my plan at all. Then there is that nagging saying, you know the one, "There is my plan, and then there is God's plan."

I wrestled with this reality for a good number of years during this past decade, coming off of an 18 year marriage and not seeing myself as one of those "single-people." I handed down a verdict of self-judgment that was reflected back by numerous people through their broken smiles uttering things like, "I can't believe you are still single!" Or, "You're so (fill in the compliment), how come you don't have a boyfriend?" 

The year 2012 brought in profound and significant losses that permeated my life, mind and heart. It paved a new road of thought and, in retrospect, became a pivotal time for the way that I would think about my world moving forward. I was still here, while others were no longer. I dug deep beneath my skin, burying my head so near to my heart, almost as if to ensure it was still beating. Grief is an odd and unpredictable station in life.

Fast forward and through most of it...grief that is, I arrived at a place of contentment. A profound sense of peace and joy with my life as it is, my place in and around it, an elevated sense of self and the release of mind as judge, jury and sentencer. Released out into a life with open hands and heart to the faith and fate of my destined journey. The mantra "Let go and let God" along with a few "Hail Mary's" and in alignment with my own acceptance, because that is the only way that miracles can get in, has brought with it a bounty of gifts that I could only experience through the light of divine connection and recognition of it as such. Oddly enough, (not really) the hand-held mirrors from other people were placed face-down. The once hard-to-hear remarks muted from outwardly conversations—and erased from my own internal struggle of a voice.

At the beginning of this year I heard Jacob Glass, a teacher of spiritual thought say "You are the glory and greatness," we all are. I scribed that on my bathroom mirror where I would see it every morning, and I would say it repeatedly to myself—no matter how hard or foreign it was to hear. It's true, it is how we were first delivered as babes unto this world and, in short order, sadly forgotten by many—and most of the time by ourselves. 

My life is and has been through a long lineage of divine decades, and this one in-the-making is proving everday to unfold more divinely than I could have ever imagined. 

The Fear of Being Loved

"All You Need is Love." The Beatles sang it, the sages proselytize it and today you can simply purchase the saying on a wood block as decoration. I own one. I chant it, I believe it at my core and at the same time I am challenged by it. 

If love is all you need—all I need, then why does the prospect of it with another raise an eyebrow of disbelief, or have my heart drift behind the clouds of self-protection? Why is something that seems so profoundly simple and innate to our humanness become a struggle, a fear? These are the questions before me today. Good morning Lori.

Of course, I believe to know my own answer. Somehow writing it out becomes a process of working it out. I'm fairly certain it begins with the beginning, my grand entrance into the world. Held in the naive pairs of hands that carried me home, to nurture and love me the best way they knew how—in that moment.

From there, etched in stone, were definitions of love—their definitions. The stone ultimately rolled out into the world, down a few hills (at times mountains), taking little or no time to gather the moss of its own identity. The etchings of what was known of love carved deeper and deeper in definition. Tumbling down farther along the bumpy roads of life and further away from the divine truth of love. 

Until one day, and there have been more than one, the stone came to rest—to stillness. The etchings of love halted and hiding, peering out from behind the bent brim of experiences. Allowing for a more peaceful passage of time. Time and space for the moss to grow, nurture what defines its core and ponder the meaning of love. Time as healer, smoothing out the nicks of pain and shaking off the dusty-heart of a jarred journey. 

The etchings are scars trying on new definitions for love—challenging my mind's heart not to be afraid. To roll on, now with a softer surface and understanding.

Wishing for it to be simpler or I were more courageous about living into the mantra of love. I'm still working on it. 

Shades of Doubt

If we are lucky enough to journey long enough through the human experience, we may more than once, reach out for a dangling cord—pulling down the shades of doubt over our heart.

A momentary reprieve from pain, loss and grief. In truth the shade is only a brief departure from the sun that is shining brightly in perpetuity on the other side.

In time, under the sun's consistent rays of love and light, the shades of doubt will dissolve. It's only a matter of time.

Love-in the Rocks

With little or no agenda we set out, Stevie and I, for an early morning breakfast overlooking the Pacific Ocean with a Santa Barbara point-of-view. Followed by a walk upon the sand—prefaced by a read-out-loud entry of May 3rd from The Book of Awakenings—author Mark Nepo. My arms will not tire from raising the glass of appreciation for this modern-day sage and the moment the title jumped from where I first saw his book on a coffee table and into my heart.

The prologue, inserted here, is necessary in order to fully digest and appreciate the (unplanned by us) universal and miraculous events that were about to unfold, literally appearing in a path of rocks. The rocks, unlike the kind you stumble over—were smooth, yielding and symbolic in foundational support to a miracle in the making.

Prologue: Pre-breakfast conversation hovered around love and relationships. Heterosexual, bi-sexual and homosexual and my long-time thoughts on how it shouldn't matter who you love, but more important, how you love. And the societal prominence of labeling love and relationships, the prejudice and judgment bastardizing the only thing that we need...love. Ahhhh, pre-breakfast conversation—in the deep end of the pool, right where I like it!

Our walk along the rippling tide produced beautiful gifts newly freed from the sea and a few that showed themselves, but were not quite ready for the souvenir of taking. Each of us found a heart-shaped rock, honed in asymmetry and, when placed vertically in the sand for their photo op, their shapes cast out as shadows in heart-shaped perfection. Click, click—preserved by the camera. Slip, slipped into the pocket of my bag as treasure.

With our barefoot impressions erased, as quickly as they were made, the journey along the shoreline in forward motion presented more gifts. The living mollusk in its seaside nautical home, the lobster trap—trapped between rocks and a hard place, and other rocks bored through in curious circular designs. Each step softened and surrounded with feelings of pure joy, walking hand-in-hand with another, in wonder and awe of this moment.

The two-hour parking restriction marked our memory of time, and we began the trek back over where we had just been and—not been. The waves had gently smoothed over the past. My sandy feet begged for a washing—we have time. An out-of-the-way shower brought into view a rock-constructed stairway; my photographer's eye set its sight at the top where lacy openings allowed the blue sky to pierce through in glorious contrast. "Do we have time to go up there?" Stevie following behind—honoring and encouraging my child-like ways. "We have time." He says. "We have time." The depth of irony parked behind those words. For another essay.

This moment is a bit of a blur for me, as I was in my photographer's Zen place. Two women meet us on the stairs; we make room for them to climb up. There is a polite exchange between Steve and them that splashed quickly into a deep dive of human emotion, connection and compassion. I was pulled in. If there had been clouds in the sky, and I'm not joking when I say this—they would have parted the skies, with trumpets loudly playing as sunbeams from the heavens shined a bright light of love upon this place in the rocks.

The women, both weary and teary-eyed, began a tale of their postponed wedding plans to one another as one of their moms had suffered a stroke and they flew out from Boston to be with her. She lay in a nearby hospital in an induced coma. They had come to the beach for a respite from the heaviness of all that was before them, making their way from the very beach we had moments before been walking along, to the rock structure that had caught my eye. The disappointment of their altered wedding plans and the sadness in the news of the mom, who would have been flying to Boston to attend their wedding. We could feel their pain.

Stevie and I turn to each other, without a word or deliberation, through a mutually unspoken eye-balled agreement—he says to them, "Well, I can marry you?" "And Lori is a photographer." They can't believe it, I mean, who would? There we were—Steve, who has performed wedding ceremonies in the past, and me, who by all accounts is a professional photographer—albeit equipped only with my iPhone 5S. The conversation from there exploded into full glow serendipitous disclosure as we prepare for a wedding in the rocks. I'm multi-tasking with a keen ear listening in on the wedding prep between Steve and the ladies, while looking for the right angles, direction of light and positions to document the event. Right here, right now—this is happening! This is neither the time nor place to pause and wonder, or question the timing. The right thing to do—the only thing to do, is to flow through the moment handed down on the wings of angels. Ceremony conducted. Vows and rings exchanged, as raw and unrehearsed as you can imagine. Wishing I had with me my "All You Need is Love" sign and quickly realized that love—was all that was up there on the rock-solid wedding platform.

Following the ceremony, which I was witness to, photographer and videographer of (Apple iPhone ad coming soon), we sat on the steps of the rock cathedral—sharing the stories between the four of us. How we came to arrive at the same place at the same time. The events and conversations that prefaced our meeting. We hugged, cried, and smiled in the glory of the miracle—swapping business cards (equally as synchronistic) for future connection. “And if you’re ever in Boston,” they said, to which we replied, “We’re there next month!” And another connection unfolded.

To give words to what all of this has meant is equal to giving God/Universe a definition of boundary. So I won't.

As the four of us descended our communal place of "Love-in the Rocks" I lifted my arms overhead in the air and shouted "I love miracles!"

I really do you know.

Just before we parted ways, I felt this tug to give away the two heart-shaped rocks Stevie and I found earlier as a wedding present. In mutual consent the two rocks that had paved our way to this moment, slipped their way up and out of my treasure bag and into the hearts and hands of two beautiful women who needed them much more than we did.

Love will forever be embedded in those rocks.

Open Hands—Opens Heart

Imagine closing your eyes, your arms outstretched with the palms of your hands open and facing the sky. In the practice of yoga this is considered receiving mode. Then imagine a gift being gently placed in the cradle of your hands. It doesn't matter the nature of this gift, its size, shape or monetary value, what matters is the way it is being received. Does it feel heavy, like a burden? In the moment of receiving are there companion thoughts? What does this mean? What does he/she want from me? How will I reciprocate?

Or...are you able, as I am learning, with open hands to allow in the gift from another—of another? For nothing more and everything of—the offering itself? To be thought-less in the moment of the thought-full exchange? Can you/I allow the gift to dive below the surface of the physical, swim the channel of extended arms toward an open heart—an opening heart?

Last month I spent 30 days gifting—paying it forward. My reflection toward the end of this practice concluded with just how easy it was to gift for the pure pleasure of giving—much in anonymity and letting go of any sort of self patting on the back. Heading into this month, there was this little voice speaking from the archives of "things I once heard," that receiving was also a gift back to the giver. With that in mind, I set out in April (also happened to be my birthday month) to experience 30 Days of Receiving.

Day 24: I can't begin to tell you how liberating this has been. To be free of thought and be in pure acceptance of bountiful gifts. From gestures of smiles, kisses, well-wishes, and compliments to the traditionally wrapped varieties. Gifts freed from the sea and the garden to notes filled with gratitude for me just being me, and one PBJ sandwich lovingly wrapped, bagged and scribed with my name—LORI, a heart shape dotting the i. Accepting the mirror of glory and greatness in being human. Miracles delivered from God. The month is not over and my heart runneth over.

A visual now formulating in my minds-eye as I write today, two people in profile facing one another with arms stretched forward and in the exchange of "the gift," the symbol for infinity appeared. The figure eight flowing from heart to hands, hands to heart, heart to hands, hands to heart. A symbiotic event, the definition between giver and receiver dissolving. The path of infinite possibility illuminated—from open hands to open hearts.

Letting go-ward

I've been debating (with myself) how to write about my experiences during the month of March, where I lived into the intention of philanthropy. I chose "pay it forward" as my 30 Day Project, a month long daily practice of conscious giving.

To write about it seemed a contradiction to the practice, and somewhere in the archives from my rather non traditional Catholic upbringing was a teaching about that very thing. I'm not much of a bible quoter, and I found it here in Matthew 6:2; "But when you give to the poor, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing."

After some careful consideration and this morning's ah-ha moment/title I am prepared to move forward typing with both my left and right hands open to what spills out next on the page. No celebration, only a share.

There were lessons learned, times of giggly grace, faces left in confusion—sometimes my own and at the end, which really is only the beginning is my own experience of me, my actions and thoughts. In these moments, like a dropped rock in waters still and deep—the concentric ripples of deed spreading infinitely wide with invisible reach, their effects unknown. And like the rock breaking through the water's surface—with varying height in splashes, having no attachment to the ripples in destination on the surface above. The only concern of the rock—if any, is in the depth of its own being. 

Some of the hidden and revealed gems from this project, shined a light on where I still need to grow, and was also reflected back from my co-habitants of humanity. Here is a little story of one pay it forward, the one that kicked off this project. It will be the only one I share, as it is the shining example that allowed the rest of the month to unfold easily and unpredictably. 

It started at the 7/11 down the street from my house. I was in line purchasing my morning ritual coffee and at check-out I asked for a lottery ticket. The clerk while in mid-stream of handing me the potentially million-dollar-life-changing piece of paper, I asked her to please give it to the next person who came up to the counter. Insert her scrunched up face here. She didn't quite understand my request, so I said it again. I left quickly as I didn't want to be a voyeur into what happened next or who received it. As I was making the short walk back to my car my thoughts on two wheels were speeding laps around my mind. "Oh my God, I think I may have just given away a million dollars." My ego mind leaking out its history of missed opportunities, positions of lack and the holding things so close—the clear fear of dying. Death to the ego. I couldn't believe my thoughts and at the same time the clerk with the scrunched up face was reflecting back to me in a look of bewilderment that perhaps was saying—"Is she crazy? She may have just given away a million dollars!" 

I took my thoughts, thanked them and wadded them up like a cashed-in winning lottery ticket and tossed them in the trash with a smile. I think it may have been with my left hand, and I don't remember what my right hand was doing. That moment became the catalyst for the rest of the month and my life.

This morning as I contemplated writing this essay, I knew there was more here than the mere act of paying things forward—money, lottery tickets, a cup of coffee or a smile. For me it became clear that this was yet another evolution in my spiritual development, the practice of leading with a loving heart for no other reason than I believe that to be our innate and best feature of being human. 

One more layer in the practice of non-attachment, letting go...letting go-ward. 

The Eve of Unforeseen Grief

Todays marks the 2nd anniversary of the day before life shattering news would arrive at the doors to many of our lives. I can feel the sobs of anticipation that hover over the clouds of tomorrow. Portions of my own heart remain broken open. It's hard to be human sometimes. And this is one of those times. The presence of grief is acknowledged, "enough" time has not sufficiently passed.

My current day philosophical mentor— Mark Nepo writes in The Book of Awakening that, "It is brave and simple to say you are hurt when you are hurt, to say you are sad when you are sad, to say you are scared when you are scared." As I move further along the path of my own existence, the public face of holding strong is shedding. I am sad. Deeply sad and if you ask me "How are you?" on this day or any other, I have finally learned to tell my truth.

Today, grief is present, I am missing the light and being of my son of choice—Jeffrey Weinberger and at the same time grateful that he was a presence in our lives—my life.

Songs of Silence

It's raining this morning in California, pre dawn and I can hear the chirp of only one particular bird singing in the rain. Braving the elements of mother nature and in the dark. I don't know why but this moment sparked a thought about songs and silence...this is what silence means to me.

The golden silence of an early morning rise, when it seems that no one but myself is up and greeting the world. A comforting moment in darkness and in stillness. Everything painted with a hush allowing for my mind, body and soul to connect, to plug-in gently before dawn breaks into song. Blank sheets of music yet to be written.

The purposeful silence in meditation lasting for minutes, an hour or a week. The path of following only the direction of the breath. That is the goal. But then there is the mind. Our trickster heard louder in silence. In the absence of our conscious distractors, the volume of the monkey mind is turned up. When the monkey sleeps, silence sings a light through our heart lighting the way for the path of the soul. Truth rising to crescendo.

The destructive silence, where two people come together and no longer have anything to say. The withholding of relational lyrics in pained retaliation. The thought of a cold shoulder that still brings shivers to the spine. The absence of song for this dance brings stillness into a different frame of reference. This form of silence, sounds much louder than the rest. The passage that brings us to the end of a movement in relationship.

The songs of silence are many and these are just a few for me.

What does silence bring up for you?

Seasons in My Life

By Twenty

Life's lessons came hard and fast

Encounters, unkind and non-consensual 

Lessons I was not prepared for

How could I have been?

By Thirty

A phase of contentment

Settled in by a place called home

Surrounded by my created family

I longed for nothing more

By Forty

Chords of dissonance

Crawling before I walked

Clearing the unwept mess of the past

Realigning with self

By Fifty

Freedom responding to life's open invitation

Procreation giving way to creativity
Higher wisdom in thought and action
Connection with love as priority

By Sixty?
It's peeking around my corner
I will wait in 'wonder'
And...
Listen to my heart for what beats next

Serenity

Serenity
A word in perfection

describing the time of day

when darkness of night has not quite yet

 yielded to the break of a new dawn

Serenity

When the wind's whisper is gentle

 soft as sweet nothings in a lover's ear

Serenity

The color of the world muted

its vibrancy hushed and blurred

 like the waking mind

Serenity

Eyes fluttered closed in silence 

the sleeping with minds open 

drifting their dreams towards 

the catchers in the winking sky

Serenity

The symphony of sentient beings on pause 

my heart swells in the enormity of quiet

I have the whole world to myself

Guardian Crow

You made yourself known

With impeccable timing

Deliberate cadence in your voice

Raised above your brother

"Caw, I am here"

Caw, caw, I am near"

"Caw, I am forever watching"

Messages left behind

In feathered trails

Roosted above my sanctuary

Beside me on desolate paths

"Caw, I am here"

Caw, caw, I am near"

"Caw, I am forever watching"

You take the branches I shed

Building your territorial home

On a street you've known before

I'm under your watchful eyes

"Caw, I am here"

Caw, caw, I am near"

"Caw, I am forever watching"

I hear you resting near my heart

Uncanny encounters 

Transcending space and time

I'm grateful, as I answer you back

"Caw, caw, you will never be forgotten"

In memory of Jeffrey Weinberger, my son by choice. He is our Guardian Crow.

The Lines of Time

My face is graced
with the recording of time.

Etched with appointed
lines upon the surface.

Stacked horizons stretching across my brow,

the lineage of life's surprises.

Grooved verticals in-between,

the questions and the unanswered.
Disappointment, curiosity,
and determination
leaving the same deep marks.

The growing creases on my upper lip

exposing the journey of kisses.
Kisses as a mom, kisses as a woman.
All paving the way for more to follow.

Crow's feet webbed,

the channel for tears.

Eyes like the river's dance,
guided through moments
of laughter, sadness and joy.

Miles of smiles 

rippling like waves on the sand,
from cheekbone to cheekbone.

Lines drawn like those on a roadmap.
The surface reflecting where I've been.
The mirror, a snapshot of where I am.

But in my mind's eye,
a smooth surface prevails.
Who I feel I am on the inside
and spaces I have yet to discover.

At My River's Edge

New feelings are emerging

at the dawn of my own horizon.

Shifting as shapes,

between shadows of doubt

and the light of love.

Circling my heart

like the hawk high

above in the sky.

Scanning it's craggy landscape.

Looking for the cracks,

the way to get in.

Keen eyes peering down

as I stand along the

changing river's edge.

My big toe dipped in safety.

The paradox between,

observing the river's rippling effects,

or taking the leap of faith into 

the experience of the unknown.

Can you recall the last time you were at your river's edge? Did you jump in with both feet and your heart? Or, did you stand in wonder? 

Judging a Book's Cover

I once gifted a book.

A book of my own making.

And during it's travels,

the cover suffered

the smallest of tears.

What could I do now?

At my destination

I didn't possess another.

And what did that matter?

It was about the content

not the condition of the cover.

In the exchange

from me to the other,

it was the flaw
that was first noticed.

Spoken out loud,

unconcealed from my ears.

The contents overlooked.

The rip in the cover,

extended clean through

 to my heart.

While this story is based on a true event, I realized during the writing that this also provided me with a metaphor. Me as the book, with depth and beauty in content, only to be overlooked by the viewer's limited perception and focus on a single flaw. 

I know now, that this was not about me. 

Alive in the World

"Alive in the World" is the title to one of my favorite Jackson Browne songs. It comes from his "Looking East" album released in 1996. The album represents Jackson's return to more socially-oriented themed music through lyrics, which must be why I love this song so much.

It was during a peaceful drive home from Palm Desert heading west to San Diego, when Jackson's song began piping through the car speakers. I was alone in my car, the sky ahead was blue and clear of clouds, with fresh white snow blanketed the sides of the road. Just as I crested over the pass through the San Bernardino National Forest, the song came on. The lyrics as clear as the sky made their way into my mind and out my eyes in the form of tears streaming down my face. 

It's not the first time lyrics have spoken to me in this way. But in this moment, the combination of them colliding with the view surrounding me, was just too much to take in while driving. I could barely see the road behind my blurred vision, so I pulled over to absorb the magnificence of the moment. 

It was what I call a divine intervention moment. One that cannot be described or explained—like the "you had to be there" kind, and even if you were there, you would have needed to be inside of me to experience it. 

The lyrics from "Alive in the World" became my mantra that year, and beyond as mantra for my life. When something speaks so loudly, I have come to pay it the deserved attention—without question. And this was one of those times.

The lyrics from Jackson Browne's song speak to the coming of a new world, where fear and cynicism is trumping our humanity, where technology is redefining community and the human experience, and the idea of self preservation prevails over all others. By all accounts, his words speak to him opting out of these (my words) dangerous ways of being in this world, and I am with him. 

Below is an excerpt from the lyrics "Alive in the World" and I encourage you to read them and take them in fully. Find the song on line and have a listen. 

I want to live in the world, not inside my head

I want to live in the world, I want to stand and be counted...

I want to live in the world, not behind some wall

I want to live in the world, where I will hear if another voice should call...

To open my eyes and wake up alive in the world

To open my eyes and fully arrive in the world...

And the infinite power of change

Alive in the world

How many times have you seen or been a part of not extending a hand to another who has fallen? The action of non-action out of fear for self, or thought as you walked on by "Someone else will get that." I'm not saying that I am perfect in my everyday human interaction, however, I am aware of the dangers before us and strive to show-up awake and alive in the world. 

Will you come with me?

Beauty and The Pain

Yesterday I was witness to an amazing experience that I believe was heightened by 27 consecutive days of a new yoga practice. I have spent hours retraining my breath and listening to my body while twisting and bending into purposefully expanding postures. Without it, I may not have arrived at the healing destination that took place on a long drive home, after a long and arduous day.

It only took three words to cut through me like a knife. Cast out through the snarled lips of the past, and out of the mouth of one of my greatest teachers in this life. Those three words triggered a painful history, leaving tears welled up and hovering at the edge of my lower eyelids. Held back like high-water at the dam's edge.

More than the words themselves, it was my surprise reaction to them. And as I enter my sixth decade in life's classroom, this particular assignment continues to keep me after school. The curriculum has been a coarse one and today's lesson sat waiting patiently behind my tears and blurred vision, as I stepped behind the wheel for the welcome drive home.

I took a different route home than was usual. One less congested and stop sign free allowing for an ease in driving. In that freedom, the day's concluding event replayed in my mind offering fully the effects of the opened wound, bleeding and raw. Recently read passages from my new favorite contemporary philosophical author, Mark Nepo, reminded me to feel these moments fully. And so I did. This, in tandem with my return to a yoga practice, had opened me to locating visceral experiences happening inside my body.

I could feel the pain, the hurt, so intensely as it first circled the area around my heart, taking a route traveling down the path along the spine, through the pelvis, reaching even further down the legs, and coming to rest at a tingling in my toes. By my own calculations about 80% of my body was fully engaged in the feelings of emotional pain—all at the same time. Connected and unyielding, heart to toes.

With a single blink of my eyes, the dam broke. In the very next moment, what laid before me, in the expanse of the sky was an unobstructed sunset in the making. I could feel my soul switching its gears, moving past the pain and into appreciation for the beautiful gift of nature. These words, like a yogi's mantra chanting in my mind, "This is real. This is the only thing that is real. Thank you." The feelings of emotion in this raw and open state, as I breathed in the expanse of sky and beauty of color, allowed the eyes of my soul to see beyond the pain of the previous moment.

I could feel the expression of joy in this moment so intensely as it first circled the area of my heart, taking a route traveling down the path along the spine, through the pelvis, reaching even further down the legs, and coming to rest at a tingling in my toes. Sound familiar? Yes! If I may answer my own question. The same physical experience of deeply rooted emotions around hurt, located in the depths my heart connected to the bottom of my toes, were exactly what I had experienced in the raw moment of appreciating beauty.

The lines completely blurred between beauty and pain. The heart-to-sole channels cracked open wide. The path of pain and fresh wound followed directly by the healing bandage of beauty. Perhaps it was in that order, or maybe it was happening simultaneously, I'm no longer sure.

What I do know or witnessed for myself is, created through beauty or pain, the sensations were the same. And with that, I believe I have found a tool for future healing. When the heart is broken open there exists an open portal of opportunity to seek the bounty of beauty that surrounds us, to sooth the wound when broken open or anew.

Consider this...it might just work for you too.

When Worlds Almost Collide

At a large and very busy intersection in San Diego, in the far left-turn lane, I rolled to a stop on a green arrow, my left turn preempted by the blaring sounds and rotating lights of an emergency vehicle. It was coming from the perpendicular direction. I could see the ambulance struggling to make its way through the congested traffic. As a former wife of a firefighter, I am hyper-aware and sensitive to these moments. I know what I am supposed to do. In this case, be still and don't get in their way. There was nowhere to go but forward. That would have put me directly in their path. It was also hard to gauge how long it would take for them to break through. My decision to stay put at a green arrow was solid.

Behind me, cars were honking for me to move. From their vantage point they couldn't see what I saw. The guy behind me, whom I could see him through my rear view mirror, was frantically waving me on. Another man pulled up alongside me, window down, shouting with animated pointing finger, "Go, go go!" What he didn't see either was the ambulance coming from his blinded direction.

 What I couldn't see, but was now coming into the chaotic script, was a second ambulance in my left-turn lane, also in code three (both lights and sirens) some three or four cars back. It was a strange time- and space-altering moment, as I watched this scene play out like a bad conversation. The involved parties unable to see or understand the other's point of view or perspective. In reflection, this event reminded me of the Academy Award winning movie "Crash." A collision of lives, scenes and points of view, vignetted brilliantly on the big screen. This however, was playing out in real-time and in my life.

Ambulance #1, as I will call it, finally made its way through, I followed quickly behind, pulling over safely to the right to allow ambulance #2 free passage, each on its way to the needed. I was left shaken by the thought of what could have happened with any given edit to the situation and the frustration of not being able to communicate to those behind me what was happening outside their range of site. Especially the guy passing me with finger pointing and shouting, "Go, go go!" He never saw the ambulance my action was responding to. I imagine he was thinking something along the lines of "Women drivers!" More questions swirling around the after math in my mind. Did the two ambulance drivers know they were there competing for control of the intersection and civilian obedience? Did those behind me get that ‘Aha!’ moment when they saw what I had been waiting for? Did the "Go, go, go!" guy long ahead of the chaos ultimately pull over to the right with both ambulances screaming free from the tangled mess? All questions remain unanswered.

Minutes rendered in slow motion with moments of panic and secondary reactions to the panic—not having the benefit of the whole picture in wide screen, or hovering above the tangled conversation at the intersection like a bird.

The chaos did not end in a physical collision, but one more transparent in nature and one for the books of how situations can go strangely awry—depending on your point of view, presence and participation in the moment.

Staying grounded amidst the chaos, to the truths that played out before me. It served everyone well today, at the very least, where worlds almost collided during one intersection of life.

And I wonder how many times this plays out in our own lives, partial views, limited experience, narrow perspectives – all getting in the way of our fuller, bigger-picture view of any given situation. Ever happen to you?

Heart Rush

During the 23rd consecutive day of yoga, I experienced something there that I have felt at other times and places, and perhaps because it didn't come during a time of stillness, it came and went in less than a momentary notice. It didn't hang with brilliance and longevity like the twinkling star waiting to be named, dangling above in the dark sky of night.

The front of my heart in a posture hovering above the grounded earth, the back side open, soft and vulnerable, greeting the sky. In stillness for a period of time, long enough to bring about change, to open barricaded channels built over time and experience.

What I speak of, the thing I have named, is an inexplicable feeling, like a wave of warmth and goodness blanketing the soul. A brief encounter with what I believe to be our true nature, and it came to me in a "heart rush." Those were the two words that came to me, unsolicited, magically popping into my head. The wakeless feelings of pure joy and connection happened twice during my practice. The gratuitous naming both a blessing and a curse. The blessing, honoring it with a name in recognition and appreciation. The curse, giving it a name and wondering if it will visit me again.

Every day on the yoga mat brings with it a new experience, just like the rhythms of our lives. Some days nothing but bliss and ease, other days the chaos of the mind can only simmer down to a whisper. The body bending into postures promoting delicious releases of histories in pain and dis-ease, and gloriously, like this day, in an unexpected and welcome moment, a "heart rush."

Dedicated to my teacher Cindy Angelina Shaw, who provides the safe and loving environment for release, transformation and love.

Namaste.

Children at Play

It was a random weekday night, with a spontaneous invitation to dine out in a nice (without being stuffy) French restaurant. The feel of the decor, a reminder of three weeks in Paris seven years ago. White candles in candelabras dripping wax, settling happily at the silver bases with an occasional spill onto the tables. Stone walls, dimmed lights and tables lined with their best white—butcher paper.

With dinner under wraps and a few more sips of wine to be savored, this was the perfect time to use the paper, lining the table, to toss out a few ideas for issues of great importance. Some of the best ideas have been worked out on a paper napkin in a bar, you know?

With business behind us, and pen in hand a doodle happened. I think it was a circle, it's hard to remember now and not really important. What is important is the sequence of events that happened next.

One piece of paper, one pen and two adults. A circle drawn, calling of course for a happy face. The pen and ink rendering grew from there. The pen being passed from one to the other, politely taking turns, giggling like little kids at what the other had just contributed.

Just plain silliness! As the scene played out, we were no longer aware of our surroundings, or who was watching. An unadulterated and unplanned curriculum of cooperation and collaboration. One stroke of the pen building upon the other. Completely without ego and waiting to see, with the energy of "little-kid" excitement, what the other was going to lay down next. Insert giggling after each one's turn. No one trying to outdo the other. An exercise in co-creation. If only this is how adults behaved all of the time.

We left that drawing behind on the table that night (not without first taking a picture of it, of course.) Grinning and laughing at our little masterpiece as we walked out the doors of the restaurant. No need to bring it home to mom to hang on the fridge or frame it for the family wall of fame. Laughing at the thought, now that we were back in adult mode, of who would see it next and if they would laugh too. Or would it be overlooked without amusement and tossed away, to ready the table for its next diners.

Shoulders shrugged, simultaneously, in a who cares gesture. The afterthought of how a spontaneous moment, that came out of the ether, we were children at play. And quite frankly we would all be better off if we allowed ourselves to be more like that, more of that. Lessons are everywhere if we choose to see them that way.

By the way, what do you think of our masterpiece?

The Three Breaths

Breathing, an automatic response in rhythm, right along side the heart's own beat. Breathing, one of the most essential and life sustaining things that we do, that we must do. Much of the time it is taken for granted. Unlike the heart (unless you are a skilled yogi) we can guide and direct our breath. The amount of air on the intake, the length of the air streams filling the body, holding it in place for short intervals of time and even the direction of airflow inside our body.

During ninety minutes of a yin-yoga class, I experienced a very moving practice working with the deliberate and focused flow of breath. Breathing, an act so automatic that rarely gets a notice, yet we do have the option to be more fully with it.

Prāṇāyāma is a Sanskrit word meaning extension of breath. The word composed of two Sanskrit words, prāṇā, life force, and ayāma, to extend or draw out. The practice is not forced, it is without constraint or control. A deepening of awareness and appreciation for this thing called breathing. An exercise in gratitude for it.

I was guided through an experience that left me with filled with grace. Lying on the yoga mat drawing in purposeful and deep breaths, eyes closed, with the first in the series of "the three breaths" directed toward the area of the lower belly. An imaginary, in my minds-eye, triangle formed on my inside. I could see it being painted like jet streams in the sky, with solid lines at first, disappearing into thinned air. The foundational breath starting at the base of the belly, stretching and expanding out to the sides of the ribs, spiraling upward at mirrored angles to the top and center of the chest. 

A perfect triangle, drawn with equal sides in breath trails. Reversing the sequence from the chest, out toward the ribs, coming to rest at the belly base. The continued sequence of "the three breaths," happening easily with an intentional mind in cooperation with the body and spirit. Bringing to mind a clear connection to cross-cultural threes. The Trinity in Christianity—Father, son, and holy spirit. Heaven, man, and earth in Eastern Philosophy. The Triquetra of Celtic Wisdom—earth, air and water. And right there on the yoga mat, through "the three breaths", the connection between body, mind and spirit. 

What also came to mind were the three organs receiving the sequence of breaths. The stomach, the lungs and the heart, equal partners in the nurturing and sustenance of our living and breathing self. The holy trinity within the body.

Breathing is not an option, but breathing fully and deeply is.

Crickets Beneath My Pen

College ruled lines on the paper

Clean, crisp and fresh

Waiting patiently—excitedly

For the flow of fresh ink

With a sweeping motion

The writer's hand with right posture

Dances the pen to paper

Waiting for the music to begin

Only to find stillness

Beneath it are crickets

Bamboo in the Wind

In the practice of Qigong, there is a lovely sequence called "Bamboo in the Wind." Qigong, deeply rooted in Chinese philosophy, is the synchronization and alignment of breath to movement. "Bamboo in the Wind" is the gentle swaying of the body, from side to side. A movement in allowing, rather than doing. The polarity of moving in stillness.

The bamboo with its firm bond to the earth, yet yielding to the winds of challenge from any direction. An admirable quality to possess as a human being on earth.

Strong and flexible. Grounded and light. Breathing in the moment, effortlessly embracing change. The wind as refreshment, tossing old patterns of leaves down to the earth. Opening up spaces for new sprouts of growth. The wind and the bamboo, always in harmony—mutually arising.

Bamboo in the wind, a metaphor for life.


All content and photography ©2014 Lori Brookes. All rights reserved.

Platform of Reflection

Unfurling the mind like the sailcloth on a jib, 

set free to catch a fresh breath of wind.

The body stretched out straight and strong,

a plank reaching out beyond the bow of spirit.

Breathing in and out the ocean sounds,

mimicking the ebb and flow of the sea.

Looking deeply into the depths of blue, 

reaching down to bottom of the soul.

Reflections of self,

through the eye of the dolphin

mirrored under ripples of waves.

The invitation to expand and open,

from the platform of reflection.

Paving my Way

After a long two year period of being very tethered to home, wondering where did my enthusiastic, motivated and I-can-do-anything, self go. I remember. Oh yeah...she was grieving. Two losses in less than two months of each other, both equally soul shattering.

The second one stripped me to my core. The unexpected passing of my eldest son's bestie, of sixteen years, who was in all ways but one, a son to me. Receiving the news that he, at the young age of 37 had left us, is underscored here as shocking. It couldn't be, this must be a sick joke. The date ironically, was April 1st.

There is a long list of pain around this loss—feeling the emotions empathically from my son, those that belonged to me and the incomprehensible loss from his parents. Thinking about what they must be feeling, well, it took my breaths away.

From the moment the call of disbelief came through from my son, through the moment I made the call to his parents, delivering a parent's worst nightmare of news, our block-long house of cards came tumbling down. All of us—forever changed.

The road back from grief has not been as smooth as a newly paved one. With those neatly painted straight lines in bright white and bold yellow, stretching out the distance of boundaries and direction. It has been a bumpy ride, full of potholes, lots of noise under the tired treads and faded of a clear destination.

The corner turned into a new year. The view ahead started to feel much clearer, as acceptance—the final step in the process began to settle in. Not without times of hitting a little rough patch along the way. Kicking up some loose gravel of emotion, only but a temporary loss of traction. "That is life" as they say.

The signs ahead indicate I am paving my way back. Exciting new terrain to explore, with windows washed, radio up and a full tank of gas.

On the bright side of my road.

Sacred Spaces

As I prepared for the start of an early morning and much-needed yoga class, I scanned the room where the other yogis were stretching their way into the first posture. These are people I don't know and know at the same time. And from the silence of the quietly-dimmed space of yoga sanctuary, I felt completely and strangely known. Safe and loved.

As we started with the first round of cleansing breaths, I marveled at this space filled with people breathing-in and breathing-out, all from the same source of flowing air. Breaths exchanged with ease and without argument. My mind clearing, but with one final wandering thought to my sanctuary at home. I call her Casa Milagro (Spanish for Miracle House), she is my everyday sanctuary—sans people. Both spaces sharing a breadth and depth of commonality with sheltering and unconditional embraces.

I have discovered other profound moments and places of sanctuary in my journey. Hiking and camping alone in Yosemite. The drive there alone is worthy of the title. The powerful drive to Big Sur on Highway 1. Sanctuary. Leaving behind the world-wide-grid to the "Land of Bel-Aire," even if only for a few days. Embraced. Greeting the day from the "Zen Bench" crafted by my sojourning friend for my in-joy moments. Sanctuary. Deep conversations with a trusted friend. Sacred.

The word sanctuary—descriptor for my sacred spaces. The containers of our holiness and wholeness. And from that place comes my wholeness in mind, body and spirit—where nothing is asked of me and everything is possible.

Where are your places of sanctuary—your sacred spaces?

Bel-Aire

The Zen Bench

Stillness is an Option

Delivered through the lips of the yoga instructor, "stillness is an option."

A single and short phrase of something so profoundly simple, easily overlooked as an option in the life filled with a calendar of distractions, hurried decisions, wasted with worry and fear.

The slavery to continue doing or saying, without pause, compounding exponentially. 

The natural flow of deep breathing constricted as the heart beats rhythm out of control.

There exists divine permission to do or say nothing—until you can again. From an open space, a more loving and compassionate place.

The world will wait. Stillness is an option.

Have you ever had moments when the more you say the worse things seem? Like painting a mistake on a piece of canvas, adding more and more layers of paint of correction only to create a muddy mess. Have you considered taking the path of stillness as an option?

With New Wings

Where am I on this journey?

I have just made my way out of a long period of cocooning. I experienced the process of disintegration, and have fully emerged with a new pair of wings. A new dawn, a new perspective—the next leg of the journey.

The garden of life's delights looking delicious as I'm flitting about.

The winds and the rain sometimes chasing me into safe harbor. I find within me, the nearest nest of respite.

My wings are beautiful, strong, complete and complex. In their polarity they are delicate and vulnerable.

When the rain clouds lift and the winds die down to a lofty breeze, I return to my freedom of flight.

I am the butterfly—with new wings.

In the Hush of a Sunrise

What I love more than the colors themselves, is the quiet and assuming way they present themselves. Without chatter or clamor, not an echo is spoken to draw the slightest bit of attention. You either are awake for the experience or you are not.

The presence and gifts are available everyday—without condition.

I thought of Vincent Van Gogh this morning. I didn't know him, yet I have a sense that when he painted, his brushstrokes were also an outward quiet expression of creation. His paintings not presented with the condition that someone must love them. They were created with the same universal beauty of a colorful sunrise. They had to come out. Channeled as a hushed expression of all that is right and true.

I have the same experience many times with my writing. The words spilling out, doing their best through me, to paint in phrases of sunrise. Quietly resting on a page to be read and taken in fully—or not.

Once in a while I will go back and read something I have written. More times than not I think, "Who wrote that?"

Just like in the hush of a sunrise, God did.