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?

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.

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?

Fully Alone: In the Company of Me

For nearly ten years I dreamed, rather fantasized, of taking a road trip. You know, the kind where you throw some things in the truck, van or whatever, gas up and hit the highway. Maybe a loose idea of where you are headed, but open to making a right or left turn at the crossroad. At the "Y" choosing this way or that way—and none of that mattering, because the only purpose is to be going somewhere. "Anywhere will get you there," and in this case, that adage works.

In 2004 I bought a sport utility vehicle. The first thing on the must-have-on-board list, behind the heated seats, was the ability for me to crawl in the back, and make a bed. Just thinking about the road trip fostered the most incredible feelings of freedom. The fantasy of being a gypsy rebel hippie-type felt so right. All of that, saddled with the responsible, level-headed, what-the-hell-are-you-thinking—societally crafted woman. But know this, it might take this Renaissance woman some time to make something happen, but when she does—watch out!

I never did take that SUV out for that self-promised adventure. During my next car purchase, a compact sporty hatchback, I used the same evaluation techniques—crawling into the back to see whether I could fit in there comfortably in case I got the itch to just take off. I did fit, yet sadly it's 2008 with no heated seats—a sign of our times. I bought in anyway.

Fast forward with 50,000 miles under my treads and still no road trip. At the opening of last year I could feel a real tug, no nonsense this time, to hit the road. Sunset Magazine, three months in a row, sending me front-cover options. The Grand Canyon, Highway 101 to Big Sur and Yosemite. I held onto all of them like a bible, this was surely a sign—I only need to choose. My soul screaming louder than ever. "Just pick one!"

You know the saying, "He/she who hesitates is lost." I didn't want to be lost any more. Hesitation cast aside I commit to a trip to Yosemite—alone. Big gulp. And with it comes racing in my internal voices of reason, doubt and fear, compounded by the fears of others when they hear about my plans. "What about the bears?" "You're going—alone?" And there it was—the thing that had been holding me back, out in the open. Alone. Well, I live alone, and I've been doing my life alone. What was this all about, the idea of driving a very long distance—in the company of me? That was my fear. Who would I find during this long and seamless 400-mile drive? Would I be bored with her? What if she snores? (Obviously that was a joke.)

Here's what I found. The road trip was an amazing opportunity for self-
discovery. From the minute I rolled onto the highway, my left brain busy with the details of driving, the right side in complete creativity and awareness. Solidly present to my surroundings, and more importantly, to my heart and soul. I sang out loud, laughed out loud, laughed at myself and raced a train, making portraits of life all along the way. It was an entertaining time that passed far too quickly—such a surprise. The outward journey was also an inward journey of self-appreciation and love. They say if you can't love yourself (all of you) then you can't fully cast that love out to anyone else either. All these years living in the fantasy of a road trip, which I thought was about being away from the daily grind, turned out to be far more than that. It was about being in the company of me—fully alone. I filled up my own cup.

And I never saw one damn bear!

Is there something you've been dreaming about—that trip of a lifetime, complete with the list of why-nots to support it? If you tell me about it—I will support you in making it happen. How about now?

Loving Something Behind

Have you ever found a note on your desk or in a jacket pocket and for the "life of you," you can't recall why you wrote it down? So goes my note, sitting anonymously beside the computer keyboard. I looked over at the green sticky and its content of penned words: "Leaving Something Behind." My face scrunched up with a furrowed brow and mystically the word "leaving" morphed into "loving." I have no concrete idea how things like this arise, but I have learned to run with the thoughts handed down from—out there. The phrase "loving something behind," had a powerful ring to it, a positive, less melancholic chant to the idea of "leaving something behind." So here we go...

We will soon leave the Chinese Year of the Snake, and during the past year I have literally been shedding some skin. (You won't be seeing any pictures of that here!) Metaphorically, this past year has been in slithering rhythm with the anecdote of the snake. Molting away the old skin, leaving behind a former sense of self in stacked scales of sacred geometry. Each scale filled with experiences and life's lessons, and a profound vulnerability felt in that process. Letting go the people of "reasons and seasons," the layers of false faces rubbed off against the rough-rock journey—the path toward the new skin, the next layer expanded with a ready and willing brightness. The constraints of what no longer fits, happily left behind. Happily, yet not shed in the manner of running away from the past, or wiping the brow as if you dodged something. It is in the contrary context of embracing and loving all of the somethings, the somebodies and some former sense of self—left behind with love.

My dear and enlightened friend, Dave Towe, has these words tattooed on his arm: "In All Things Love." I thought of that quote this morning as I was writing, offering me additional confirmation that I was on the right side of my thoughts. If we applied the principle of love to everything in our lives, especially those experiences where we assign them with ill consequence, without fault or blame, we would simply love them for the value received. Any other way resides in the category of regret, resentment and shame. Those skins are hard to live with, and it is never too late to change "The Way to Love."

Is there something or someone you are holding onto other than in the light of love? I encourage you to take my idea into a contemplative moment, bring it into your heart and love that something behind. 

Note: "The Way to Love" the last meditations of Anthony De Mello—a transformative book given to me by long time friend Steve Alexander. It changed my point of perspective on my life as a mother, and what love is.