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.

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?

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

The aWAKEning

Grief, like a boat motoring at sea, leaves behind in its path a wake. Similarly, in the wake of loss, grief doesn't travel a straight line to recovery. It carves through the range of emotions—from the deep waters at our bow, bruising past our once-even keel, and churning out the turmoil of rocky waters aft. And in those early moments of disbelief and despair, everything you thought you knew—has been lost at sea.

As the wake fans out behind the boat, with time and distance, so follow our emotions. Softening the turbulent churn, smoothing out the sharp ripples and waves of feelings. Not that we ever forget. However, as the saying goes "time heals all wounds."

How long and how far must we go to restore equilibrium? That's anyone's guess, as we are all individual in our processes of recovery and our life journey.

As the wake lessens—the life lessons begin to appear, like a clear horizon after the storm. In my own navigation with loss, I have found this to be profoundly true. This is the year of my—aWAKEning.

Do Bold Things

The truth of this statement, if I had to sum up my life's mission right now, is all I would need to say. There is nothing like the passing of friends, especially when they are young, it's unexpected or when they are your own age, to send you into a cerebral head-spin around a few quintessential questions. "What's it all about?" "What am I doing with my life?" 

With the first friend, in this trilogy of loss, I was hit hard, very hard. Only a few days prior we had lunch together, making girly notes of her new coif, she was the epitome of her joyous self. With one single blow, that memory was knocked silly when another friend delivered the news that she had taken her own life. I've never known someone personally who made that choice and it shook me to my core. I stared at the portraits I had taken of her and combed incessantly through her social media pages looking for answers. Between the note she left (eight pages), her two brothers' crying her history of pain during the memorial service (one they didn't fully understand until after) and a quote from Niccolo Machiavelli, which I found favorited on her Facebook page, I came to understand. Mind bending.

“All courses of action are risky, so prudence is not in avoiding danger (it's impossible), but calculating risk and acting decisively. Make mistakes of ambition and not mistakes of sloth. Develop the strength to do bold things, not the strength to suffer.”

Some people feel that taking your own life is an act of cowardliness. I disagree. I have come to view it is an act of courage. My friend, whether you agree with it or not, made a bold move. When I read repeatedly Machiavelli's quote on her page, all I could think of was that she was letting us know, right there in two lines of text, that she had taken an action of risk, calculated and chosen very deliberately, not to suffer. "There, but for the grace of God, go I." With unabashed understanding and no judgment on her choice, I cast myself forward to take in all that she no longer would. In some strange way, I felt it was my obligation, more than ever, to live a larger-than-life existence, since I am still here. Bathing in the millions of colors in the sunrises and sunsets, taking the dreams of some-a-day and doing them, quitting on the things that silence my spirit, taking flight and mingling with the clouds. Doing bold and earthly things—now.

This is not where I thought I was venturing off to with my writing today. I imagine that this commitment to one year of writing is also taking a bold course of action. I've come to understand, more fully than ever, what it means to remain gifted with this life. She and the others are a consistent reminder to do bold things—in this life I am living. In loving memory of my beautiful friend, Anamarie.

What is on your "Do Bold Things," what I like to call my "Live it List?" What are we waiting for?

I Saw Me—In You

Have you ever caught a DNA glimpse of your parents, siblings or children in you? In some families I have seen that unquestionable repeating of physical pattern, yet in others—not so much. Once in a while when I look down at my hands, I'll see my mother's hands or I will look at a photograph of my children and recognize my nose or the shape of one lip as identifiably me. For the most part, however, I have found my physical self to be uniquely me—often joking that I must have been left on my parent's doorstep. And as far as my children are concerned, one born a blue-eyed blond, the other one with a copper-top, I've wondered "Where did my genes go?"

My life as a portrait photographer has offered me the opportunity, in close range, to roam the landscape of people's faces. Very intimately during the post production phase in the computer "light-room" applying what I call, "Photoshop kindness." Never pushing that beyond what feels natural, the camera not as forgiving as our eyes. Not only do we see what is in physical form, we also see with our senses, experiences and our hearts. Adjusting for the harshness of life, smoothing over the contours of skin and form, seeing below the surface and peering deeply into the "window of the soul." The eyes.

It is an occupational wonder looking into someone's eyes. I have studied my own, fascinated by the range of color, the spectrum of layers in the iris bursting out like fireworks from around the pupil. The limited category for eye-color on a check-this-box document, falling very short of what I see. I wish for more boxes to choose from. How about a box that says "Other" with a line where you would write in your own descriptive color—mine, would be amber.

My dad's eyes are blue. Baby blue. Icy blue. His features—Germanic in lineage, and up until yesterday I never saw anything of me in him—that is to say, in a physical sense. I arrived in the Latin package, wrapped in olive skin, high cheek bones and skinny legs. While we were chatting it up at lunch, I held his gaze in mine (like we are supposed to do—always look someone directly in the eyes), listening deeply when I drifted off to somewhere I had never been before. The shape of his eyes. Circling the rims sent me into a momentary lapse in listening—his eyes were in the shape of almonds. The same shape as mine. How had I never noticed that before Dissuaded by quite-the-opposite in colors—maybe? All I know is that my dad, in his eighty-something year, was sitting opposite me, and in a strangely beautiful moment of recognition, I saw something of me—in him. What I refer to as a God moment.

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?

Writing For My Life

I have much to say going into my 57th year on this planet, volumes to share, but not everyone is up for swimming with me, in deep-end-of-the-pool conversations. At least not in person. Therefore I write. It is my time of contemplation where the in-spired thoughts are revelations that come up for air and out-breathed into the universe. Maybe read, that would be nice, maybe not—the intent really is writing for my life, giving it an acknowledgement and over conversation, the penned thought can live as legacy to a life long after departure.

I also have experienced myself time and time again, where during a conversation my wits of words and wisdom are not about me (not sure where they go actually), my exchange falling in short strokes of what I really had to say. Often holding my breath in depths of hope of finding my wits. I don't think they know how to swim.

Writing is a cathartic process, an artful expression of co-mingled vowels, consonants, punctuation marks and phrases. The words, paddling their way to the surface, are in no hurry. They know there are so many of them to choose from, they wait patiently along the writer's edge for their turn to dive into a verse, chapter or song.

I am—WRITING for my life, on behalf of my life, for my livelihood and FOR my life.

What are you doing that is acknowledging your unique passage through this journey called—life?