Cracks seem to attract every little thing. Water, for sure, but weeds, tree roots, litter, rubble. A stroll through our urban neighborhood, steeped with deeply fissured sidewalks and rumbled asphalt, reveals little microcosms of vegetation and whatnots building tiny towns within every nook.
Mark Nepo has an entire chapter, called "Reading the Cracks", nestled in The One Life We're Given. Instead of reading tea leaves or fractured sidewalks, he writes about reading the cracks that life opens. I'm guessing you have a few cracks opened in your life, being human and all. Whether it's a tiny fracture or an earthquake, you might have noticed how those cracks (which we might, at times, call a cruel avalanche of unfairness - Nepo) are the very place where the light gets in. And being curious creatures, we try to read the cracks and make sense of what comes through.
If you're like me, you might have been working hard all of your life to mortar those cracks, harden your shell and keep things out. But humans aren't sidewalks or roads. It's hard to see truth or beauty without letting the light in. Nepo challenges us with this: As you walk down [the] street, look for the cracks in your walls that will let your Spirit out. This may appear as a moment when your guard is down and you feel vulnerable. Or when a moment of nature slips through a crack in your worry. Notice how you feel in the moment of being cracked open.
Now this is not the same as being cracked up, a crack-pot, or full of craic (you Irish readers). And most definitely not the same as being a crack-head! Perhaps it is ok, and maybe even good, to be cracked open. I will ponder this with a bowl of pistachios, and call it "cracking meditation." :)
As I stand in front of my mirror this morning, make-up in hand, you know I am tempted to recreate this look on my actual face, right?
"Loft " (Lungta or Wind-horses)- mixed media on repurposed wood. 16# x 5.5" x .75". Ready to hang. Available here and at Artfinder.
I wonder if our prayers, intentions, wishes and dreams are more potent and powerful if lofted high, far past the outfield and high into the sunlight where our eyes lose the ability to follow the ball...
There is something magical about being high up on a mountain, wind whipping your face and grabbing at your clothes. I can think of a handful of times I've held that view (and held my breath - I have a little thing with heights). In North Carolina, a climb to the top of Crowder's Mountain was rewarded with raptors soaring below. In Ireland, every mountain has a breathtaking view - sometimes fields and tiny towns, other times the wild Atlantic and rugged cliffs and seabirds. And in Oregon, there are mountains everywhere for scaling - far more challenging than anything I've scrambled up before.
I haven't seen the mountainous views of Tibet in person, but am drawn again and again to the photos of tattered prayer flags hung in thick layers across mountain passes - evidence of man's quest to feel the breath of gods and to let gods better hear his prayers. There are prayer flags outside my own house, slowly aging, fading and fraying. A reminder of surrender and acceptance and ever-present change.
As I converse with my neighborhood crow friend each morning, I wonder if I could ask him to carry a prayer flag (lungta or wind-horse) or two as he rises up over treetops and buildings. Perhaps if I smear them with jelly or something tasty? In the meantime, this piece of art, a trio of birds carrying prayer flags, is a symbol of lofted prayers and soaring dreams. Namaste.
Now this is surely an ironic quote to connect with, given this girl has the spine of a dried flower in a stampede of wildebeest.
And yet - I am not broken Not broken by the milk or the surgery or the loss. Ok, deflated, agonized, irritated, depressed, angry, upset and crabby - but not broken.
Now clarity sounds like a pretty good thing today. And a good heart cleansing is probably past due. So I am channeling this savvy queen today, putting things down right and left, willy-nilly and hither and yon. I probably left a pile of stuff out by the sidewalk. And a mound over by the gate. As long as no one trips, I think this method may just be the ticket.
The blog is on vacation for the next week while we celebrate family and create more laundry. Happy 4th!
There is so much busyness and hurrying in the modern world. Some of it self-imposed, some of it imposed by others. We begin to think it is normal, expected, beneficial, even. I am the WORST offender on this topic - productivity is balm for my angsty-ness.
So that's that. I am tossing out my "to do" list today (EEEEK! PANIC!) and just going with the flow. Oh, and perhaps I should set down this broom, too.
"It isn't 'resting bitch face' ", I say to my family, "it's MY FACE." They don't believe me. But truly I have not mastered (yet) the art of gracefully handling pain (or gracefully sitting down, apparently) and certainly have no chance of winning any game where a poker face is required. Minerva and Mia have much to teach me.
The summer solstice arrives today - the longest day, the shortest night. Plenty of time, dear reader, to contemplate all those balls you're juggling and the beams you're holding in place. And the tick tick tick of father time, reminding us of its finiteness. Or, we could jump into the mindset of the mouse, observing from a safe place, wondering why humans are so odd and perhaps going back inside the clock for tea and biscuits. Hmmm. I say we have tea.
Jen Walls and her imaJENation