Christmas morning, an early morning of dogs taking up most of the bed, of bringing them out into the frigid cold light, Pachysandra finally with leaves curled tight against the winter come round to us again. Small pinks and oranges littering the dawn; a small posse of adolescent crows making their way more quietly, as cold is far more serious than casual fall. Solstice come and soaked us, as we, aware or not, are renewed with its depth of ancient connection. To rhythms and cycles- listen now -as the ant knows how to function in a nest, as the bear knows how to awaken in spring and care for her pups already there, so too when we give ourselves some small chance-to settle ourselves-to take ourselves seriously- to remember"Ah, this is MY LIFE!"
This moment. No matter how tiresome or lonely or paltry it seems, no matter how in this silly turn of human choice and consequence, we find ourselves in yet another culture that parades before us, for its own money- making, near impossible fantasies of who and how we " should be able to be", if we are of worth, always implied.
Seems the best recourse is to hear the wisdom of the ancients.
Ancient trees and lands and Hemikeuca lucina buckmoth and the peoples in ancient times who, too, became lost and found and lost.
Yet many of the seasonal shifts and human cultures had immersed in them the wisdom of the spheres, the simple ways of living and balance.
And to some, it began with a God-word, their God-form, outside surrounding them, and of them, and within them.
So that all you saw-the stand of Sumac and the Buckmoth and the cranky baker next door , and the hungry thief of a child of the Miller, and WERE you and you WERE them and nothing was easy and if you slipped down, as you struggled down the road, babe on back , small lunch on pocket, scythe in arm, as you made your way to the ripened Millet fields
and as you did, you DROPPED DOWN into yourself into the quiet and awareness of the universe
and found there, your SELF, waiting.
And as you made your way, you watched as thoughts and complaints and memories and sadnesses had their moment with you, then quietly and efficiently dissolved a bit more.
If you were milking cows with frozen fingers and a hungry belly or helping an aged one up from sleep, bathing and dressing and rubbing with oil the sore places,
as outside the dawn was rounding the bend of the day,
and the day was December 25th. And no matter CE or BCE, you caught sight of the small orange poem as the night gave way and the day opened its lustrous wings ,
and shook them ,
and inside of you was the song of remembering.
For ants and Oaks and Bears come into being knowing how to BE ants and Oaks and Bears.
And here in the now of a Chrismas morn is the remembering we must find also,
day after day, down deep within us; down in the quiet , no matter where
Or what or how we are. Like laying out a prayer mat anywhere .
For our wisdom and our health and our peacefulness. Our fullness of being.
We remember and we find the depth and we find our consciousness
waiting like a loyal canine and
we find our awareness
and we venture outside
and we breathe deep the cold air of our life
and watch the small orange of the sky transform
and then we find our ancestor selves and earthly selves and universal selves
all over again.
This moment. No matter how tiresome or lonely or paltry it seems, no matter how in this silly turn of human choice and consequence, we find ourselves in yet another culture that parades before us, for its own money- making, near impossible fantasies of who and how we " should be able to be", if we are of worth, always implied.
Seems the best recourse is to hear the wisdom of the ancients.
Ancient trees and lands and Hemikeuca lucina buckmoth and the peoples in ancient times who, too, became lost and found and lost.
Yet many of the seasonal shifts and human cultures had immersed in them the wisdom of the spheres, the simple ways of living and balance.
And to some, it began with a God-word, their God-form, outside surrounding them, and of them, and within them.
So that all you saw-the stand of Sumac and the Buckmoth and the cranky baker next door , and the hungry thief of a child of the Miller, and WERE you and you WERE them and nothing was easy and if you slipped down, as you struggled down the road, babe on back , small lunch on pocket, scythe in arm, as you made your way to the ripened Millet fields
and as you did, you DROPPED DOWN into yourself into the quiet and awareness of the universe
and found there, your SELF, waiting.
And as you made your way, you watched as thoughts and complaints and memories and sadnesses had their moment with you, then quietly and efficiently dissolved a bit more.
If you were milking cows with frozen fingers and a hungry belly or helping an aged one up from sleep, bathing and dressing and rubbing with oil the sore places,
as outside the dawn was rounding the bend of the day,
and the day was December 25th. And no matter CE or BCE, you caught sight of the small orange poem as the night gave way and the day opened its lustrous wings ,
and shook them ,
and inside of you was the song of remembering.
For ants and Oaks and Bears come into being knowing how to BE ants and Oaks and Bears.
And here in the now of a Chrismas morn is the remembering we must find also,
day after day, down deep within us; down in the quiet , no matter where
Or what or how we are. Like laying out a prayer mat anywhere .
For our wisdom and our health and our peacefulness. Our fullness of being.
We remember and we find the depth and we find our consciousness
waiting like a loyal canine and
we find our awareness
and we venture outside
and we breathe deep the cold air of our life
and watch the small orange of the sky transform
and then we find our ancestor selves and earthly selves and universal selves
all over again.
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