Showing posts with label Gratitude. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Gratitude. Show all posts

November 21, 2011

Holding On

After the morning session at the writer's retreat, I changed into shorts and we went to the Blackbird cafe. I found myself enjoying the warm porcelain of the mug more than the actual coffee, staring aimlessly out the window at Tomales bay, just being present with the wood floor, the spilled creamer, the fancy pants car that pulled up so someone could drop off their used netflix at the post office.

We drove a long way to the lighthouse, the fog growing thicker and more surreal, some trepidation growing inside me. It was a thick blanket of grey by the time we reached our destination, after winding through cow pastures a plenty, cattle ranches and farms dotting the way. I was already cold, a condition I abhor, and was grateful that I had brought along pants and my winter jacket.

We hoofed it up to the visitors center, the cypress trees crying drops of condensed mist, creating a microcosm of damp earth, filled with rich moss. I was amazed at the lack of parking, the amount of folks out on this Sunday, despite the inclement weather. We wound our away to the weather station, where a brisk wind would occasionally reveal the ocean far below, information boards proudly proclaiming recorded gusts of 133 miles an hour, maybe my definition of hell.

We walked a little ways back, finding a surprisingly warm bench to eat our sandwiches, sharing potato chips and water. Chip opted to go on to the light house, but I balked at seeing the sign warning that the steps were the equivalent of climbing 30 stories, knowing my knees would complain the rest of the week. I wandered back to the car, the condensation so thick on my glasses that I just took them off, content to have blurry vision in the fog.

I sat in the car and continued to work on what had become my main focus in these last few days, facing my own struggles and writing to affirm myself all the times I had overcome similar obstacles in the past, all the resources I could draw upon now. Chip bounced up to the car, my happy Tigger, ready to hike into the wind and nestle into the poison oak and tick filled grasses. I struggle with the recent concepts of being content with the way things are and the need to create my own reality, which did not include being cold or being exposed to Lyme disease. I tried to not sound cranky as I requested we move some where more conducive to my needs, like the retreat house or a cosy cafe.

We ended up just going down to the beach a few miles away, instantly much sunnier, the sound of the elephant seals filling the air. We had passed many cows and a herd of deer or elk, the fawns practically obnoxious in crossing the roadway. We walked down to the rescue station, where for years brave men had launched boats to aid those who had been lost in the sea and fog, ships run aground and airplanes that had crashed on the shores.

We sat at a picnic table and shared our latest writing, I finally found the courage to share my piece on my real challenges, tears running down my face, choking up in places. We seemed to talk for a long time, and I found that beacon of hope in my chest, a lightening of my spirit as my internal fog lifted.

We walked back to the car and Chip went on another hike while I started a new Sherri Tepper novel, drinking his cold coffee and munching on potato chips. At some point I became anxious, looking up the trail for his familiar red sweat shirt, beginning to imagine the worst and wondering at what point would I go looking for him. I admonished myself to stop catastrophizing, to enjoy the calm warm car, but still my eyes would glance up at the end of every page.

My heart lept when I did see his familiar gait, and I felt silly for having wasted any time in worry. We went back to retreat house to change our clothes before venturing to Point Reyes Station for dinner, ending up at a very pleasant saloon with live music and yummy food. We talked about Gengis Khan and gratitude, holding hands when possible and thoroughly enjoying fresh popovers, speculating on blessings in disguise and how to create our future together.

Now we are back at the retreat house, a quilt resting gently across our laps, sharing the space with other participants, working on our writing assignments. I am tired but quite content, feeling happy with the little rock that Chip bought me, It has the single word on it, gratitude, and I know that this is something I can hold on to.

Blessed be.

November 16, 2011

On Retreat

Friday October 28, 2011

We have arrived at St. Columba retreat house in Inverness, near Pt Reyes. I picked Chip up at Google around 2pm, driving 101 through busy San Francisco, a windy tour into the northern seashore. After dropping off our stuff we walked the skinny shoulder of  the road into Inverness to dine at Priscellas on fish tacos and a sumptuous pesto penna pasta. I am aware of our talking, on this silent retreat, aware of the pauses, the moments of quiet, the need to share, our deep caring for each other.

I am deciding whether to bring my iPad into the workshop or to use my handy dandy journal, noticing the tap of my fingertips compared to the scratching of the pen, the incessant auto correct which is wrong in comparison to my own scribblings, an incessant need to edit, to make tidy and perfect.

What is my intention? To write, of course, but what springs forth is to write love letters - to Chip, to Amber, to Z, to Scott in a coma, to my clients, to myself. What are the letters of love? Looking at the Hebrew letters on the sun and moon tarot deck, what are the letters I would like to inscribe on my deck?

I wanted to make tarot templates before this trip, but time eluded me, getting caught up in the tides and eddies of cleaning the house, clearing my desk, last minute phone calls and emails. When do I put myself first? I comfort myself that all is within, and while I  may not be able to draw a perfect circle, I know I can draw upon my own creativity to begin what maybe I see as my great work, my chef d'oevre, even knowing in this moment that the quest is elusive and to enjoy the journey more than the destination.

Five years ago I really began talking about my intention to create a tarot deck, specifically by the time I am 50. Now at 45 I feels my own pressure, get with it, start writing, start sketching. I have momentary jealousies when I see a colleague who has created a deck, who is being published, and I need to remind myself that my time is my own, dedicated to Amber, dedicated to putting food on the table and paying off debts, there is plenty of time, plenty of time.

Recently I sketched out the minor arcana, and we'll see if I dedicate time to creating more fuller versions this weekend, or if my ramblings will take me elsewhere, always a learning experience, always a part of the process.

We are sleeping in bunk beds, a far cry from spooning together, yet I am so grateful to have Chip by my side, willing to enjoy this experience together. I send the cats energy and assurances, mom is just on a big hunt, and I will be back soon. Meanwhile, the retreat has just begun to be...

A treat!

Our first workshop, Chip and I pass each other our writings, I notice all the people from past retreats, those who are new. I'm curious about their stories, in slight awe of my own, from three years ago being in grief and torment over Chip, last year he house sat for me, this time he is by my side. I pulled the card of change a few days ago, and the wheel keeps on turning.

I am slightly chilled, at least my nose and cheeks, I can't believe I forgot to bring my jacket, she who is addicted to the black velvet. Addiction is my other theme this weekend, noticing all the times I have overcome past addictions, from cigarettes to farmville. I enjoyed my Lagunitas IPA at dinner, conscious of being grateful for moderation on this journey,

Blessed be.

November 14, 2011

A Blessing in Disguise

So you might know things as they are.-Jane Hirshfield

It is all hallow eve
And here at my door
Ghosts and goblins
Witches and more

Clamoring for candy
Or a least a treat
Here come others
Bustling down my street

In each one I see
The questions I ask
How to be authentic
To take off my mask

Becoming more familiar
With the skeletons in my closet
Realizing now
They are friends not yet met

We dress up our problems
Parading our fears
Put butterfly wings
On all our fairy tears

Shooting for the moon
Even if it is far
Looking in the mirror
So I might know things as they are

Facing the truth
Letting go of the lies
Each of my problems
A blessing in disguise

November 9, 2011

Everday Mystic

Taking a hot shower, the miracle of modern day plumbing
Coming home, the porch light is already on
The back yard is my temple, my sacred space
I am the priestess of pruning, invoking hummingbirds
Bees and ravens, a choir of leaves whispering
Dappled sunlight stains the grass
The clerestory of my personal cathedral
My vision of heaven on earth is here
I examine roots and bulbs, rose hips and passion vine
Inviting my teachers, cats, beetles, spiders and snakes
To teach me their ways of quiet contentment
I kneel in the dirt, grit under my praying hands
Pulling out my negative thoughts, planting seeds of change
Finding wisdom in watering, irrigating my soul
The deep peace of sweeping the deck yet again
Paying attention to the dusky hues, rising moon
I am planting my future now by enjoying the present moment
Breathing in the jasmine, I am not alone but all one
Here with my self, grateful for being the creatrix
Open to the mysteries as the night unfurls
Moving back inside to simply make soup
Supping on a blessed life, I break my own bread.

Blessed be.