Meditation in Mosier, Oregon

An abstract bundle of sticks and stones … Kate

Steve turned the calendar to June in the tiny guesthouse where the monks stay sometimes.

“Sing out! A new song arises within every time and place, opening possibilities.
Others hear, join. Power increases, coherence builds. Stars and sands move into alignment.
Suddenly – a tipping point. The song blossoms, bears fruit never before tasted.
Don’t vote for change. Be it.

Fear and discouragement come from shackles of the past. Always, in the shadows, lurk outrageous, inconceivable dreams, visions, or songs that can unfold beyond any expectations, a path into new balance. You never know, until you speak, what a seed in you can open. Sing out!”

– Quote from June, 2010 calendar called Feng Shui, Living in Harmony with the Natural World by Tom Bender and Gary Brasch

It’s hard to know what’s going to happen next. I can’t get my printer to work but I can blog in the middle of nowhere and upload to the internet and fill the whole world in on what’s going on in the private chamber of my heart.

Life is amazing. Terrifying, ridiculous with gifts. My eyes land happily on grandchildren who still don’t know the details of their surroundings, only to discover that life really is simple – and wonderful. It’s hugging a cuddly boy who’s got teeth breaking the soft pink line between air and bone and chewing what life feeds him from here. Painful and delicious. The edge is close.

The economy. Gigs. A compelling sense of purpose drives us through a mess of recession shock. Who wins is still to be determined. I vote for the good guy.  Our brethren scramble to find the one true thing that’s going to give their lives a gold star and hearts a reason to beat strong and steady. The difference we make may come from that one kindness that contradicts our comfort and commands response. One act of compassion could save us from senseless existence in a world of chaotic cells in hot pursuit of the next best thing. Recognition strikes as we find our reflection swimming in confused expressions.

I’ve only begun to get a grip and I’m already old in the eyes of the young. Couldn’t this have happened when I was 12 instead? Then I’d be more ready now for the answers that come with age. My years have been fast, full of every kind of challenge. The swim keeps me alive, afloat in the silly waves that slap me back and forth to sweep me in their long winded direction toward the next aha! Then back again just as strong, pulling and pushing, push and pull me my feet swiftly from the sandy bottom as I lift from my anchored spot to keep my nose above water as the salt purges my skin, lungs and eyes into the chemistry they boil down to. Awake as a fish, alive as a child, wanton as mermaid looking for air where water used to be, I go.

In the face of doubt, reassurance holds me fast to the chase. Underneath it all, a nearly maniacal sense of thanks draws juice from what could be rather than buying the despair on sale at every corner. Hard times hit even those living soft and cozy lives and suddenly the darting look of maybe is hanging around where the smug smell of gold used to lie. Even corruption has it’s turnaround. Karma brings us all into the dance balancing gravity and light. I want to dance all the time and be in tune. My heart follows heavily behind hope, heavy with the pain of the earth and consequence of greed. What if greed disappeared? The world would begin to heal.

My left brain has been working at executive levels this past week. Suddenly, out of the loamy depths of drawings and songs and laughter and people and sharing and stories and all that came before we had anything to say about it, I find myself midair waiting and reaching my fingers to catch the bar of the oncoming trapeze and pull it in, curl my hands around thin steel cylinders mid swing an arm’s length above my head. Gravity pulls the weight of my body as I run into new momentum beneath the bar and let go of the floor that holds my feet. What happens next comes feet first.

Steve and I knew a long time ago that life for us meant music. No matter how scared, tired, insecure, broke or crazed, the fact of making music was a divine gift we were given that grows when we do it. It feeds an irresistible hunger we have to play and sing. The music runs through our fingers like fish in water, coming from our gut through our throats to indulge the instinct at every chance. Stress is undone by the desire to play, giddy to do it. Steve’s got it too. We partner to serve the muse, we harmonize every way we can find.

A song grows like a slow hair on a magic giant’s head; a fat beautiful string of indefinable and iridescent color, thick with texture shooting slowly up and down in lava-like rolling and falling by its own accord and weight, angling down the mountain scape following rivers as ancient fir trees break ground into sky and the open air fills with sounds that spring from fingers to strings tied on woody tops to pick and lift under voices filled by soul inside embraceable notes held by air we breathe and air we let out from our chambers to surround us in buoyant sound. Sounds of life instigate songs.

We come bearing songs backed with heart and soul and wood, flipping the pitter-patter of our two hearts like lucky coins throwing unpremeditated songs and a few we know into the wind that takes us.

I am a happy carrier.