Walking

Walking


It has not been a winter of inviting walking. Not very productive, in other words. It has been one of the coldest in a long time, even though the snows haven’t been deep. So my limbs have been staved off. It’s been an effort to keep them strong and flexible. And a real push to keep them moving.

Now there is promise of spring. Warm and sunny days, beautiful lighting with the bright sunshine. The sun has put an excitement in everyone’s heart, and we’re taking full advantage. We know, being in Colorado, we may still see our deepest snows yet. But the warmth of the sun keeps us wishing and hoping. We try not to be selfish, the grass fires have started, meaning we do need more moisture. Occasionally, we do have to seek shade from the heat of the sun. Thoughts of planting come to mind, even though I commented last year there would not be a garden this year, too much hard work for so little yield. But the walks in the sunshine bring longings to have your hands in the dirt, sprouting plants and your own fresh fruits and veggies.
Patricia
3/31/10

Brief Fantasy with Four Favorite Words

Scintillating Titillate Bioluminescence Discombobulate

I am discombobulated.
Yes – I am happily married to a man.
Yet, I can’t help but be titillated by that woman over there. She is so voluptuous—there’s that weighing on me. But there’s also her strange bioluminescence, the latest form of tattooing. In this darkened room she glows in a pattern of scintillating squiggles and dots, a wonderful array, highlighting her feminine beauty.
I want to swim through the liquid lust between us to bruise against her luscious lips – but I won’t.
--Terra Rafael

Questions

Who is where?
When is why?
Why is that?
And that is why.
Now and then,
Time or not,
Here it is ,
It’s what you’ve got.

Could it be?
It’s O.K.!
It’s the start
Of a new day.
Come along,
Get the groove,
Dance this dance,
Now it’s your move.

Angel dust
Fills the air,
Glittering light
Sparkles my hair.
So, in fact,
This is why
I cannot,
Nor never die.

Open heart,
Open mind,
Open love
Is what you’ll find.
Which is how,
It’s your choice,
After all,
It is your voice.



Lift it high.
Shout and sing.
Live your life
And do your thing.
When is now
And then is here.
There is nothing
More to fear.

Walk with me,
Hold my hand,
Together we
Will understand.
In the end
What will be?
Nothing but
Eternity.

Prema Rose

Writing Quote

It is very difficult for us to comprehend and value our own lives. It is much easier for us to see things outside ourselves. In the process of claiming our good writing, we are chipping away at the blind gap between our own true nature and our conscious ability to see it. We learn to embrace ourselves as the fine creative human beings that we are in the present. (Writing Down the Bones by Natalie Goldberg)

The Music

It was the music…”We Can Change the World”…Won’t you please come to Chicago or else join the other side…rules and regulations, who needs them…Somehow people must be free, won’t you please come to Chicago and show your face. If you believe in freedom…”
With lyrics like that, who could say no…who could not hear it…who, dancing to it, wouldn’t take it into their cells and make it their own. It so spoke to my Aquarian nature…I wanted to save the world, thought I could, maybe I still am…one kid, one client, one friend at a time…
Jyoti

Moving Beyond Comfortable – Part 1

Lakota and I took our first riding lesson with Deb yesterday. The sun burned off the clouds and it turned into such a beautiful day.

I have a goal this year. I want to canter freely on my horse. We have issues here ~ Lakota and I. She gets anxious and bothered with speed. If you ask her to transition up from the walk to a trot she might get anxious. But if you ask her to move close to the fence, in order to stay on the circle that she has been repeating at a walk ~~ that is too much. She cannot be corrected and asked to trot at the same time. She gets bothered.

Lakota has copped an attitude. You can tell by reading her signals. First, she pins her ears, then her tail sticks straight out, her movements get stiff and jerky. Even in the beginning, as we start out with ground work, when Deb asked her to transition up to a trot, Lakota tossed her head and showed us that she was not with the program.

I am standing in the middle of the ring watching Deb ride my horse. Deb is talking to me as she rides circles around me. She tells me that she is going to hold Lakota here till she sees a change of attitude. Even the smallest attempt on the horse’s part will result in Deb immediately letting go of any and all pressure.

“Making the wrong thing difficult and the right thing easy” was the mantra of a Natural Horsemanship legend, Bill Dorrance. Lakota is learning that copping an attitude is not acceptable and there will be immediate relief if she makes the slightest attempt to sweeten up. She is a quick learner, plus for those of you who do not know her, she is a very sweet horse.

Our goal is to help her gain the confidence and trust to accept our cues.

Now, at this point I must tell you, that this is my journey as well.

To be continued……..

* annette

The Diamond Hearts


The diamond hearts I am referring to are my three grandchildren, who have been separated from their Mom by a twelve hour drive, temporarily. They want to continue attending school in Oklahoma. Which is understandable for most kids, they want to be with their friends.

I spent as much time as possible with these three, ages nine, twelve, and sixteen, while they were here for three days. Of course they have all their electronics which are a great comfort. The girl, Maddy, who is nine said her friends comfort her by talking with her. The twelve year old, Jake seems the most emotional, but also very creative, winning lst prize in the state for an anti-war movie he made about Viet Nam. He’s also very musical, playing several instruments. I’m learning from him, since we are only 3 days apart, that yeah, Virgos can be emotional. Now Zach, the sixteen year old has developed a true diamond heart. I see his light, he has Venus in the top of his chart, drawing in and putting out so much love, light and kindness. He has a sweetheart, but girls just love him and call him all the time, without all this attention going to his head.

But they each hold the diamond and I see it sparkle more each time I see them. Their mom and I call them often. She will be traveling back to see them as much as she can.
I feel each one of them are going to blossom from this separation. May they each continue to hold and polish the diamond.
Patricia
3/21/10

Poem - Abandoned?

How silly my little me can be-
Sometimes I think that I’m abandoned-
An empty, old house only the wind whistles through-
Yet the Beloved is that same wind-
Caressing each corner as He passes through -
And the Beloved as sun shines warmly each day-
Cooking my old wood until it pops with passion-
The Beloved as rain makes me wet again
Until the vain nails that I thought held me together rust and give way
And I release into ruins.
Even then the Beloved works as sun & rain & burrowing insects
Until-
Finally-
I break down enough to merge
wholly
into the Beloved as fertile Earth
And I totally know we are One.

--Terra Rafael

John Paul

I just got a Facebook message from South India. It is from a dear family who runs two schools and an orphanage. They hosted me and the children for several days when we visited in 1996. I am now remembering when I first met the father in 1974 when I was living in Auroville.

I was on a tourist visa, which was due to expire a couple of weeks before my due date. I was determined to find a way to have my baby in our house that we had built in the tiny community that we had started, called Discipline. Auroville is made up of many small cluster communities. I was pretty sick with dysentery and was not about to travel. I needed to be examined by a doctor and decided to take a rickshaw several kilometers to the hospital and get the documentation that would extend my visa. I had been seeing an English midwife who lived in another area of Auroville.

Before going, I wanted to pray at the Samadhi of Sri Aurbindo and the Mother in the ashram in Pondicherry. It was crowded that day and when I was done, I had to step over people’s legs to leave. I went outside of the courtyard to hail a rickshaw (somewhat like hailing a cab in New York). This man that I had stepped over on the way out, came up to me. He said that he had a message from Divine Mother that he wanted to convey to me.

He told me that I would be all right and that I was going to have a girl. He introduced himself as Rev. John Paul. This was unusual for me as I didn’t know any Indian Christians, although I had been to the Catholic Church several times. He was an Anglican priest. Later he came to visit me after Suryananda was born. As he had relayed to me, the birth was wonderful. Even though I got the extension, I didn’t need it because I went into labor early, before the expiration date. I had an India born baby so I could stay.

He and I have kept in touch loosely through the years and now his son has contacted me through Facebook. I am glad to know John Paul is well. He must be very old by now.

Prema Rose

It's Not Going To Be What You Think It Will Be

She told me it would not be like I thought it would be.
I’d had visions of a long white gown, arms crossed over my chest, walking up the temple steps.
She told me it was going to be different, maybe more difficult.
I hadn’t known at the time I met with her that a lot of my spiritual work would be done as a householder, a family person, birthing and raising children.
I didn’t know I wouldn’t be part of a priestess group Old Egypt where a lot of my psychic impressions led me to believe I had been at one time.
I was young, idealistic, and sitting in a group at the Metaphysical Center in New Jersey. We were learning color and music therapy, going over the chakras, and how to promote alternative healing practices. We learned about the color rooms in ancient Egypt, built with gemstone walls that the sun would shine through and bathe a sick person in those color rays.
I studied the effects of the notes of the scale and certain composed pieces of music and how those energetic vibrations of a played piece, strummed string, could bring a person’s energies back into its own harmony.
So the visions in my mind had me going in one direction when the woman next to me, a fairly popular psychic reader, leaned over and whispered in my ear and said those words, “It’s not going to be like you think it will be.”
I was young and thought I knew myself and life better than her. I remembered her words but didn’t give them much credence.
Now I remember her words because she was exactly right.

Jyoti

Another airport adventure!

10 am. There has been a security breech at Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, Arizona. The plane I am sitting in has come to a gentle stop on the tarmac outside the terminal. It has been ten minutes already and the pilot said it likely will be another twenty minutes. My seatmates are a nice couple from Nebraska heading to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. They usually go down every couple of years with the same group of friends. This year they decided to travel down one day early. However, they told their friends that they were not going to be able to make it this year. Now, when the rest of the gang checks into their hotel, they will have a big surprise waiting for them. It sounds like so much fun!!

Our pilot allowed us to get up and walk around the plane and my fellow passengers are mellow with the situation. I sat in my seat but I am reminded of my first trip to Europe three years ago. As I walked towards my boarding gate in the London airport for my connecting flight to Scotland, I became aware of throngs of people huddled in front of TV monitors. Right out outside the airport there had been a car bombing. Fear coursed through my body: first, I am traveling alone; secondly, my mother has my itinerary and knows that I just landed in London and is probably worried about me; and lastly, Peggy and Steve are in Scotland already and I don’t want to be grounded in London!!!!! Everything worked out splendidly that day in London and I am sure that everything will turn out okay today. Now that I think about it, I remember that as Peggy and I rode horses over the fields of southern Scotland, someone drove their car through the front window of the Glasgow airport. By the time we drove back up to the Glasgow airport to begin our journey home, the window had been boarded up, an eerie reminder of what had happened.

The pilot came back on and explained what was going on in the airport. He said the security breech had required that they evacuate everyone out of the terminal, do a sweep, and then run every single person back through security. Now they were going to push back all the outgoing airplanes and let the incoming flights dock so the passengers could depart. The woman setting in the window seat said, “I thought we circled Phoenix a few times; I guess that explains it.”

10:28 am. The pilot comes back on the intercom and asks everyone to return to their seat. We are going to taxi to the first available dock and de-plane. We will not be at our scheduled gate, but we will be in the same terminal. Ya hoo. I was never worried. I had half of foot-long Subway, a bag of Butter Toffee popcorn and a small bag of red licorice whips plus a Gatorade to make it through the rest of the morning. But now I am ready to meet new friends and spend a long week-end playing with horses in the Arizona sunshine.

Another airport adventure for the books!

* annette.

Khichari

1 T. ghee
Pinch of cumin seeds
½ c. rice
½ c. mung dal or lentils
2-3 c. water
1 T. masala (2 parts ground coriander & 1 part turmeric)
½ c. ghee
1. prepare ghee by melting butter over low heat for 20 minutes to 60 minutes, using a diffuser if it browns; when the white parts have separated from the yellow, cool and strain through cheesecloth; keep the yellow liquid in a separate container making sure that no white liquid remains in it.
2. sauté pinch of cumin seeds in the ghee
3. wash the grains and add to ghee mixture

4. add 1 T masala and mix well
5. add water
6. bring to boil, simmer over medium heat for 20-25 minutes (unless using brown rice, then 45 – 60 minutes)
7. add ½ c. ghee

Patricia Jordan

Laziness

One of our greatest motivating factors is laziness.

“That’s an oxymoron”, you might say.

I have fought a life long battle with laziness. It crops up in the most hidden and unexpected places, winking at me from the corners of my consciousness. It takes the form of short-cuts and obliviousness. There it is when I walk past something on the floor that needs to be picked up and I pretend I don’t notice it. When that dish in the sink begs to be washed and I make up some lame excuse to myself to do it later. When I want to sit down to write and I let every little distraction keep me away from the keyboard. I could go on and on.

Through the years, I have trained myself to be aware of those moments in the moment. As I walk away from the piece of cellophane on the floor, I make myself turn around and pick it up immediately. Then I try to put it on the table, but that won’t do. I make my feet take me to the trash basket to deposit it where I will never have to deal with it again. I bless the trash basket and the foresight someone had to create such a receptacle. All that took me, at the most, five seconds. I now have the peace of mind to know that I won’t have it lurking and nagging at me later and my house is the neater for it.

“How OCD!”, you might exclaim. Oh, well.

How many inventions have been created to assuage our laziness. All we have to do these days is push buttons and meals are cooked, or laundry is washed, or blogs are written. Walk when I can drive? Forget it! Now, I am a great believer in making our hectic lives as smooth as they can be and the pressures to do so much each day less overwhelming. But do we lose sight of the possibilities to take the time to attend to those details that give so much satisfaction.

My son and his family live off the grid. It is their choice.They cook on a wood stove and heat with wood, so that means that they have to chop many cords of wood to survive the winter. In the warmer weather, they sleep outside and cook on an open fire. They shower outside with a sun shower or bathe in tub, which they fill from the water warming on the stove. They grow amazing gardens in the mountains of Colorado, get eggs from their chickens, and meat from the rabbits they raise and the deer they hunt and dress. They also do permaculture landscaping for clients, and my son blows glass art and is a Rolfer. My daughter-in-law is a great mother.

If this sounds like a promo for them, it is more than that to me. When I seek for more comforts in my life because I am lazy, I have to remember that effort builds character and stamina. Yes, God is in the details. I do not want to miss any opportunity to fine-tune my perceptions and my willingness to walk the extra mile or even yard.

Of course, the reality is that I succumb all the time. I try to take the shortcuts and miss the meanderings that give so much satisfaction. Actually, taking care of things in the moment is the shortest way from here to there. I don’t have to go back to take care of it later. Maybe that is a form of laziness, too.

Am I driven? Well, perhaps, but I get a great deal of pleasure and fulfillment from taking care of the little things in the best way that I can. Sometimes it is better to know when to let something go. That takes awareness and discernment. It all depends on the motivating factors. Laziness can get us going and open up new ways of seeing the world, if we are able to be very honest with ourselves, and counter our innate trends. Something can arise in us that is very precious.



Prema Rose

It was the fire...

It was the fire that drew me. Piled limbs of dead trees, flames shooting heavenward. Oranges, reds and yellows licking and eating the dry wood.

It had been a long day on the mountain side, watching the trees move and dance with the wind and changing light. Glued to the rock I sat on, my body at the mercy in the chemical’s pathways, I understood mushroom consciousness.

I had eaten a few of the magic variety that morning with Barry and Jackson. We perched ourselves up above civilization but still below tree line. We talked back and forth, each giving each other about six feet of space, and just watched the show of swaying branches and moving spirits on the face of the ridge across from us.

I covered my skin from the high altitude sun. Drank water from a canteen all day.

Now, as the chill of nightfall seeped under my cotton shirt, I stood close to the fire the guys had built.

Suddenly, into the clearing came flying an owl, wings outstretched, beak open with screeching sounds emerging. She flew through the open field from one side to the other. We watched her sail over our heads.

“That’s probably the one we heard all day,” I said.

There had been hoots, off and on, all afternoon. We puzzled over hearing an owl in the daytime, and felt she had been an ally of the mushroom journey we all had been on.

I stepped closer to the flames, glad of the heat and the sobriety overtaking me. Was glad the journey was over.

Jyoti

HOPI POEM

In a trance state she told me,
“Study the Hopi,
they knew how to raise crops on dry land.”
Even with my eyes open I visualized
Beans, Squash, and of course, Corn.
Startled, I heard her continue,
“You were Hopi once.”

Hummm, not such a stretch.
I “know” that I have walked this land in red skin.
It was quiet then.
The flow of life dictated by the natural seasons;
always considering the necessity of securing our survival.
Homes with fireplaces, warm beds, strong foods,
these were ours.

The sky was blue, filled with clouds,
water ran clear and pure,
the sandy soil, hot in the summer sun.
Children laugh and play outdoors.
Books? We have storytellers and imagination.
We have storms to read and animals to teach us.

But even I must admit.
It is easy to remember only the good parts
as I walk in the memory ~
warm and cuddled by my downy comforter
… on my white soft mattress
in my sweet room with clear glass windows.

* annette

Fire



Fire can be many things. We first think of flames, to cook or to keep us warm.

What we forget about is the fire of our being. What we hold as our individual power in our solar plexus.

Then, there is the Fire Element, stoking the heart and small intestines. The liver is indirectly part of this twosome as it sits in the solar plexus.

As I tend to heal myself I look at all three, they seem closely related. It comes up for me as anger, since most of my discomfort is in the solar plexus, the fire burner. And I’m pissed. I’m pissed I may not see my grandchildren grow up. So one of my goals is to get to the blazing anger. To rid my body of the negative energy, giving me the stamina to continue my focus of understanding fire and anger. To create a leap in my healing to somehow open the holding of my flames that have been destructive to my being.
Patricia
3/1/10

In Honor of International Women's Day

In the movie that showed them slaughtering women & children
some mother’s child was killing another mother’s child.
I heard the baby in my womb cry amidst the sound of gunshots.
I had to cry, when I realized what war really means.
How can mothers allow it?

Women-
We must not give up on our vision of a world ruled by caring rather than profit.
We must be power-within, to create the world we hope and work for.
We must act in realms as close as our hearts and as far away as the other side of the world.
We must be peace, while being ever ready to defend the lives, liberties, and way of life of all our beloveds, destroying that which is a miscarriage of justice.

--Terra Rafael

Humanity

Oh, sleeping giant,
Awake from this somnambulistic state.
Shake off the weight of countless lies
And drowsiness of paralyzing fear.
Open your eyes to the sickness
That pervades your soul
Where, even in your pain,
Truth holds the precedent;
A beacon shining in the darkness of the night,
A call to move your bones
Set in the habitude of acquiescence,
Your creaky joints will bend and move again.

Do not turn your eyes away,
Even as you turn the other cheek,
For though you make a conscious choice
To hide your head in blinding desert sands,
You are responsible.
The earthquake that will move your very world
Will bury you and all your sacred cows.
Adorn yourself with courage and stand strong,
Like the sequoia that you are,
Where all the blustering winds
Of fabrications and false blames cannot break your majesty,
Rooted deep within your base of honor.

Let waters rise in mighty waves
To flood your consciousness
And wash away the excrement
That you don’t even notice anymore.
The stench of rotting greed
And putrid cesspools of your callousness
Must be cleaned out for hope to thrive again.
You will be shaken to your very core
If you do not but willingly arise.
Words of truth aren’t easily shrugged off
And those who speak them will not be silenced,
Like murmured whispers in the dark of night.

We think we are immune in isolation,
Anesthetized in trivia’s barrage,
But every child killed or maimed is ours,
As each and every one of us was born to mothers,
Who now lament the murder of our own.
The silence of our shame is deafening,
Screaming to stir up our apathy.
Where is the outrage of our mortal wounds,
That we succumb to comfort’s easy sleep?
We think we are awake, yet on we snore
To drown the cries of conscience in our heads.
No more, AWAKE! No more, no more, no more!

Prema Rose

I couldn't get back to sleep...

I couldn’t get back to sleep. I had drifted off earlier in the midst of one of Nora Robert’s tales of witches and wolves, with Ireland in the background. I’d awakened enough to turn off the light and then thought sleep would claim me as it usually did. I had been tired all evening.
But it didn’t. I lie there thinking about the day, about the past and old relationships I no longer had any interest in thinking about, but my mind had its own familiar pathways to follow.
I turned over, adjusted my pillow, and glanced out the window about me, looking through bare winter branches into the night sky.
Without warning, a shooting star blazed for a split second, arcing through my field of vision, then its light died out. It happened so quickly. Its meaning suggested magic, new beginnings and I thought, do people make a wish when they see one?
I remembered a momentous evening high in a small mountain town almost thirty-two years ago, when I asked the powers that be whether I should herbally induce labor for the next morning, as I was already overdue by some calculations. Or should I wait out the pregnancy. A shooting star streaked through the star-studded sky and I took it as a sign to wait. My son was born to me in that cabin two and a half days later.
So tonight I made a wish for more happiness and the letting go of old patterns of thinking. I knew exactly what I was looking at in my own mind: the places that judge, the places of skepticism and criticality…these were the very things that were keeping true happiness from me. I could see it. And I wanted it that way no longer.
It was as if an outer sign of magical occurrence spoke to the magic inside of me to set me in motion to change and transmute what I could see needed to be a different way.
The shooting star was like the surprise you feel at the moment the gun goes off to start a race. It’s a momentary shock before you’re off and running. I’ve been at the starting gate of change for a while, and now it’s time to actively make the effort to consciously do things in a different way.
Shooting stars, witches and wolves…magic is alive and well!
Jyoti

Beer, Whiskey and Pie

Peggy and I became dear friends which was handy as our husbands worked together as linemen for the Rio Grande Railroad. They were based out of Pinecliffe, Colorado, a very small mountain community near where we lived. One of the perks of working for the RR in the “good ole days” were free trips on the Zephyr from Denver to Salt Lake City. We often took the train to Glenwood Springs or on to Grand Junction where our mutual friends Trout and Ginger lived.

I used to make homemade ham salad for sandwiches and Peggy, who was not much of a cook, brought chips and cookies. Before one trip Peggy announced that she was bringing a home made cherry pie. “Fantastic” was the general consensus; anything that went good with beer and whiskey was always welcome. Cherry pie sounded like a real treat!

When we met up with Fooz and Peggy for the trek down to Denver’s Union Station to catch the train, Fooz was already making jokes about the pie. He handed it to Steve, who immediately arched his eyebrows and said, “What did you bake this in, a cast iron skillet?”

Poor Peggy, always the good sport, just laughed. “Oh no, I bought a new Pyrex pie dish.”

“It’s a heavy one, that’s for sure,” Fooz said grinning. “Good thing we don’t have to pay for it by the pound!”

Peggy had never made a pie crust and she did not have Crisco in her pantry ~ so she substituted the shortening with the same amount of liquid vegetable oil. The crust was heavy and the consistency of soggy corrugated cardboard. We ended up setting it in the center of the table, peeling off and discarding the top crust, and devouring the baked pie filling right out of the middle. We washed it down with a few beers and a round of Jack Daniels and enjoyed every cherry. That poor pie became famous as the story was enjoyed for years to come.

Disclaimer: I must admit, since I have re-told Peggy’s foible so easily, that I have yet to conquer the elusive light and flakey pie crust. My mother’s sets such a high standard, my hat is still tipped to her.

* annette

A Family Favorite

Chicken with Parmesan and Yogurt

One split frying chicken or 4 split breasts, bone in preferably
½ c. yogurt (I usually do near a cup)
1 clove garlic or more
4 T parmesan cheese
Salt and pepper
½ stick of butter, or more (a touch of Julia)
Rub chicken with the yogurt and mashed garlic and allow to stand for several hours.
Dust the halves with salt, pepper and grated parmesan.
Place skin side down (or remove skin, if you prefer) in a generously buttered pan.

Baste several times with the sauce and if needed, more butter, thinking Julia. The point is not to broil the sauce away.

Especially good over your favorite noodle or grain. Bon Appetit.

Patricia Jordan

From: Food and What Feeds Us

A Family Favorite

What I Can't Forget

What I can’t forget is the feeling that I had the minutes between when my son’s head was born and his body came out. Even then I thought to myself, “Now I know why two heads are better than one. “ I felt our intertwined bodies wordlessly bridge the gap between our souls. Inside my physical exhaustion, all my heart could do was laugh with joy and oneness.

--Terra Rafael