Ode to the berry

There are two joys in our house this time of year.

Our almost daily trip to the berry farm just two miles down the road brings us such simple delight. Whenever we pass by, we stop. Sometimes we get an ice cream. Sometimes we bring home a punnet of berries. Sometimes we just like to go and be in the space of awaiting ripeness.

Sounds kind of silly, I know, but this berry farm represents a deep joy that we find in waiting for something really special to us: the strawberry, the raspberry. These sun soaked fruits remind us that summer is here, that long days bring sun energy, that the color red, in all its variety, is absolute beauty. The taste in our mouths as the juice falls into our taste buds calls us to remember how a favorite food nourishes the soul. To savor becomes an act of worship. And all the ice cream and jam making is our attempt to celebrate its pure taste.

But there is another berry joy too.

This one is blueberry joy and it has to do with a special blueberry hill. These blueberries we find are wild, uncultivated, and free. It is a different type of joy. We become the watchers day in and day out (like our beloved berry farmer who gives us an update each day about how long til ripeness); we notice and monitor these tiny treasures. We are wild gatherers and we look for ripeness.

But even though we are not surprised by the presence of these blueberry bushes, we find ourselves giddy with surprised joy when we notice it is time to pick, to eat, and to mark our fingers with purple juice. It is a simple marking that says, "we are wild and uncultivated and free."

But there is even a deeper blueberry joy that fills me. Finding fruits in the wild, knowing that they belong to all who pay attention, seeing where the fruit comes from, the type of leaves it has, how low or how high it is on the ground, makes a difference to how I enjoy what I eat. With the blueberry I become that much closer to its magical source. I am grounded and I have also found heaven in its ripe, round, and full form.

Living in Season: Follow a child

Today is Twelfth Night. It is officially the last day of Christmas. It is the night we celebrate the journey of the three wisemen (three kings) who follow a star to visit baby Jesus. In our house, this is the highlight (and our favorite day) of the Christmas season. We have a feast, wear crowns, eat special bread that is shaped like a crown, drink special grapejuice--all under candle light. We also have a three kings cake. Inside is a nut and whoever gets the nut is the king/wiseman. At our feast, I put five nuts in strategic places so that we all get a piece of cake with a nut. We are all kings, all wisemen!

In my post yesterday I highlighted why I love this celebration, but I have one more thing to include. It is this idea about following a child.

My journey as a mother has been one of intense spiritual growth. My children have lead me to so many interesting spiritual discoveries, and yet, these discoveries are not new, just hidden. There are many times I have thought of my children as my spiritual midwives. They are the best friends to my soul. They have witnessed my soul being born again and again each time I recover one of those lost childhood treasures they continually point out to me.

Here is why I love the idea of following a child:

1. Children are mystics. Mystics are those who experience the holy. Children know the Divine because they experience it. No one has to tell them how to pray or meditate. They don't need to read books. Their understanding is based on experience, intuition, instinct. Their lives are fully integrated with the holy in such a way that they live life as a prayer. There is no division for them between the physical and spiritual worlds.

2. Children know how to practice mindfulness. They instinctively know how to be totally present in the moment. Watch a child fall to the ground in the snow, make a snow angel, and remain there for a while looking above at cloud formations. They know how to be in the moment.

3. Children have this amazingly strong sense of wonder. They explore, they question, they dream without censoring themselves.

4. They are engaged in life. They show interest and enthusiasm over small things like butterfly wings, campfires, the full moon, and big things like the size of the universe.

5. Children are open. Open to trusting and open to forgiving. And it comes so easily to them. I am always amazed at how easily my children forgive me. And while my children question my decisions (especially as they grow into adolescence), they have always remained open to hearing what is alive in me.

6. They remind me about the importance of staying connected. Whether through play or through talking about things, especially feelings and needs, they want to stay connected.

7. They remind me that laughter is like prayer and meditation--it is good to do it everyday.

8. Children remind me to dream big. Think abundantly. My son recently said to me, "when do you think we will get that land you dream of Mom?" For him, it wasn't a matter of if we get the land but when we get the land.

9. A wise person is a one who points out life's mysteries. Children are clued in to the mysteries in life. They are the wise ones I think worth following.

Do you want to join me?


Peace,
Nicki

Living in Season: A universal wisdom story

This is worth celebrating: three wisemen travel in a desert, they follow a star so bright, their destination is a newborn child, they bring gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh.

Go out into the night, look at the stars, and consider this universal path to wisdom:

1. Three wisemen travel in a desert: Life is a journey. Sometimes we are in the desert and sometimes we are in the mountains, but we are always moving, whether physically or metaphorically, internally or externally, toward a place of wisdom. I particularly like the images that a desert invokes. Dry, extreme temperatures, confusing, simple, raw, and wild. This is the substance of real life and we are all just trying to find our way.

I particularly like the idea that as we travel into wilderness, and the further we get from civilization and our civilized egos, the closer we become to our true wild self. Our true selves are reflected in the wildness of the landscape.

I like this story because they set out on a journey together. From different homes, they walk and they seek together. I think of all the wise women and men in my life with whom I travel far distances. Family and friends who really listen, connect, and walk with me. Friends who hear me into speech. I am also aware of all the wise ones with whom I travel but don't really know personally--the ones who have shared their wisdom with me through books, meditations, and blog posts. I feel part of this one great push toward wisdom.

2. They follow a star so bright: They follow the path to illumination. Whatever your path-- Christian, Shamanism, Paganism, Buddhism, Muslim, astrology--we are all after the same thing: illumination. Some see the path of the star as a spiritual one, others might see it as the path of rational thought or scientific knowledge. I believe it is all the one same path! We all look for something way beyond ourselves to recognize the element of our deepest, truest self. We all look up so that we can see deep within or deep within so we can see up.

3. Their destination is a newborn child: Oh, this is my favorite bit! Their destination was a newborn child. Okay, if you are Christian, then this newborn child has huge significance for you, but if you are not, then perhaps just delight in the idea that it is worth traveling near and far, through the lonely desert to see the face of a newborn child. Oh what a holy sight! And oh what it says about the holiness of each child.

Every child born is worth a journey. I love this because it celebrates the child, the newborn, as a place where wisdom resides. And as a mother, again and again, I experience my children as wisdom-bearers. Each birth is just the beginning of the many stages of enlightenment. I like to think that maybe we give gifts this time of year to celebrate the child as a place of wisdom. We give gifts to say, "I see the wisdom in you and I cherish it." The wisemen are called wisemen because they see the light in each other and they see it in the child.

4. They bring gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh: They bring earth gifts, treasure from the wild. Not toys, not clothes. Sweet smelling treasures. Treasures that mark this birth as holy while alluding to the sacredness of all new life. I am always intrigued by the choice of gifts here. I understand that as part of the Christian story, they are gifts for a king. Jesus was the their newborn king. Kingly gifts for a kingly child. But, what does this say about the type of gifts we bring to a newborn? What do the gifts we bring say about how we feel about the child? I do challenge myself to think about how the gift I bring might honor the holiness of each person.

There are lots of reasons to give gifts and just as many ideas about why we give certain type of gifts, but I do like considering why we do all this gift giving, even if I continue to give gifts that are far from gold and myrrh. I think the best gift is the gift given with thought and intention. The best gift received is the one that says, "I know you."

************
Sending you lots of starlight, wisdom, and the gift of new life.

Peace,
Nicki

Living in Season: Soothing rhythms

My oldest, who just turned 10, is at that tricky age of being aware that he is growing. There are moments when he is so excited about his growing confidence and competence, his responsibility and his newer sense of freedom. I can see him shine when he participates in an adult conversation about politics, science, or climate change. He asks questions. He shares his thoughts. He is growing into himself.

But there are also moments when he does not want to let go of childhood. These are the moments when he sits on my lap and cries. He wants to hold on to the things that make him remember his childhood magic: his favorite bedtime story, his stuffed animals, Winnie-the-Pooh, and my arms. He knows that these things of childhood contain the magic of innocence and the security of unquestioned belief.

Six months ago we knighted him (see Living Passages for the Whole Family: Celebrating Rites of Passage from Birth to Adulthood by Shea Darian), blessing him with courage and love for this time of transition. It is funny how rituals can have this power of taking us from place to place, ushering in the new, in ways indescribable. But it is equally funny how the rhythms of childhood continue to soothe.

Yesterday, as I held him on my lap while he was crying, he started the rocking. I felt like he was saying, "come on, Mom, don't you remember, I love this rhythm." In that moment I wasn't sure if he needed the rocking more than me, but whenever I tried to stop or slow it down, he kept the pace. It made me smile. I know he hasn't forgotten. Neither have I.

Living in Season: Longing for connection

At the end of every November I begin to think about holiday cards. And for the past several years, I have set out to write a personalized letter to each person. I really want to connect with family and friends I have not seen for years, but those individualized letters never get written. I run out of time. My hand gets too tired. I have a busy life with my children. All excuses that don't sit well with me. I could always start earlier, right, but I never do.

In each card I try to include a few sentences, hoping the person will know that I am thinking of them specifically. I want them to know that I remember their friendship. Maybe this longing for connection stems from my more modern transient lifestyle: I have moved a lot in my adult life, country to country, and as a result, friends and family who were once in close proximity, now live half way around the world. Moving disconnects me from those who know me.

I wish I was better at keeping connected.

This deep longing for connection reappears with each visit from the postman. The cycle is the same. I hear the letters through the mail slot hit the floor. I greet each card with so much excitement. My desire to know some of the details of my friend's life is strong. But then I feel sad because the physical miles are so great. And so are the emotional ones. Why did she move house again? Did she get a new job? Part of the story plot is lost, not included. In front of me are quick brief sentences that leave me with more wondering. And yet I recognize those sentences because they are just like the ones I write in the cards I send. I promise myself that next year I am going to start writing letters even earlier so that I can connect, so that I can know my friend again.

While I am thankful for email and for Skype, I long for sustained connection with those I love. I want to know the details in life but I also want to know what my friends think about. What is most alive in them? What about the world? What about parenting? What books have they read? What are their dreams? Their struggles? Their hopes? Where have they found healing? Holiday cards just don't give out details and neither does email. I am afraid we have become a world that has forgotten the art of letter writing (and maybe the art of story-telling).

Oh, maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe my hopes are really expectations that need to be released. Holiday cards are for saying, "I send you peace and love." That is their purpose, right? And what a lovely message to send to those you love. A lovely message to surround the earth.

Perhaps I need to start writing more letters throughout the year and not leave it for the holiday season. But something in me says that my longing for connection is really about my longing for home, and until I figure out what home really is for me, holiday cards will seem like a small tease.

Living in Season: Hoping Circle

Starting from sundown last night to sunrise this morning, our time circled. Circling with blessings of simple activity: friends, food, the blue moon, a fire outside in the snow to offer our Solstice wishes, a playful game of charades. And when it was time to step into the New Year, bundling up again, with small instruments in hand, we took to the street and played our cacophonous music for the moon, for the white dazzling fields, for those who had fallen asleep and for those still awake, for friends half way around the world, for you and for me.

And settling to sleep it still felt magical and ancient and whole and round.

Circling around our morning table, new words and new ideas touched our hands and our hearts-- forgiveness, truth, purpose, delight, and power--and our hoping circle is complete and whole and blessed. We are in a new time now.

Happy New Year! Happy Newness!

Living in Season: Under a blue moon...and wild

Pondering the wild under a blue moon:

"Life consists with Wildness. The most alive is the wildest. Not yet subdued to man, its presence refreshes him. One who pressed forward incessantly and never rested from his labors, who grew fast and made infinite demands on life, would always find himself in a new country or wilderness, and surrounded by the raw material of life." from Walking by Thoreau

Wondering what is the wild? Where is the wildness? What is the raw material of life?

Happy wild blue moon!

Living in Season: Mothering as a spiritual practice

I have been thinking a lot lately about non-traditional spiritual practices. Often times these practices are so apart of our lives that we don't even name them as such. I think if we really consider their power in our lives and the influence they have with our civilized egos, then we will notice the depth these practices take us. Practices such as mothering, walking, writing, and deep empathy bring about a clear and often times a radical shift in my own consciousness. I am wondering what practices are part of your life that take you deep into the center, the place where you receive illumination, insight, clarity, focus?

There is nothing in my life that has changed me as radically (or has taken me even deeper into my true self) than mothering. The three steps of the spiritual path: releasing, receiving, and integrating (as found in Walking a Sacred Path: Rediscovering the Labyrinth as a Spiritual Tool by Lauren Artress) is an old formula for the spiritual journey, but it speaks so well about my own spiritual movement of mothering.

The releasing stage is about letting go, shedding. More often than not, I am feel like I am in the releasing stage. There is so much to let go: old patterns of dealing with conflict, hiding my real thoughts, my schooling experience, my teacher training, the tradition, all the institutions. Not that any one of these things is necessarily bad for my soul, but I am looking for those places that need healing and those places where I desire a balance. This is particularly pertinent to me since I am home with my children attempting unschooling. The whole process of unschooling has been more my process than my children's. They have never been to school. Interestingly, the unschooling of my own mind and experience is the place of intense spiritual growth for me. Unschooling, for me, comes under the umbrella of mothering, so it is linked with my spirituality.

In the receiving stage there is so much to embrace: my personal experiences, my intuition, more silence, my inner voice, insight, clarity, trust, the wisdom of my children. As I watch them and as they teach me, this stage is our lived prayer. Mothering is my prayer. I meditate, I ask, I manifest, I nourish, I receive, I dream, I heal, I trust, I hope, I learn.

The final stage, the integrating stage, is the stage of union, empowerment, and becoming grounded. If you are walking the labrynth, it is the way out from the center. It is the stage when we practice and try on what it was we received from the center. The act of mothering is also my spiritual ground and my spiritual grounding. Slowly I am realizing it is my place of empowerment.

Mothering is not a linear journey. It continually spirals back in on itself and then moves outward again. There are many times when I feel myself drawn inward toward the center and less times when I feel grounded in walking outward.

The spiritual practice of mothering links us to an ancient form of worship: a worship deeply embedded in our natural cycles and in the fibre of our bones; a worship that is like the roots in a tree, extending deeply downward to nourish life upward; a worship that is grounded in the unseen so that the seen can thrive. Mothering at its best, and believe me this happens maybe once a week in our house, is my worship. Like with any good worship, there is so much room for growth and experimenting and creativity. Good worship is a journey, a movement toward the holy.

Peace,
Nicki

Living in Season: the creative flow

As a child, I remember making loads of Christmas cookies. Tins and tins pilled high on top of our refridgerator of cookies--trees, wreaths, bells covered in a variety of colored sugar.

And I also remember my mother making baskets full of fruit, wine, cheese, crackers, and our homemade cookies to give to the postman, the hairdresser, our neighbors, or anyone else she wanted to either thank for their services or for their friendship. It was fun to give away what we made. And it was fun to deliver those baskets.

I am learning (relearning) the magic of homemade gifts this year. For my birthday this year, my son wrote me a story and some riddles, my husband wrote me poems, my daughter a card. Each one offered something they love to do in the form of a gift for me. They were the best gifts I have ever received because they came from that magical place of creativity and love.

For Christmas, I made crowns for each family member (for the Feast of the Three Kings/12th Night on the 5th of January). I loved making those crowns because I had to think about each person (favorite color, what symbol represents that person, what season of the year were they born, what kind of design to embroider). And thinking about each person in turn allowed me to cherish each one for who they are. Wedding creativity with gift giving fills me up with love and generosity. And I guess that is the true meaning of this season--connection, love, generosity, and new life. For when we are seen for who we really are, when we are encouraged to be who we really are, then we can step into our real place in life. It is so affirming to offer a gift that says: this is from the creative flow in me, offering to you a gift that sees the flow and fullness of you.

I have read loads of posts lately about the joy and busyness of making gifts during this season. Creativity seems to be this energy force that encircles the Earth. This time of year seems to be about making, creating, and giving. I wonder what making gifts means to you?

It is funny how until this year, until I stepped into the creative flow, I always wanted to make gifts but never thought I had any particular talent. Now I see that when creativity becomes a spiritual practice, I have loads to share--pottery, cookies, bread, and I can even try new things like embroidery, knitting, and sewing.

I associate this time of year with birth/rebirth, and the creative spirit is one way to connect deeply with oneself, with loved ones, and with the one creative flow. Creativity is one way I keep learning about myself. And learning about myself and the ones I love are just many mini-births.

Living in Season: Birth cycles--Christmas

In our house we celebrate the Winter Solstice and the rebirth of the Sun, Christmas and the birth of Jesus, and the birth of the coming New Year. We have slightly different rituals associated with each special day, but they all celebrate birth/rebirth.

Sometimes I wish my spiritual life was more simple and I would be drawn to celebrating just one of these holidays, but I can't, they each mean too much to me, too much to my spirit. I could not imagine this season without our walk up the hill to sing to the Sun (deep connection with nature and her cycles), or our preparation of our Christmas stable (how magical it is to live in a holy story), or bringing in the New Year with our hoping circle (the power in manifesting dreams). I will not let go of any of these, but I do wish for simplicity.

This year I am trying to be more simple, or at least have some clarity in my mind about why I celebrate these three days. To what part of my spirit do each of these three birth cycles speak?

Today I will look at the Christmas birth cycle. It is one of those great birth narratives that I like to live in each year. And because it is so close to my own experience of the birth of my first child, I can easily live in this story in this season. I like the idea that God comes to us in human form. It helps me to see that there is something special about humanity, that we carry the holy and the sacred, even in our less than perfect bodies. I also like to celebrate birth because it is so worth celebrating.

The waiting. First, there is Advent. The waiting time. Preparation. Getting the house in order. Nesting. Wondering when it will happen. What will it be like? What will the baby be like? Look like? Smell like? Will I be able to make it through the delivery? Advent reminds me of my own waiting and wondering and preparing. It is a time of year when waiting becomes a spiritual practice.

Birthing. Then, there is the birth. The pain, the excitement, the long hours, the joy, the new life, huge sigh....of relief... followed by elation. This stage holds the gift of surprise. Like opening a stocking stuffed by my child with things he thought I would really love (a small journal, a new pen, a moonstone, a shell found on the beach, a piece of my favorite chocolate), my surprise tells me (and assures me) that he knows me in a way that all of us want to be known. It is a time of surprises, recognition, honoring, and paying close attention to each other.

Time changes. Then there is the newborn stage. For the new family, there is lots of sleep, hibernating, and enjoying that prepared nest. Time changes. Sleepless nights turn to sleepy days. There is no rushing around, no desire to go out of the house/nest, the pace evenly slow. Throughout the Christmas season there are more days for reading books, napping, and playing in pajamas. Time for staying close to each other.

Welcoming. There are visits with family and friends who bring meals, share food, and offer gifts to the baby. Are these visitors the wisemen in our lives who travel far to bring gifts to the newborn baby? It is a time of celebrating with others our new life--that out of darkness shines a bright star. It is a star we learn again to welcome--a star we gaze upon, and yet a star we hold deep within.

Living in Season: Digging up the buried mysticism of childhood

I remember the first time I took my youngest to the beach just after he had learnt to walk. The tide was out, my two older children soared to the water's edge, screaming with joy and excitement. My husband followed them and I stayed back with my son. A new walker means the pace is slower.

But the excitement on his face was just like that of his two older siblings. He kept focused on the sea, pointing with his index finger, walking at a slow pace, and making a sound that was so delightful, "ohhhh, ohhhhh, ohhhhh." He was experiencing a new feet freedom. But he was also experiencing a new landscape. So many treasures surrounded him. The sea, the beach, the patted shells here and there, the mixture of seaweed and muck from the sea, the firm sand to walk upon, the sound of the waves in the distance, and the free sea air.

There is no way for me to know what was going on for him in that moment. Yet, reading his body language suggested sheer delight in his new surroundings, an excitement found in the sound of the waves crashing, and a powerful energy pull from the sea. It was a day of happy choices for his feet.

That one day at the beach, that one moment, was when I knew why I spend my days with children. Children live a life of mysticism. They experience what Dorothee Soelle calls, "highly charged moments that give a deep sense of unity without meditation," and they instinctually know, "God is here." They need no book, no dogma, no priest. They need no training, no workshops, no pattern or checklists, they simply live and experience life's great oneness.

I am grateful for the gift they bestow upon me: with a bucket and shovel, with eyes open, senses engaged, I start digging to find home.

Living in Season: What does it mean?

What does living in season really mean?

For me, it has become a way of life.

It all started ten years when I lived in Egypt. In Cairo, there is a banana season, a tomato season, and an orange season. One knows that at certain times during the year, certain foods locally grown are readily available. If you buy an orange or a tomato out of the local season, you know it is probably imported and imported fruit never tastes as fresh and delicious as local ones. So I learned to go from season to season, marking the times of year by what food was fresh and local. I discovered a simple joy in living this way. Even though I lived in one of the most populated cities in the world, with all the noise pollution and the smell of burning trash, eating locally made me feel like I had stepped into another time, an old time, the time of my ancestors, a time when we lived closer to the patterns and seasons of the earth.

Then, I started having babies and as new patterns of living emerged, living in season started to have new connotations for me. Now living in season means my season of mothering. In some ways it is just like my seasonal Cairo food living. There is an ebb and flow of time, things (breastfeeding, interrupted sleep) circle back around again like the coming and going of spring, summer, autumn and winter. I know that there are stages to my child's life and it means there are stages to my life too. Patterns come and go.

I remind myself that living in season means that sometimes I go without. Going without does not mean I will never have it again, it just means that right now I am in a different time. It is easier to know that in two seasons fresh local bananas will be back again and harder to remind myself that some time soon (I hope), there will be time for long periods of prayer, meditation, and writing.

Living in season is also about letting go. Letting go of what I think my life ought to be or how I see (and imagine) someone else's life to be (and think I need it for me). It is about paying attention to where I am just now and letting go of any attachment to the desired outcomes I hold. Things like time for me will indeed come around again. Letting go of what I had more time for before my children might allow me to see what new things there are now in my life to embrace. I let go of the orange to embrace the tomato and then let go of the tomato to embrace the banana. I let go of all that me time to embrace the us time with my young children.

Living in season is a way of life. It is a life of mindfulness. A mindful living. It is a paying attention to what is here and now.

Seasonal living always comes up for me this time of year. All the images--stars, the Sun, birth, darkness and light--remind me that I am part of a greater season--a spirit season. I still have much to learn about my spirit season and what it looks like to live in this season, but I am learning. I am learning to spot what feeds my spirit (like the fresh banana that feeds my body) and what my spirit finds less than edible and out of season. I am learning to let go and to go without, trusting in the great circle, the great ebb and flow.

Living in my spirit season means taking time over the next 10 days to rest, to play, to journey to far places (if only in my mind's landscape), to allow time to pass freely, to feel bored, to connect deeply with others, to let go of old agreements and make room for new ones, to return to me.

Living in Season: Remembering birth

If I could start a new tradition on Christmas Day it would be to gather people to share birth stories. Real births. Spiritual births. Painful births. Easy births. Long births. Births in the water. Births at home. Birth, birth, birth.

For each time I hear a woman tell the story of the birth of her child, I hear her tell the story of the birth of her soul. All birth stories are holy stories. Although they each hold slightly different plots, they remain mysteriously universal.

There is no veil between heaven and earth, between this world and the spiritual one, when we remember birth.

I won't be surrounded by other women today, but I will be with my children, just the people I need to remember....

Peace,
Nicki

Living in Season: When our kitchen becomes a stable

After we have lit our luminaries that line the sidewalk to our house, and everyone is in a simple costume (we need a Mary, a Joseph, two innkeepers, and a donkey), we begin to play. Our play is simple. Mary and Joseph and the donkey approach each door in the house, and at each door, they knock, and at each door, an innkeeper says the same thing, "I am sorry, we have no room for you here tonight." But when they arrive at the kitchen door, they hear something different, "Oh, I am sorry, we do not have room in the inn, but there is room in the stable for you." And our kitchen becomes the stable.

I like this idea. Our kitchen becomes the stable. The place to welcome others, those who have traveled long and hard, those who find no place anywhere except here, a place of hospitality and openness. A place of rest, a place of nourishment, a shelter. I hope it is such a place for others who visit, but I also hope it is that place for each five of us, day after day, year after year.

I also like that the stable is a place of low standing, a place for animals, because it links hospitality and shelter with creation. It is an ordinary place with lots of muck, so no one expects it to be a sacred place, but the surprise (and gift) is that it is holy. The simple surprise that God is in those ordinary places is something worth acting out each year. I get to remember the sacredness of space and the holiness of our actions. I already know what it is like to say, "sorry, no room," so I welcome the chance to practice making room for others.

Christmas Eve reminds me that our house is a sacred place. Our house holds the possibilty of sheltering, of offering hospitality, and practicing compassion and love. It reminds me that I can find the holy in our house, especially in our kitchen. Tonight I am hoping that my heart learns something from the open kitchen door.

Hoping for us all lots of play to help us enter the flow of love, openness, and compassion. And hoping we experience the holiness of hospitality, in simple ways, and in your own way, tonight.

Peace,
Nicki

For the night's gone on too long

I've been searching through the darkness
Return to me beloved,
For the night's gone on too long,
Return to me, my love,
I won't rest until I've found you,
Return to me beloved,
And you bring me back the dawn,
Return to me, my love.
(from Circle Round, words written by Susan Falkenrath Wolf)

I love the stories we tell about the earth and her cycles. The seasons turn and each has its own characteristics and personality traits. Each has its own color, element, and energy. Winter has never been my favorite of the four. The lack of light this time of year is never easy. It is a strain on my body, my emotions, my whole self, and especially my soul. And yet, I love the Winter Solstice.

The story of the earth's hibernation, bare and cold on the outside, but alive and full of fire on the inside, really speaks to me this year. The earth's hibernation mirrors my soul's spiritual hibernation. Perhaps the real truth is that I have never permitted myself to enter the pattern of the earth's darkness. I know how to dive deep into my self, but there are so many layers and old agreements to shed, that my lack of courage inhibits me from fully connecting with the pattern of the sleeping earth. I don't really want to embrace the darkness in myself let alone the darkness of the earth!

The darkness this year seems to be more alive for me. While the earth sleeps, I am awake, wide awake at early hours in the morning, pondering, dreaming, hoping that the pain of broken relationships will heal, full of the longing to connect with family and friends, praying for more patience with my children, struggling to hear and notice and believe my inner voice. This is essentially my darkness. There is so much more, I know. So much more I struggle to name, but I feel it all just right under the surface. For the first time in my life I have felt what it really feels like to live in the season of darkness. And there are many times when I have felt that the night has gone on for far too long.

And yet, the great story of our earth is that while the Sun is born again, the earth comes into more light. So, tomorrow, when I awake, I know that the hope of the light will carry me out of the darkness like it gives new life to the trees, the grass, the ponds, the hills, the flowers. It is a slow process, but I know how to recognize her signs. My story is bound to her story. I see that now as I can see the slow process of rebirth written on my soul.

Tonight, as I walk into our favorite woods, the place that holds so much meaning and memories for our family, as we carry our lanterns made from jam and olive jars and tied leather string, and as I carry our Solstice candle that will burn through the night and into the light of a new day and a new season, as we find our way through the darkness to our fairy tree, and as we sing 'Return to me, my love' to the Sun, I will wish for the practice of release. Release the darkness, release the old agreements, release my resistance to fully embrace who I truly am. I will send my wishes to the light for courage, wisdom, cheer, and sound sleep, for the earth must know that I need it.

For now, I wait. New light and new life is coming.

Tomorrow, I know the coming of the light will shine on me.

Happy Solstice, happy Sun, happy, happy light!