As the sun began to set, the pond became still. My husband Jay and I were taking a late afternoon walk around this small body of water in Northern California. Walking a trail high above the water’s surface, we were feeling gusts of wind at the higher elevation, yet visually experiencing the calmness below.
continued our walk in silence. We were both in awe of nature’s endless
capacity to express volumes of wisdom within a single moment. The sensory dichotomy between the breeze on
our skin and stillness below was a simple reminder that even though life may feel
chaotic, in our heart of hearts there is steadfast peacefulness.
and I both had loved resting on the floor in our early school years while listening
to the teacher read a story. Here on the
trail, we had both dropped into that childlike ability to be completely
absorbed in the ancient story unfolding around us. Perhaps
it was imaginary, but it felt as though the sky, sun, wind, and the water had noticed
our attentiveness to their conversation – and lessons.
the time we had finished our circumambulation, the pond had become a glistening
mirror. There was a near perfect
reflection of the sky above. They appeared
to be two skies, both with broad brushstrokes of deep purple across a canvas of
oranges, reds, blues, and pinks. This was another sweet reminder of nature’s stillness
offering the grace of clarity of life as it is.
the ups and downs of life, I am deeply grateful for the abiding wisdom tucked within
the flora and fauna, the elements, and all forms of life. As the fall season settles in, I will take
more moments to listen and observe this wordless wisdom. I hope you will join me.
This practice supports your awareness inner peacefulness and love.
Turn your phone and any other devices to airplane mode.
Gently circle one hand over the other 3-4 times. This will feel as though you were wringing your hands.
Lightly rest the heal of your palms over your eyes for a few moments.
Take a few deep breaths and imagine that on each inhale that pure joy and love are flowing into every cell of your being.
to a place where you have a hanging mirror.
your face within about eight inches of the mirror.
into your own eyes.
Say to yourself silently, “I see the love that you
are. At your heart of hearts, you are
Repeat a few times while continuing to look deeply
into your own eyes.
is no right or wrong here, but try to relax and receive the grace of seeing and
speaking to your innermost self.
you wish, try looking at friends and family in this way throughout the day.
Transition back into your day –
Gently stroke your eyelids and your face with
Bring your palms together in front of your
heart. Pause here for a few moments.
It is late August, and open meadows and deciduous trees are
turning from green to brown. The deer
have re-appeared outside our back windows after spending the summer foraging on
the slopes of a local mountain. Their
hooves make a crunching sound as they wander through the dry grasses and leaves
in search of ivy and other edible plants.
As the summer gives way to fall, I admire how artfully the
wind helps the tree let go of its leafy garb. The tree seems to rejoice as the breeze
arrives. The two seemingly dance
together making a rustling sound and swaying movement. Then, when their dance is complete there is
celebration. Like confetti, a group of leaves
scatter through the air and flutter onto the ground.
Almost overnight, it seems the porch and walkways are
adorned with different patterns. No
longer tethered, leaves are free to ride the currents of even smallest of wind
gusts, pirouetting across the surface to form little leaf mounds on the
pathway. It is then I gather my broom
and begin sweeping.
Stroke by stroke of the broom, I lose myself in the unity of
the movement and sound. Whoosh,
whoosh. Whoosh, whoosh. Whooooosh.
As the leaves slide in front of the broom, they are like words of the
saga of existence of all beings – birth, death, inhale, exhale, receive, give, whoosh,
Within that saga, there is the mystery of immeasurable
wholeness within the ordinary occurrences and tasks of daily living. I am grateful to the wind, trees, and turning
of the season to tune me back into the gift of sweeping. I am also grateful for my rural ancestors
modeling chores and work as an expression of reverence, and being an integral
part of life. As fall moves along, I
will continue to sweep. I hope you will
This practice supports your awareness of tree wisdom. Ideally, outside.
your phone and any other devices to airplane mode.
near a tree, or in a place where you can observe a tree.
If inside, ideally have a window open so that you
can hear outside sounds.
Say “hello” to the tree. Thank it for doing all that it and other
trees share with your breath, shelter, paper, and inspirations.
Resist the temptation to take a photo.
with the tree.
Imagine you are seeing this tree for the first
its size, its limbs, and maybe its roots.
its qualities and characteristics such as it peacefulness.
your eyes, or allow them to settle into a soft gaze.
Acknowledge to yourself that you are in the space of
the tree’s home.
Imagine that you can feel the tree’s presence.
any natural sounds in and around the tree, yet let that awareness float by
without analyzing the source of the sound.
comfortable, sit quietly without any effort to learn or observe the tree. Allow any awareness or insight about the tree
to arise and fade.
the tree and say “thank you.”
inside, imagine you are touching the tree.
Transition back into your day –
Hold your arms around the tree, or imagine that. Make a commitment to visit it again soon.
These past few days I’ve had the impulse toward shedding. It feels like an inner pull to embrace the light of the season. With the upcoming solstice, lightness is happening on both sides of our planet – leaves on the deciduous trees on one side and mammals letting go of their coats on the other.
I feel lucky that I have the time in my schedule to follow this inspiration and lighten up my environment, which for me almost always leads to an inner lightening up. For example, yesterday I decided to give away a raincoat. Had I not worn it once, it would have still had a price tag on its sleeve. I laughed as I added it to the collection of other things that would be welcomed and used by others.
That raincoat represented a part of me that also needed to go – the snarky part of me that has been bewildered by how anyone could buy something, store it away, and not use it. Hah. There it was, hanging in my closet! A flood of compassion flowed in that moment toward me and every other human. Within our normal life pattern of gathering, nesting, and protecting our families and ourselves, we tend to accumulate and get caught up in our stuff. It takes some kind of prompt to get us to lighten up and get some perspective on habits mostly of our own making.
The verb “shedding” is pliable and has multiple meanings. I find it interesting that the idiomatic usage of “shed light on” stems from earlier times where “shedding” inferred clarity or discernment. It is with that sense that I felt myself “shedding tears” for our humanity being wrapped in our attitudes and environment.
It is no wonder that the prophets and indigenous elders reminded us of basic truths, such as the light is always there. We only need to realize it. Thankfully, solstice and other phenomena of nature can stir our memory of the light, and prompt us to let the light shine into the closets of our minds. Then, the shedding comes naturally, without effort. For many, that light is called God.
This short practice offers awareness of the light.
Turn your phone, tablets, and computer to silent. If you are wearing an electronic tool, remove it. Exception is for medically required electronics.
Find a comfortable seated position.
If you are seated in a chair, place both of your feet on the floor.
Take a moment to vigorously shake out your arms and hands.
Try to this in as relaxed as way as possible, i.e., let your upper limbs be loose.
If you have joint injury, adjust the movement as needed.
Slowly, nod your head up and down a few times.
You may close your eyes or leave them in a soft gaze.
Invite a sense of relaxation around the lids and corners of your eyes.
If you have cervical injuries, imagine this movement.
Pause with your chin turned lightly upward.
Smile gently with your lips closed.
Invite a few, deeper inhalations. Imagine as though it is a quiet, warm day and you are outside. The air smells sweet and you can feel the warmth caressing your face.
Pause with your chin turn lightly downward.
Imagine from the backside of your eyes, you could allow your gaze to settle upon your heart.
Smile gently with your lips closed.
Invite a few, deeper exhalations. Imagine as though there is a soft, luminous glow in the center of your heart. On each exhale, your entire being is being bathed in that light.
Pause with your head to center.
Sit quietly for a few moments.
Transition Back into Your Day –
When you are ready, return to your day.
This poem appears in Mala of the Heart: 108 Sacred Poems, page 19, edited by Ravi Nathwani and Kate Vogt and published by New World Library.
Most of the day had been stormy with high winds and heavy rain. I had gone out to feed the birds and pick up the mail in the early morning, but otherwise had stayed inside. It felt like a luxury to be somewhere warm and dry without any necessity to navigate the wet roadways and detours around debris and flooded areas.
Serendipitously, the day was unscheduled with no work or other appointments. I needed to physically be nowhere other than home. I felt an impulse to begin filling up the day with phone calls and conversations online. Yet, I couldn’t let go of the awareness of the gift of shelter and the choice to retreat into that.
At both the deepest and broadest level is the sanctity of the heart, and its abundance of love and joy. Within the heart, everyone and everything belongs. There is room for all life – the sky, mountains, oceans, lands, and the objects and species residing in those regions. Divine love and joy are the essence of the heart.
The rainy day made me reflect upon a more basic form of sanctuary – four walls, roof, and floor, and a consistent place to rest our head and nourish our body. Instead of getting lost in my social media, I chose instead to clean and care for the philodendron, fern, and other houseplants by watering them and trimming the leaves. Albeit small, the apartment felt like a castle filled with the blessings of safety, comfort, love, and wellbeing.
I have done nothing special in this life to be one of the privileged humans to have a shelter. Although I have not asked them, my guess is that like me, most of my family members take for granted the sanctuary of home. I am grateful to the inclement weather to have caused me to slow down and appreciate shelter and the rich blessings in my life.
This practice supports awareness of the body as an earthly home.
Stretch out. Give yourself a hug.
Hold your upper right forearm with your left hand. Gently squeeze.
Hold your mid right forearm with your left hand. Gently squeeze.
Hold your right wrist with your left hand. Gently Squeeze.
Hold each finger on your right hand with your left fingers. Gently squeeze.
Hold your right hand with your left. Gently squeeze.
Repeat with the opposite arm and hand.
Return to Your Day
Sit quietly for a few moments. When you are ready, return to your day.
Note: In the last line of this poem, scholars are unsure in reading Blake’s handwriting whether it is “live” or “love;” or, “king” or “thing.” In other words, instead of “Go, love without the help of anything on earth,” it is “Go, live without the help of any king on earth.’
This poem is from Mala of the Heart: 108 Sacred Poems, page 11, edited by Ravi Nathwani and Kate Vogt and published by New World Library. Photo by Benjamin Wong on Unsplash.
As I read this poem by Hafiz, I found myself tempted to complain about complaining. It sometimes seems easier to share a story about a mishap or mistreatment, or an unexpected event. Fortunately there was post-it note on my desk reminding me of “an elm tree.”
There was elm tree that stood for decades in the front yard of my parent’s farm in Western Kansas on the High Plains. It was planted by my father and survived droughts, disease, lightening, gale force winds, blizzards, high heat, hail, and ever-changing weather. Yet, it steadily grew without complaint.
As a child, I would rest in the grass and watch the elm’s leaves dance in the wind and sunlight. It seemed to always be there whenever I needed comfort. For example, I appreciated its quiet presence when I sat next to it after our dog Poochie died, and later, our dog Rider. In my early teens, when my best friend started dating the boy whom I secretly loved, the elm silently reassured me that life goes on. Outdoor family photos often included some part of the tree, even if only its shadow.
Even after I moved to Europe for a while, it offered inspiration. When I first attempted a yoga pose named “tree,” it was there to teach me. Initially the lesson was just with physical balance, which was extra challenging with my inner-pronated feet. The balance on one foot came as I learned to use my feet with the same stability as my childhood tree-friend that was securely tethered to the earth. Its cousins in the form of the wooden floor fully supported me.
Over the years, more of its limbs died and broke off. For at least ten years, my father would announce, “this would be the year” when he would have to cut down “that old elm.” In his usual succinct way, his announcement would be short, followed by a pause inviting some feedback or comment. Each year, there was a silent message that his commitment had grown stronger and that we need to prepare ourselves that eventually the elm would really be cut down.
During that decade, I thought about what it would really be like when the elm was gone. I would miss its crusty old bark and graceful presence. I would miss its lopsidedness from having lost limbs in stormy weather. Its trunk had grown wide with age and seemed to sink more solidly into the ground. In the warm seasons, the leaves that sprouted on its branches still rustled delicately as though singing to a cloudless blue sky. Its branches continued to reach upward and outward as though expressing its eternal beauty and presence.
Whenever I visited, I sat down on a walkway close to this gracious tree. I would trace its shape with my eyes from its base where the roots sank into the ground up to its uneven and mostly barren branches. One consistent message was that it was what it was, nothing more and nothing less. It was a singular expression of the divine Self. Rather than trying to be the sky, a blade of grass, or any other part of nature, the elm’s energy was focused on being a tree.
On my last visit with the family elm tree, it had this message: “Sway with the wind but remain steady. Be still and feel the raging storms rush over you. Accept the storms and allow a part of yourself to release in return. Time is for release and change. Listen. All that you need to know is there. Open your arms to the sky as I reach my limbs toward the heavens. Mirror the seasons to the fullest, so that others might share in your splendor. Each season has its beauty. If it is fall, do not mourn springtime. Be a witness to others as I have been to you. Tolerate and nourish those around you for they compliment your natural brilliance. When your body becomes diseased, remember your true self. For even though I have been stricken with elm disease, I am still the elm that I have always been. Anchor yourself firmly in the universal wisdoms no matter how rich or sparse they may seem. Be. Just be.”
It is now nearly ten years since my father cut down the elm. Even though both the tree and my father are gone, their lessons live on.
Sit on the floor or in a chair. If in a chair, place the soles of both feet on the floor.
Rub your palms together vigorously for a few seconds. Then, place your hands lightly over your eyes. Breathe as though you are caressing the breath.
Rub your palms together again. Then, place your hands over your jaw and sides of the face. Breathe softly and gently.
One last time, rub your palms together. Then, place your hands over your heart with one hand on top of the other. Breathe.
Release your hands to the sides of your body. Sweep your hands and arms upward . Pause for a breath with your hands are overhead.
Bring your palms together overhead. Then, with the palms still together, lower your hands to your heart.
Bow your head slightly. Make a vow of to be complaint free.
Transition into your sleep –
Stay seated. Close your eyes or have a soft gaze. Sit quietly for several minutes.
When you are ready, return to your day.
This poem is Mala of the Heart: 108 Sacred Poems, page 12, edited by Ravi Nathwani and Kate Vogt and published by New World Library.
Cece looked up at me with wide blue eyes. She seemed to be deciding on whether to hide behind her mother’s legs or continue watching this new stranger in her home. She chose the latter, likely comforted by her mother’s laughter and effusive welcome.
She reached down and offered me one her toys. The floor around her was covered with small wooden balls and cups in different colors and sizes. In her hand was a red cup. Cece’s mother, Ellen, and I understood this timeless, welcoming gesture. It was a simple but clear invitation from Cece to sit and join her.
Springtime offers a similar gesture to humans and other species. Each year, she invites all to put aside the immediacy of the never-ending list of wants and things to do, and, instead, join in reveling and praising the gift of existence. Like Cece, there is a fragile innocence to Spring, as the grey landscape and bare trees turn into swaths of rich green and brilliant yellows, reds, purples, and pinks. By offering such raw beauty, Nature conveys a sense of trust that all are her kin and would only wish her well-being and longevity.
As we sat, I noticed a large tree with pink flowers outside the window. The branches were gently swaying back and forth. Some of the blossoms twinkled in the afternoon light. a squirrel scampered along the branches of a tree outside the window. It seemed that in that moment the entire world was sharing, exploring and playing.
Small children often bring adults back in touch with the joyful interconnectedness of the universe. Without the filter or restrictions of language, they are attuned to the subtle, universal language of nature. Children have a keen drive to commune with the richness of natural textures, sounds and shapes. Their innate awareness inspires them to touch the plants, notice the creeping of a caterpillar, plop down in the sand or grass, and giggle at the sight of a bird or an animal.
Children point us to what people of the world’s indigenous cultures have known from the onset of time. At the root, all life is an expression of the divine – all in one and one in all. Ancient sayings and poems continually remind us to notice and celebrate the sacred vitality pulsing within each moment. The gift of remembering is tucked into the blossoms of Spring, the patterns of the moon, the wag of a tail, and the clarity in a small child. May we all rejoice in the ordinary gifts in the everyday!
Comfortably seated, rub your palms together briskly.
Once you feel some warmth, rest the heels of your palms over your eyes.
Your fingers can lightly curl over your forehead toward the top of your skull.
Invite in a sense of ease and peacefulness. After a few moments, allow your hands to relax in your lap.
Imagine you are sitting at the base of a large tree. The weather is a comfortable temperature and the air is still.
The earth is supporting and nourishing both your body and the tree. Pause. Deep beneath you is the core of the planetary home to all species.
The trunk of your body and that of the trees receives and processes the essential vitality from the earth, atmosphere, and heaven.
Around and above you, space supports your capacity to flourish.
Revel in your kinship with the tree in breathing together – in and out, out and in.
Celebrate the earth that gives you both minerals and unseen layers of support so you may be upright and be a conduit of vitality in the world.
Honor the vastness of the sky and the gift of the sun. Praise the Divine.
Transition Back Into Your Day –
Sit quietly for a few moments before returning to your day.
This poem is translated by Coleman Barks and reprinted with his permission in Mala of the Heart: 108 Sacred Poems, co-edited by Ravi Nathwani and Kate Vogt, and published by New World Library.
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