The roar of joy that set the worlds in motion Is reverberating in your body And the space between all bodies. Beloved, listen.
Find that exuberant vibration Rising new in every moment, Humming in your secret places, Resounding through the channels of delight. Know you are flooded by it always.
Float with the sound. Melt with it into divine silence. The sacred power of space will carry you Into the dancing radiant emptiness That is the source of all. The ocean of sound is inviting you Into its spacious embrace, Calling you home.
Image show yellow ginko leaves on a grey cement sidewalk. A single drop of water rests on the center leaf, and a reflection of the sun is visible.
I woke up at 2 AM. Not uncommon, but this was different. I distinctly heard “Enlightenment. Enlightenment.” O dear goodness, brain, please let me go back to sleep. And yet it was persistent.
“Enlightenment. The light in me.” I had an urgency to find pen and paper, turn on a light that pierced the darkness, and write. I feel sometimes it’s important to share the process as a creative person, so here’s what came, only reordered slightly for clarity. ******************************************************************************** Enlightenment. The light in me. Becoming light. Finding peace. Finding innocence. Uniting with my inner child. The inner child as light? Innocence.
Innocence lost. Is it one defining moment, or a series of events?
Reaching for the light in me, like reaching for a glass of water. The thirst is quenched for a time, and then we refresh.
Innocence. The “pure” soul- or maybe better- or orginal soul. Full of wonder and awe. Exploring things deeply with the whole being because everything is fresh, and new. Experimenting. Figuring things out. Kids’ drawing showing aspects of what they see and feel.
Rising to the surface in times of joy- eating an ice cream cone. Looking at the sky. In times of sorrow- calling for Mama when hurt. Saying goodbye when driving away from a burning house (not mine. I saw this on a video). In times of hope- reconnecting with someone…the video I saw of a man taking his 5 year old son to meet his Grandmother for the first time…. there were two little boys standing on those steps.
Do those who live closer with Nature retain more innocence? Do artists?
What does pura vida mean? Pure life. Living in deep appreciation.
Getting the wonder taught out of us. Being taught to conform, rather than discover our full potential, unbound by convention.
“Personal growth” as commodification of the journey back to the soul.
Enlightenment is a process, not an end game. Not a competition. Not a hierarchy. Vibration is simply vibration. The colonization of communing with the soul is rampant.
Feeling like something’s wrong if we don’t know what our life purpose is (what do you want to be when you grow up?), as if it has to be ONE THING FOREVER, when the purpose might Universally be to learn, discover, love (the world around us, people, our selves) while we are in this body.
If we are lucky, we are born into an environment where we are nurtured, protected “just enough”. Not all beings have that privilege.
Has tech “stolen” that from kids? How seeing packs of kids out roaming is so rare any more.
Healing the inner child as reconnecting with that pure soul/original innocence.
The other day I wondered if when we die, we step fully into our happiest moment/memory before the next adventure begins.
Reaching. Obtaining. Enlightenment can’t be possessed. It’s the dance and music of the soul. ********************************************************************************Well. That was quite the adventure! Much to ponder. Seeds for creating. Seeds for being.
Black and white photo on the left shows a woman wearing overalls sitting on a horse in front of a house. Sepia toned photo on the right shows a man sitting down sorting apples in baskets. This is Mrs. and Farmer Bethke- two people from my childhood. (The picture of Mrs. is long before I knew her.) Thanks to my brother, Ed, for finding these images!)
You never know when you will receive an invitation to a doorway into meditation
I don’t know if it was because I was riding a stationary bicycle, but when someone I was talking with the other day said they grew up on a farm, I was immediately transported. Perhaps because riding a bike was so integral to my growing up years.
There I was, barefoot, toes wiggling in the velvety soft dust of the lane between the corn and hayfields. The cornstalks were rustling in the lazy summer breeze- a drier, more rattling sound than when they were green in Spring. I could smell the sun-warmed hay, freshly baled from the second cutting of the season. Bees buzzing in the chamomile under the apple trees. It made the remaining minutes of my training warm up delightful.
I also thought of the Bethkes- owners of the corn and hay fields, as well as the roadside market down at the bottom of the hill where I grew up. We always called Mrs. Mrs. Bethke, and I remember calling the mister Farmer Bethke, but never Mr..
So many memories of being sent down with 50 cents clutched in my hand, tightly, so I wouldn’t drop it in the tall grass of the orchard, to buy a dozen ears of sweet corn for supper. Sitting on the back steps shucking that same corn.
Sometimes a cow or two would escape from the farm, and wander up the hill and into our yard. Memories too, of Spring smelling of apple blossoms, and the manure spread on the field. Summer sounding like the arrival of mourning doves and mosquitoes. In Autumn, raking leaves, burning them, and sometimes roasting marshmallows. Winter- skating on the pond, and sliding down the hill on an old tractor inner tube, or cardboard refrigerator boxes until the year Santa brought us all flying saucers.
Mrs. Bethkey always wore overalls and a blouse, like in the picture, with a bandana covering her hair, and when it was chilly, a blue and grey plaid shirt (it might be in the photo behind Farmer Bethke!)
I don’t remember much about Farmer Bethke, other than the time he chased and yelled at us for playing on the hay bales stacked up in the field. (They made such a good fort and castle!) Looking back as an adult, I’m sure it was a combination of safety and that playing on the bales would… erm… unbale them a bit.
Their sons were stock car drivers, and we could often hear them revving their cars before an upcoming race.
This is the beauty of Instinctive Meditation® practice. Any small noticing, any memory, can be an invitation to explore our inner world, and reset. I’m so grateful that I’ve become attuned to seeing these invitations, and adding them to my repertoire. The past several days, since this conversation, these memories have been my doorway into meditation.
The farm is long gone, although the house and a couple outbuildings remain. Part of the farm is now a small park. The dusty lane is paved, and suburban houses have taken over the fields. The pond where we skated, and the lone oak on the hill that holds so many secrets still exist, but that’s another story, for another time.
Image shows drawing of a lotus pod in white chalk on black paper. This is a doodle of mine from a recent creativity and meditation session.
“Research shows that art experiences, whether as a maker or a beholder, transform our biology by rewiring our brains and triggering the release of neurochemicals, hormones and endorphins.”
There is so much in this article that I find parallels our experiences in instinctive meditation, especially the invitation to engage with awe and wonder on a regular basis. This is part of what excites me so much- the discoveries I continually make that deepen both my creative and meditation practices.
I especially like the thought of slowing down in a museum- to truly experience the art in front of you.
Whether you go to a museum, gallery, walk and look at architecture, listen to music, go to a concert, doodle in a notebook… it all counts!
Life-changing events aren’t always monumentous, boisterous, or catastrophic. Sometimes they are subtle, silent, and a matter of timing.
The other day I was sitting next to a koi pond at the Self-Realization Fellowship International Headquarters. I closed my eyes for a moment, to better take in the sound of bird songs mingled with distant traffic, the scent of the nearby pines, and the peaceful play of the water falling into the pond.
I opened my eyes and noticed that a single petal of an iris bud was reaching out. As I was admiring shape of the petal, and the pattern of the yellow markings, something amazing happened. Very slowly, the rest of the petals opened, ever so slightly. My had flew up to my mouth in shocked awe of the best kind. When I was a kid, one of my favourite things was watching timelapse movies of flowers blooming, and here I was, witnessing a flower opening itself up to the world, right in front of me!
I became so attuned to that single flower that everything else fell away. The petals were performing a blossom butoh- slowly pulsing slightly opened and closed. If I hadn’t been paying attention I wouldn’t have noticed. Each dance open a little further out, and each dance in a little less closed.
There was no breeze. I then saw that before each movement outwards, the stem of the plant did a slight undulation. rising up to the flower to give it momentum to open a little more.
The whole while, I sat there with silent tears making their way down my cheeks. My whole being was filled with wonder and connection to creation. And I thought what an apt metaphor the opening of a flower is to one’s own journey of growth- unfolding to reveal the beauty that’s hidden within.
When the flower’s dance had slowed to the point I could no longer perceive it, I stood up, bent over close to it, whispered “thank you” and walked through the rest of the grounds, pausing now and then to witness the slight movement of leaves and fronds.
I walked out the gates a different person than I was walking in- maybe myself a little more open. I saw it as a sign to have find the courage to unfold, and reveal the beauty hidden inside.
I invite you in the coming days to make time to sit and witness more intimately the world around you. The songs of birds. Shapes of clouds. The pulse of life around you. What subtle moment might transport you into a new way of being?
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