Photo by Lyn

I've been thinking about what it is to have a story, a genuine story that belongs to you, that is given to you as a gift as you move through the many seasons of your life; a story that links aspects of your experience with a spiritual understanding of your physical world. Maybe it is simply connecting to phases of the moon, or animal, mineral or plant, through stories which give you a deep reverence and connection to all life forms; a story that grounds you with a sense of purpose, and a clear place in existence.

Lately, I have been thinking about the kind of stories that I grew up with, realizing that much of the stories that I learned were very much borrowed, and taught to me in a detached way, as to be sure that they wouldn't stay with me long. They were stories that belonged to other peoples and other eras of time, who apparently had access to sacred wisdom that I did not. So, even if I felt so…

You are probably wondering why I am writing this blog... Me too. But if you can buy this-- I didn't really have a choice. It is a symbolic step outside of myself, in embracing me fully as I am without trying to adhere to what is comfortable for me, or you. It is practicing what I preach. It doesn't feel safe for me. It is like a difficult yoga pose, that I feel genuinely afraid that if I hold it much longer, I might not be able to get out of --but bring it on. This is my free-fall. This is my impossible climb up Mt. Everest. This is my encounter with the wild. I don't know where any of this is going. I offered you my creation, but I never said it would be any good, or profound at that, just honest.

Stay tuned for my thoughts on borrowed mythology, my messages to friends of old, my experience in letting my children be, and my crazy dreams, like the one where I had plant hands. Trippy, huh?

Photo by Lyn

I'm finding it hard to write at the moment. The previous two posts were written in moments of absolute connectedness and openness. You, my readers, recognized the words of love, and you let me know. Such beauty in your responses, and such a contradiction to find myself in a contracted state because of it. As if I need to keep up with what has already been said...

The truth is that we come down from those extreme heights eventually, and realize how high we really climbed, and how dangerous it was; how for a brief moment we let our hearts beat outside of our chests, exposed and unprotected. We succumb to the illusion, that it was a close call. We sense, with terror, the trodden footsteps of hungry wolves who've retreated, but who, all the same, were tracking us and ready to tear us apart.

Our feeling of vulnerability can't help but return because we are charting unfamiliar territory in opening ourselves up so wide. We've arrived at a place where there are no mo…

We sit in silence, our noses nuzzled together, our foreheads touching, no matter that you are many miles away. Our vision extends high above us until there is no space in between. It circles above us, birds in flight, touching the void, and allowing us to feel the breadth of it, only as much as is comfortable to nudge us gently open.

And here it is that the story has ended, and a new one has begun. Here it is that we access eternity, with no limits, no boundaries, and the surprise of wholeness that opens up a reserve of love large enough for all existence that ever was or will ever be.

And those moments, the ones passed, become just the right pressure to have created diamonds.

I speak of our love, because it is the one thing that bubbles up in my soul with pure joy. There we were, two traveling, mother and daughter. We were no different than most. We had our fights.

"That's how the cookie crumbles..." you would say, and I'd feel misunderstood and angry. I would chastise …

Photo by Lyn
This blog is born at a time when a physical, a mental, and a spiritual gestation has amply lived within me, lovingly nurtured along in protected space for some duration, held in time by the rhythm and the weight of my step, and the privacy of my mind. But as all creations do, it has become too big for me to carry, and its ripeness brings on tidal pains of labor as it begs to enter into another dimension; one that knows that what is shared lives in all of us.

I have had no desire to blog until this moment. I have watched the blogfest like I would a parade, from the sidelines, with the comfort of knowing that I would never set foot on a cartoon float, throwing out candy and waving elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist, wrist; happy to feel separate from the moving caravan of pageantry that everyone was so excited about.

I was always happy when the parades were over, and did my best to suppress the odd sensations that I was missing something grand in the experience, and that I should genu…