Category: General Learning

The last two weeks I have been with family, choosing not to write.

It has meant that I’ve had a few more minutes of silence, particularly in the mornings.

I love this passage on silence, from Cheryl Sanders-Sardello from the book, Silence: The Mystery of Wholeness.

The enormity of life’s tasks weigh and press on the day. They demand and insist on a constancy of attention that is relentless. Ah, but we are fortunate to have night’s solace–in the silence that is created by the dark.

Night, that melancholy time, when the stars remind us of the silence of God. here we can remember the future, and lean into the unknown, setting aside the oppressive weight of our carefully constructed version of who we think we are, and release that side of the pool. We can remember how to see in the dark, with our ears, perceiving the silence in its holy echoing and resonance, its calling forth a knowing that is from the soul.

The silence sends us on a different pilgrimage. It guards the heart’s fire and teaches us to speak from within, with a language that is imbued with the sacred. Words thus nurtured in this holy silence fly forth with the wings of joy, and return to lead us back to the silence from which they were born.

 

Well, let’s stay on the humor side of things today. Satirical. Funny again for it’s truthfulness.

The author is Froma Harrop. The subject is meditation and the American way of coopting and repurposing for more, bigger, better. Productivity is the game. Ur…, uh…, maybe.

Here’s a taste below. The full article is here. Thanks Meg Wheatley for sharing.

Relaxation, vacations and a good night’s sleep could be seen as key to personal well-being. But gremlins have taken a wrench to our puritanical brains and put dollar values on our inner peace and repose. They are now a means to goose our output.

“Goose our output.” You can feel that, right.

I value Facebook. It is plain and simple. There are people that I’m in contact with because of FB that I wouldn’t be otherwise. This includes updates, serious and funny. This includes my ability to say hello, easily, with a kid of shared nod.

And, I laughed when I read this below. Close enough to the truth to strike a note of funny. It was sent to me by friend and colleague (and FB friend, of course), Jerry Nagel.
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Non-Facebook Friends

I am trying to make friends outside of Facebook while applying the same principles. 

Every day I go to the street and tell a passerby what I have eaten, how I feel, what I have done the night before and what I will do after. 

I give them pictures of my family, my “animal farm”,  me gardening, trail walking or golfing, and my friend and I trying to rescue an injured cat.

I also listen to their conversations and tell them I love them. 

And it works!!  I already have 3 people following me — 2 police officers and a psychiatrist.

Mark Nepo, though I don’t know personally, inspires me often. He is a poet and philosopher. He is a cancer survivor. He writes of transformation and awakening.

He is one of few people for whom I can pick up one of his books, start reading anywhere, and be very satisfied after a few short paragraphs. Enough so that I often put the book down, just to let the words settle into me. It’s a bit like meeting a friend in passing, but pausing to take a longer morning walk together. Ever reliable.

“The Exquisite Risk” and “Facing the Lion, Being the Lion” are two in particular that I’ve enjoyed and used with others.

There are lots of resources on Mark’s website, including places to sign up for regular reflections through email. Give it a good peek.

Here’s a post from him that I saw recently.

During my cancer journey, I was able to see my heart on a screen during a test in which I was injected with radioactive dye, so they could trace the first pass of blood through the first chamber of my heart. It was an experience that changed my understanding of heart. 

THE HISTORY OF MY HEART 

It has pumped strong since my first breath. At first it grew like a fish, no limbs, no eyes; just swimming in place while I tried to do what I was told. It knew nothing of where I would lead it or where I would be taken. As I grew, it spread into a red bird whose wings stirred me with a want for impossible things. But wanting, falling, loving, dying and being battered wore me down to life on Earth. Beating in the face of so many abrasions, it only toughened, its cords of muscle eating my heartaches like calisthenics; always whispering in my sleep, “Give me more!” 

In my cancer, it grew very still. The doctors thought it was going away or back to where it waited while I was being born. It was only gliding beneath the storm. Now on the other side, it has morphed again. How to say it? I’ve become a mold hollowed by my sufferings: all to be filled by my heart which has slipped its casing completely, pouring itself into the contours of my being. Now it washes everywhere: behind my eyes, my lips, inside my fingers. Now, wherever you touch me, you touch my heart.

A Question to Walk With: Begin to tell the story of the history of your heart.

Quite a nice invitation, isn’t it.