Wednesday Wish (39)

Continued from last week…

Photo by Bailey Photographic via Flickr

The doorbell echoed throughout the house, emptiness echoing back to me. I swallowed, wondering if I was doing the right thing, how such daring found me. But only for a brief moment. As soon as I looked out at the flowers, both dead and thriving, I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be. I took a deep breath and turned back to the door. No one answered. I listened intently. No footsteps, no doors closing…no nothing. I pressed the doorbell a second time.

The small rectangle of glass in the door tempted me. I took a quick peek, hoping to see someone coming down the hall or the stair, maybe even old Jim himself hobbling slowly along with a cane. Instead, I found more than I ever expected. The rug in the foyer dirty and part of it crumpled up in a wad. More flowers in the entryway, drooping, yellow. Packets of white socks, one after the other, unopened, stacked, leaning to one side. A pile of dusty, dirty old shoes, their pairs not easily spotted. An unopened wrapped gift thrown beside some keys and a big cardboard box that looked to be some sort of exercise equipment, again, unopened, leaning in such a way that no one could pass through the front door even if they wanted to. The house was a mess. A shiver ran up my spine. Old Jim was in worse shape than I imagined.

I knew he wouldn’t answer. But I also knew he was there. I could feel him. When I let his presence enter me, he felt cold to the touch and tiny, distant, like a bird flying aimlessly, tens of miles away. Was that his fear? Strangely, he also felt slightly hopeful, a single red feather shining brightly on that same bird’s side. Was that an invitation?

I felt the magical intrigue a second time, as obvious to me as the shoes on my feet. My spirit perked. My smile broadened. I fine tuned my senses and seemed to taste the thread of Jim’s heart longing to be heard, to be seen, to be...touched. And right along side it, again I tasted a darkness, a distance that told me he wouldn’t ever dare open up to me, a stranger who knew nothing of his pain. Never. But still, I had to try.

I stepped out to a patch of flowers that I knew were in eyeshot of the second floor windows. I leaned down to breathe in their scents. One by one, I took them in, felt them as I had felt old Jim… alone in his messy unloved home, in his messy unloved body. And then…I started to hum. I couldn’t help it. It just happened. I called the flowers by name, talked to them as if they were friends and touched each one, admiring their petals, their leaves, their stems, and how they came up out of the ground, each one a little miracle, planted with love, Jim’s love.

And just as I was starting to really lose myself in the beauty of it all, out of the corner of my eye I saw the curtains part. Upstairs. In one of the second floor windows. He was watching me. He stood there for what seemed like a long time and just as I dared to peer back at him, he let the curtain go. It fluttered gently before it was still.

*          *          *

“Did you ever know Jim, the old man that lives in the Southern Mansion up the road?” I asked another neighbor on my way home.

“Oh, yes. He used to walk by here almost every day. He always used to light up when my flowers were in bloom. If I remember correctly, I think his favorites were the peonies. He said they reminded him of the South, of where he used to live as a boy. Nice man. Very nice man. I like a man who appreciates the beauty of flowers. It’s a simple love that seems to stay the distance, don’t you think?”

“What a beautiful thing to say,” I said smiling and nodding my head, “yes, I think you’re right.”

Photo by Tatiana12 via Flickr

*          *          *

My Wednesday Wish For You?

Connect with a heart this week, a heart that longs to be heard, seen…touched. Maybe your voice wont be heard. Maybe your words wont be wanted. But maybe your actions will be seen. And in your actions, let your own heart guide your way. For to connect with another heart, we must first connect with our own.

Wednesday Wish (38)

Photo by itsbrandoyo via flickr

Did the bird guide me there? His twitters awakening me to a voice I could not hear? Or was it the way the wind blew, drawing me nearer with every footstep, a path in the road invisible to all but myself? I didn’t know. And I wouldn’t know. All that mattered was that I had discovered the house, the house that seemed as if it had been inviting me to visit for a very long time.

It sat back from the road, a big open field of uncut grass protecting it like a medieval moat. Old trees with haggard bark hugged its walls, their knowing leaves trembling in the breeze, shivering with sacred vulnerability. Its windows, like eyelids, drooped, a few lined with mossy sadness, a few others boarded up with cheap plywood. But it was the feeling that spoke to me the loudest that lazy Sunday in the month of May. The feeling that felt like a flutter bug twirling in my chest.

“Does anyone live in the big white house set back from the road?” I asked a neighbor watering her plants in her perfectly manicured front yard.

“You mean the Southern mansion? Old Jim’s Southern mansion? We haven’t seen him in years but we haven’t heard of his passing either. I’m sure he’s still there. Must be…gosh…how old do you think Jim is by now, honey?”

            Her husband sat in a lawn chair on the porch reading a newspaper, “Over eighty, definitely over eighty, maybe ninety, for all I know…”

            “I’d say more like ninety. He’s become pretty reclusive in his old age. Didn’t used to be though. Used to be quite the gardener, among other things. Guess I don’t need to be telling you that. You can see all that yourself, I ‘spose,” She chuckled. Nosy neighbors tend to do that, chuckle off their nosey-ness.

I breathed in another smile born of the Southern mansion, old Jim’s Southern mansion. And this one was deeper still.

The bird may have left me. The breeze may have settled down, but the feeling…it was still there. I was being called to visit. And could not wait….

I found the entryway hiding out in the darkness of shade, tucked beneath a cluster of trees and between a mess of bushy overgrown shrubs. Two crumbling brick columns held up a rusted black gate, its hinges whining as I gave it a little push. It was open, I just opened it a little bit more. The entry was littered with leaves and yellowing camellias. Weeds popped their heads out between stones, obviously months or even years old. No one had gardened here in a very long time. And yet it was still stunning. I walked slowly, breathing in the mystery of this forgotten place, the magic that had been overlooked by so many and for so long.

As I neared the house I noticed a cluster of terracotta pots, each one filled with dirt but their flowers dead, hanging over the sides in stringy decay. There was a shovel and a rake that had been outside all winter. The stoop hadn’t been swept for seasons. The entrance was in shambles. It was even more lonely and decaying up close. I breathed in and out, slowly, trusting my instincts to visit, then leaned in to press the doorbell… 

*To be continued...

*          *          *

My Wednesday Wish for You?

No matter where you are or what you are doing, there is always magical intrigue. Soften your heart, squint your eyes to see with alternate senses, and allow the guidance to bubble up from within...guidance inviting you to discover the magical intrigue that has been longing for you for so very long....

Missing My Mexico...

I wiggle my toes under my sheets. They tickle me with secrets, whispering that they don’t want to sleep. They are warm, eager, sensuous….needing to feel the earth. So I listen and slip outside into the darkness, my toes my eyes, my heart my guide.

The stone pathway is warm, humid from the afternoon rain. I stop to lift my nose, to breathe in the scent of the sea mixed with white flowers and heat-- heat to melt. It finds places to seep in, to infiltrate my skin, my being. I relax my shoulders, my neck, my spine turns from stiff to soft and pliable. I’m a noodle with a smile. I like what the humid night air of my Mexico does to me.

I want the soil, the soft wetness of the earth. So I let my heart guide me, my toes first finding a tuft of mint, the flavors finding my nose, spiking the air into dancing prickles. Can eyes sparkle in the darkness? Yes, I am sure they can. I feel them sparkle, lit from within. I am more alive than I have been all day, here in the darkness of my Mexican night.

Another step and I find the ethereal wetness of the soil. I stop, absorbed by the arms of the earth, letting my body sway—sink, float—sail into the depths of something I cannot name. I ride like an unattached cloud, the earth’s whim my only direction…taken by its sensuous call…

I forget time

I am only feeling

Riding the magic carpet laid out by the light of my Mexican Moon

My toes are happy

They have shown me what they desired

Given me what I couldn’t know

Could only feel

A taste of earth’s

secret passion

sails me off,

alive and…

free

*          *         *

Wednesday Wish (37)

1 large cooking pot

1 jar of honey, organic if possible

water

white flowers, non-toxic

Your feet are bare so the dew-laden grass tickles as you walk. You smile like a little kid-- a little naughty, a little forbidden peeking through. Then you bite your lip, planning your next move, your eyes darting up to the tree, then down to the tufts of white near its base. And then what about the camellia over there? A butterfly catches your eye, dancing to the beat of the wind. Ahhh, a gust from the sea. You breathe it in, let it wash over your skin, your lungs filling…..with hope? Yes, that's right. And so is this.

You decide to pick the little guys first, the candytuft. And then a few pansies, too. The white flowers of the fruit trees, you don’t want to forget those. Better get those before the camellia blossoms, since you know you love those and they will take up every last bit of space in your arms. You pile them all on as gently as you can until there is no more space. Your arms are full. Yes, you say to yourself. You think that many will do.

You fill the pot to almost full with warm water, then turn the heat to medium. One at a time, you place the flowers in the pot their petals relaxing as soon as they touch the warmth. It was cold outside. Its not Mexico anymore. It’s the Pacific Northwest where Spring is cool and tea is welcome. You smile. Its good to be home. You pick up the wooden spoon and make the flowers twirl.

Two brave gob-filled scoops of honey find their way into your pot. They kerplunk and soon dissolve. You realize how good the kitchen smells. Why of course it does, you have a pot of sweet white flowers brewing on your stove.

*          *          *

My Wednesday Wish For You?

When you find yourself feeling hurt by the bitterness of those around you, when words and actions seem to carry arrows that pierce the very fibers of your heart, first, step away. And second, make yourself a flower bath. Like memories, feelings stay with us unless we are able to really cleanse our Selves. The combination of white flowers and honey is an elixir that does just that….it cleanses your aura of bitterness and feeds you the sweetness that you so wished would take its place. And it really works! Be sure though, to immerse your entire self in its gifts. Either pour it over your head like a shower or dunk your head completely under in your bath. And then watch how much better you feel in the morning. For me, it worked like magic.

A Message For Your Monday...

...to stop for a moment, today, to let Nature heal you...

"As long as this exists, and I may live to see it,

this sunshine, the cloudless skies, while this lasts,

I cannot be unhappy....

as long as this exists, and it certainly always will,

I know that then

 there will always be

comfort for every sorrow,

whatever the circumstances may be.

 And I firmly believe that nature

brings solace in all troubles."

-Anne Frank

Wednesday Wish (36)

Its late at night on a Tuesday. Everyone has gone to sleep. Everyone, except me. The stars twinkle, the flowers have closed their blooms, no birds sing, even the ocean sounds quieter. And the crickets? I’m sure they are just talking in their sleep, aren’t you?

I check in with my belly…is she hungry? Well, always, but does she want to eat something? Nope. Ok. And so maybe my head does ache a little bit, but not enough to keep me this wide awake. So I decide to get up, to get my computer, and to write—you.

Did you know that I always dreamed of a life that would sweep me away with magic and mystery? The kind that would surprise me with nuggets of joy, with morsels of riches so beautiful my hand would often cover my mouth or touch my heart. I did. And did you know I dreamed of faces with soft eyes and warm hands, of gently spoken words and laughter that bubbled out like honey? And what about the dreams I had of foreign lands and intriguing scents, of sights that would make me blink….and blink….and blink again, unable to take in so much color and beauty all at once. Did you know about those? Oh, dear friend of mine, you see, I dreamed up stories and imagined feelings all my life. And then one day when I was older, I saw my guardian angel and asked her to help me even more…

To find joy in the little things

To invite peace into my heart.

To breathe my present moments into my soul

To taste the depths of love and

To ooze it out like scented air…

To travel this grand and beautiful world

Connecting with people

With faces very different than my own

And to open my heart up

Wide

For angels in my everyday to set up

camp.

Where they’d plant flowers

To bloom,

Time

Immemorial

So tonight, when everyone has gone to sleep, I find comfort in writing you, in taking to you of my dreams. I know you are listening because I can feel your open heart. I know you care because I can sense your soul. And I now know why I couldn’t sleep. Because I needed comfort, needed kindness, needed you to help me see that where I am going is a path well lit, a path that is in alignment with all that I have ever dreamt, my entire life.

*          *          *

What did you dream of when you were young? What made your eyes sparkle and your belly do a happy little twist? If it’s hard to remember, breathe in your wish to see, and breathe out those ornery fears…as you drive, as you shower, as you wash dishes or do mindless work. Occupy the left side of your brain to let the right side bring you back….to those sacred moments when you dreamed your future alive. What did you imagine for yourself? What made you smile when you did? Feel those dreams, wont you now? And then begin --with me, tonight, today-- to inch a little bit toward them, no matter how hard it may seem. Fly with me, let your dreams come alive again, let your life begin anew….

Wednesday Wish (35)

The market hummed with activity that morning. A lone piece of gravel crunched under my foot but I didn’t notice. My senses were too busy with the scent of sugar-fried dough, the pleas of vendors, the vats of boiling grease, the kind warmth of my beloved Mexican sun. I bought a small bag of strawberries and let their juices melt into my tongue, my naughty smile bringing curious stares. Shoulders bumped me. Voices sang out deals. Sweat beaded up in the small of my back and the strawberries kept me centered. In the juice of my hungry spirit.

I wandered past the plant lady, the silver man, the baskets, the glassware, the jewelry and the pottery. I touched some wooden bowls, some leather belts, a wreath made of corn husks, and a few purses made of oil cloth. My sandaled feet were content, or so I thought. And yet I never stopped walking for very long—tasting another strawberry here, admiring a new craft there, wandering somewhere I hadn’t yet known.

His paintings were hidden. They weren’t on the main path. I looked over at a table of trinkets and when I looked up to smile at the vendor, a wash of color over his shoulder caught my eye. I propped my sunglasses atop my head, swallowed my last bit of strawberry and looked again. And like a magnet, found my way…closer, closer, closer still…

‘Hallo’, he said with foreign sweetness.

‘Hello’, I returned, my eyes sparkling.

He watched as I stared. I tried not to, really I did, but I couldn’t stop. The colors, they danced. The shapes, they sang. And the feelings that suddenly awakened in me…wow...who was the painter? I needed to know. I looked up and into his eyes, the secret of every man’s soul.

‘You?’

He smiled.

I offered him a strawberry.

He told me of the little green men who lived under his house. Of the places they took him when he dreamed. He told me of the blues in the lakes and the forests, of the deep purples in hidden hearts, of the yellows and the oranges and the reds and the turquoises, his paint splotched fingers talking in the air, his eyebrows arching and bending like frantic fuzzy worms. He showed me what the paintings said, where their songs belonged and why all the other people that day walked by, every one, unable to see. My heart raced. My fingers tingled. And I think the eyes of my heart, they must’ve grown.

‘That one. You must take it home. It belongs to you.’ He was so sure, I almost felt naked, revealed. How did he know?

I gave him a nervous laugh. ‘I wish I could. Maybe one day. It’s beautiful.’ An original painting? Me? I spent my weekly budget on my bag of strawberries. (Ok, practically.) There was no way I could afford his work. No way.

‘You see it. It sees you. It belongs to you.’

I gave him a double take. My skin itched. I looked over at the painting again. ‘I don’t have enough.’

‘Yes you do.’ His voice was calm, kind.

‘Look,’ I opened my wallet. ‘I have 500 pesos (less than $50) and I need at least 100 for gas to get home. That’s not enough.’

But he didn’t hesitate, he just reached down, picked up the painting and handed it me. ‘400 pesos, then. I told you, it belongs to you’ 

*          *          *

What do you want to walk toward? And why then, do you walk away? What would happen if you lost yourSelf in the sweetness of the strawberry and went for it, let your itchings show you the way? Might magic happen? I dare you. I dare you to try it, to let yourSelf see....

Happy Easter!

May the beauty of the season remind you blossom, to become the beautiful flower you were always meant to be.
love,
me,Brynne


The Life of flowers (Жизнь цветов) from VOROBYOFF PRODUCTION on Vimeo.

Wednesday Wish (34)

Scented memories spoken with pictures. I think I’m asleep when a movie begins to play, its scent ridden in on the back of a breeze. I inhale the strangely sweet char, watch the tall green blades of grass begin to appear and suddenly, I am transported back, deep into the Papua New Guinean jungle….

*          *          *

My sandaled feet, lightly dusted with dirt, are taking me to where we are living—a hut in the middle of a coffee plantation in the Eastern Highlands. I breathe it all in again, to be sure I am where I was called, and this time I take in not just the blades of grass but the scent of bilums (bags woven from tree bark), and fried flour balls, bottles of blue kerosene, and wisps of unnamed smoke, and let me not forget the ginger stewing in the bottom of my tin cup—all of it wiped with an invisible rag across my face. It’s with with me now, as if I never left.

I come up to the tightly woven walls my adopted family and I call home. The fire in the dirt courtyard is smoldering. A tarp piled high with red coffee beans waits for tending. A baby pig grunts as he scrambles out of my way. He came from inside the house.

A group of women are waiting for me. It’s the day they have decided to transform me, to make me into one of them. I find my strength—breathe and trust—that what they will do to me wont hurt and it wont last. I am so present that I don’t even remember to get my camera ready.

They are gentle with me as they undress me to my underclothes, as they paint my body, as they decorate me in feathers and woven tree bark, in bird beaks and leaves. My face, my arms, my legs, my back and chest—I am multi-colored, shiny with pig fat, my skin alive, immersed in loving attention.

They mumble as they work and even more, they laugh, oh, do they laugh. And not a controlled laugh like the kind we westerners are used to. A high-pitched squeal that isn’t just fresh and wild to twenty-five year old me, it reeks of authenticity. They are happy! They are excited!

“Its time,” they say between giggles.

“Time?” I ask, still not sure of the language that I am trying to speak.

“Yes, time for you to ‘sing-sing’,” says my adopted mama, her hand upon my shoulder.

And as I peek my head out the door to emerge from the palm thatched roof, I know right away I won’t be ‘sing-singing’ alone. Kids, dogs, pigs, even my elderly bubu with a missing finger for every child she lost over the years was ready to accompany me. They start to chant. Someone bangs on a drum. And then they begin to bounce. We begin to bounce. All the way down the street…with high pitched squealing, dogs barking, old men staring, and kids fighting over who can dance next to Linimuto, little mountain, a name that I will never, ever forget.

Image by Jerry Oldenettel via Flickr

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My Wednesday Wish for You?

If you can’t travel this week, journey with your imagination. Visit new lands, meet new people, open your mind to new ways of seeing, thinking, feeling and believing.  Resist stagnation, embrace change, for change keeps our spirits alive and our hearts beating with passion. Passion? Yes, passion for life.

Sunday Invitation...

...to put your creativity in motion today! What if we all did something creative today, do you think it would be a happier day throughout the world? Wanna play with me?
love,
me, Brynne

Wednesday Wish (33)

'Sunshine' by Jong Soo (Peter) Lee via Flickr

Today I met a little girl. And even though her wings were tucked inside her sweater I saw the angel in her eyes. Didn’t matter that she was little. Didn’t matter that she was even tiny. She was elegant, as elegant as a deer treading lightly in the dark. I watched as her weight barely reached her feet, as her fingers swam gently thru the air, as her voice came out in swirls, intoxicating even those who thought their ears had hardened closed long ago. This little girl formed from a single puff of summer cloud, touched my heart. And I heard her story on the phone.

Lily’s parents are friends of friends and they live in Seattle. They dote. And dote. And dote. On their little girl. Why? Because she is different and different sometimes brings that out in us. Especially when it comes to our children. And especially when it comes to Lily, an angel in disguise. Or maybe she isn’t in much of a disguise after all.

Lily went to the hospital for many months. And often. She had test after test done to try to figure out why she wasn’t growing like other kids her age. Then one day, summer arrived.

So Lily grew.

And grew.

And grew.

And almost as much as her classmates had the entire year.

But before too long, the colder days begged to return en masse, and the sun had no choice but to hide its face, until one day, like a heavy cloak, winter had returned.

So Lily stopped growing.

Not another smidgen

Or even a fraction of a millimeter

For the entire winter.

*          *          *

"So what did they decide?" I asked into the phone from my Mexican sunshine home.

"Decide? They learned," my friend said back to me. "They learned that Lily's growing season is summertime and summertime alone."

"I'm making up the guest room now..."

*          *          *

My Wednesday Wish for You?

To answer these questions for yourself and to share those that want to be set free:

What nourishes you? 

What fans your embers and fuels your fires?

When is your growing season?

Are you blinking away the questions?

Or are you inviting them to visit your depths, to flicker their light in the darkest corners of your cave?

Can you honor your Self? More.

Can you feed your spirit’s hungers? More.

Can you be who you came to earth to be, not tomorrow or next week or when you lose that weight or get that job, but today? Today. 

*          *          *

Yes, you can see yourSelf. And yes, you can honor yourSelf. But you must begin. Both. Before you can truly grow. Into the beautiful blossom you were always meant to be.

Wednesday Wish (32)

I believe in quiet. In the gifts that linger in silence.

Like the night sky that looks empty but is filled with stars and other goodies that I don’t know the names of yet.

And the possibilities, pregnant, of an empty canvas. Or a mixing bowl. Or a piano with its bench pulled out, inviting fingers and emotion and soul…

*          *          *

I believe in quiet. In the gifts that linger in silence.

Like a blank message from someone you’d love to hear from, blank with all the space in the world for anything you want it to be.

And a single breath, held deep inside your belly just before you decide to let it free…

*          *          *

I believe in quiet. In the gifts that linger in silence.

In the importance of alone time. Of sitting and staring at the ceiling time. Of moment upon moment with no rush. No requirement. No worry or fret. Just time. Alone. To listen to the sound of inner silence….

…that isn’t so silent after all, but filled with Self, with peace, and with gorgeous invitations to just be.

Photo by wishvam, via flickr

Wednesday Wish (31)

An apple is a very different fruit with your ear against the ground. When the grass is moist with summertime dew, when your feet are bare and tickled, when the weighted tree invites your eyes and the sun invites them closed. When your body finds its niche and your heart slows its tune…the apple…falls. Onto the earth. You listen. And smile. You see. Anew.

The orchard has eight trees—six, in tidy little lines, with two oddball stragglers lingering along the edge. Like you, they are different and happy in their own little worlds…one a wild apple, the other a purple plum, and you, you smile with your eyes closed, your head against the ground.

You hear the bees visit with each other as they jolly hunt for nectar. You know when they're communing with a flower, for their hearts slow. They find their peace in connection. And you notice that when their hearts slow…yours does too.

You hear the thumping rise up from the earth like a bass within your soul. But you don’t open your eyes. No. You wait. It moves closer. You are not afraid. The sun warms your face, your heart softens your fears. It’s your orchard. You see it, as much as it sees you. And just as you breathe into that thought—the cow—he swooshes a bee with his tail. You hear both—the tail as it whips the air and the bee and he hurls through space. And then, the slow and sloppy chewing of a successful cow, his teeth more green and goopy than if you used your eyes.

But before you leave, your belly longs for more. Just one last treat. A ripe and juicy plum. But not chosen with your eyes. With another sense...

First, with your ears you hear the dancing of the leaves, the way the aged arms reach out and into the sun, the silent hum of life coursing like blood through its wooden, ailing veins. Then, with your nose you breathe in the smell of ripe, the delight of purple, the unexpected invitation to be plucked. And suddenly from within, like a gift from your soul and yet arriving from without, appears a smile...

photo courtesy of: www.tree-pictures.com/plum_tree_photos.html

...from your heart.

So you know

that this moment,

this choice,

this plum,

is right and good and…

meant for you.

*          *          *

My Wednesday Wish for You?

Close your eyes to let your heart give you sight. To see with other senses creates a whole new world, one that has more depth, more meaning and more soul. Make decisions with your alternate senses this week and watch your world change. Then read The Art of Hearing Heartbeats by Jan-Philipp Sendker and watch your world change even more.