Wisdom of One

An unfinished thought from a baffled female

2011-10-28T10:18:00.000-10:00

"I was amazed to find that I had no idea how to unfold my spiritual life in a feminine way. I was surprised, and, in fact, a little terrified, when I found myself in the middle of a feminist spiritual reawakening." ––Sue Monk Kidd

_____________________________________________

"Youslut" slung out of the fifteen year old boy’s mouth across the schoolclassroom.

Myfirst thought: I don't think I have ever been called a slut. (I was more aprude than promiscuous in high school)

Mysecond thought: What does being easy have to do with taking away his laptop?

Nothing,of course, but what a revealing statement of our society, or at least of thisenviron, and yes, this was on Kaua`i. I was, in his eyes, being a “bitch”(something I have been called quite a bit) but his insult flung to slut: “adirty slovenly, woman.”

PerhapsI am over-sensitized as I am reading The Dance of the Dissident Daughter and meeting girlfriends to see a premierescreening of Miss Representation thisevening, yes, on Kaua`i too. But Idoubt it. It sure seemed to me that this knee-jerk insult speaks of a dangeroustime for women. A time when what was sacred has been destroyed and what issexual has been diminished to easy and exploitable.

Ihave been told to “be more feminine” and that I am “too cute.” I have been toldto be "stronger" and that my strength makes me "intimidating" to men. I have beentold to jump and stay still at the same time: It’s pretty tricky to keep upwith being a woman.

AsI sit in the coffee-shop to write, I overhear a newspaper read aloud:

“Uncleasks how do you not get a girl pregnant. Get it. Like he would get a girlpregnant, how can other men not and….. ok, nevermind.”

Idon’t strain to hear where that voice trails off to.

Get:purchasable, snareable, controllable. Get a girl, then get her pregnant. It issaddening to me…now here comes when I could say “In 2011” but haven’t peoplebeen saying that (or not saying that in fear) for eons. That in this day and inthis age things should have changed?

Thereis a picture circulating on facebook, of a man holding a honu (turtle)underwater and the positioning is such that it looks like he is entering theturtle from behind. Has the sexual aggression, personal submission, andappreciation for the sacred, for the feminine (which resides in both male andfemale) become extinct? No barriers of species or society, nevermindingmorality. Anything goes, and in turn, much is lost.

Theaggressive superiority of one over another, whether your own masculine sideover your own feminine, or flower over fauna, rich over poor, this struggle, isstrangling us in ways we dare not bring to the light. Our world, from thediscarded trees to occupied streets, is screaming for us to return to thesimple ways, a softer way of living. Yet, if we leave these immature tendrils,a young boy who parrots his parents, or the loud drum of the media, the fear,the ignorance, the whatever - unlabeled seeds still grow, left to raise themselvesand proliferate by their own devices.

A Woman is Not a Potted Plant

A woman is not a potted plant
her roots bound
to the confines
of her house

a woman is not
a potted plant
her leaves trimmed
to the contours
of her sex

a woman is not
a potted plant
her branches
espaliered
against the fences
of her race
her country
her mother
her man
her trained blossom
turning this way
and
that
to follow
the sun
of whoever feeds
and waters
her

a woman
is wilderness
unbounded
holding the future
between each breath
walking the earth
only because
she is free
and not creeper vine
or tree

Nor even honeysuckle
or bee.

~Alice Walker

`ali `ali : a post in progress

2011-09-22T10:02:00.000-10:00

Aliali

It took me about twenty minutes to find the word above. It wasn't until I went back to where I started, a text from a friend containing a link for a reliable Hawaiian dictionary to find it. The word means clarity.

In reading a legend about the Mo'o, the lizard, the writer emphasizes the metaphorical need for every human to be grounded, belly to the Earth, front claws open to search and inquire, back claws in solid foundation to support growth, and then there is the tail. The tail that encompasses our growth in the sturdiness of our past. A-ha: The past.

In growth and expansion, it is sometimes easy to shoot to the sky and forget your roots. I haven't forgotten my roots, in fact the collusion of my past and my present often nips at the side of my mind. How do I carry forward the bounties or beings that brought me to this moment, while honoring the individual sovereignty, the perfection of each path's evolution: each path ends at the same destination, you know.

The answer is I don't think you can, not in the way I thought, for you cannot carry anyone, you simply carry on.

And then a funny thing may happen, a vista, and you look to your right and there is a beloved and you both say, "How did you know I would be here?"

That is the clarity of the heart, the pu'u beats the path, and from above there is only one, from below there are universes.

Eventhough the dictionary says it is a noun, I think it is more about the verbness of clarity, becoming clear, then clearing, humbling and breathing to cultivate and tend to the state of clarity. Just like I needed to read from the Hawaiian language, aliali or `ali`ali, "whiteness" or "clearness" to understand the synapses in my own brain, and yet in the difference the clarity of the sameness.

Claw for what is in front of you, and when you see it, rest your belly on the land beneath you in gratitude for the moment expressed. Swish your tail to remember that what lies behind you gives you the balance of what lies ahead, and if you trust the beat of your own path, all will be clear.

It's not all coffee and kittens...

2011-09-09T12:06:00.009-10:00

What is a good man but a bad man's teacher?

What is a bad man but a good man's job? Lao Tzu

I am a dog person.

I dig loyalty, long walks, and loving scratches. Yesterday, I walked into the Starbucks, Lihue, my satellite tutoring office to meet my student, with a large stack of handouts, angling towards a table when I hear it:

Meow.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.

I see the little white paws underneath a large white truck.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.

No, I think. Not today. “Can you believe it?” I look at my student.

She shrugs rather unaffectedly.

I see several onlookers, and one sweet girl pulling her boyfriend behind her towards the truck. Good. They will take care of it.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.

“I mean doesn’t that sound break your heart?” I ask my student.

“Mmfp,” she says as a teenager can and opens her SAT book.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.

We begin analyzing simple algebra - Meow. Meow. – and look over the questions that she is unable to answer. Until I hear a gasp, behind me. I whip my head around:

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow is walking in the middle of traffic, with four cars stopped and heading toward the parking lot.

“I’m sorry, I have to try,” I say to my student, walking away from our table and towards the kitty. I take my breath into my heart, so as not to stun or charge the poor thing further away. He stops and turns at me. In one swoop, I have him by his scruff as any mother would, and I walk us both back to the table.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.

“Someone saw a girl dump him out of her car, in the parking lot and left,” my student scrunches.

“What?” I say half in disbelief and half at Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow who is not recognizing me as his savior, but rather his captor. His white face with grey mask and brilliant eyes is petrified. His tail is matted and leaving a dark smear on my skirt, with the slightest tinge of red, which I hope is from the red dirt Earth. His two back legs are similarly scoffed, but not over taken.

“They say a girl drove up, dropped him out of her car and left.”

I survey the people at the surrounding tables. Some are smiling in appreciation, some in amusement. All are watching how I am going to handle this cat, just one more kitten on the feline overrun Kaua`i. Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow.

“Can’t you put it in your car?” my student offers.

“No,” her grandmother responds, handing me a small latté, “it’ll ruin her car. What do you want me to do?” Grandmom asks.

“A box, maybe?”

Grandmom is already on her way, shaking her head.

Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow is in my lap and the teenager and I are back in the land of the SAT. My mind is on the test, but my hand rests on the racing heart of the little kitten. How could someone leave him in a parking lot?

For the next hour, we tutor and meow. One woman stops to pet the cat, but scuttles away as soon as she realizes it needs help. One eight year old boy comes over with a straw and a glass of water, which Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow greatly appreciated, and so did I. Another woman, calls the Humane Society for me – duh.

When she clicks off her phone announcing, “They’ll come as soon as they can.”

I realize that I thought I would take Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow myself. That I would perhaps bring him to my friend that wanted a kitten, or my other friend that already had a brood – what’s one more?

“She’s not coming back,” I say to Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow. Haven’t we all had that moment? Our heart calls to another that is no longer available – gone. I wanted Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow to be ok. I wanted this wrong to be right.

I place Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow in the box open and on my lap, noticing that there are a few flies attracted to him. In trying to situate him, the box tips and the kitten’s head nestles, upside down, right into my sternum – I hold him there, and try to pour as much love into that little cranium as I could. I firmly stroke his chin, how frightening it is to be left to fend on your own.

“Yes. The answer is `C,’” I throw the box on the ground, and I take Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow onto my chest fully, close to my heart, and I just hold him there, letting the steadiness of my heartbeat reassure him.

Silence.

And then, it starts: He purrs.

Just like that.

I slide him back onto my lap, nestled tightly. I tutor. He purrs. The more he purrs, the better I feel. This is going to be –

“They’re here!” my student tosses.

“Huh?”

I turn to see “Jessica” as stitched on her Humane Society shirt, with arms outreached.

“But, he just started to purr,” slips out before I realize the bond.

She reaches, and I offer Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow to her. I don’t say goodbye; I don’t say anything to him. He was not mine. He never was meant to be. I was never his savior; I was just a person who loved him for a little bit before he moved on.

“Oh, he’s a real cutie,” Jessica smiles. “Thanks for holding him so long."

“Of course. You’re welcome,” I say.

It’s a tricky thing to realize that part of healing is letting go. I have every confidence that Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow will find a loving home, that he has earned a life that is deserving of his tenacity. Sometimes the part we play is unseen, but is terribly necessary. I’ll always have Meow. Meow. Meow. Meow to thank for that.

People will not always do nice things. But there also, will be people to hold you, until your heart learns to purr again.

My pal Kyla came from the Philadelphia Humane Society

eleven years ago, as did many of her friends.

If you are looking to bring some furry

love into your life, please visit your local Humane Society.

Ginger-aide

2011-08-30T10:47:00.001-10:00

Kahili Ginger

“Let me take a moment to digest.”

Please do.

As many, I have been sifting and sorting through my stack of memories and expectations for the next chapter of my life. Normally, this would be attached to a definitive moment, other, or circumstance; rather, I am simply sailing through the peaks and valleys of the last decade and looking for the, well the peaks and valleys. How long does life’s current stay at a neutral plateau? If we are in touch with our life pulse, we know that it is always in flux, a wave, a momentary stillpoint: then resurgence, an expansion.

In preparation for this next movement, I have upped my yoga practice; more carefully considered my daily nurturance – in food and thought – and have turned to my trusted plant Devas for inspiration and support.

As I started to deeply cleanse my diet, I noticed a little stagnancy in my digestion, barely perceivable, I imagine, to the outside eye, but I noticed.

I reached for my Wisdom of the Earth (email if you have essential oil questions) Ginger, a trusted friend of digestion.

This time, I decided to spend more time with her. Curled up on the couch, I read: Ginger assists in the acceptance and movement of Forgiveness.

Wait, what? I thought Ginger was a simple digestive aide.

Forgiveness. If we are not forgiving of our imperfections, of the flow, we stagnate. We stop movement. We calcify. We have given our system something to hold on to: Here, remember this. We don’t like him/her because he/she has _________________.

And stomach says, are we digesting a delicious fresh market sandwich, with the picture perfect avocado, or am I digesting judgment? I guess both: ouch.

This does not mean to forget our boundaries, our self respect. It means to balance self love and selfless compassion.

Not much of a juggler? Learn.

The alternatives are disrupted ease in the body: dis-ease.

In many healing arts, the belly holds the fire, the resolve, the center for health. If our Agni (digestive fire of emotional, physical and spiritual) is not high and cannot transmute the material (avocado or anger) then we create ama (“uncooked” or “undigested” in Sanskrit also known, euphemistically as "junk" or "toxins," ) that builds up and spills over, much like our personal quarrels, contaminating and muddying the waters of our clarity.

So, grate some fresh ginger on your salad, or your peanut sauce noodles. Simmer an inch of ginger in fresh and appreciated water to make a tea. Or rub 3-5 drops of ginger essential oil on your belly, and read about Ho`oponopono, the Hawaiian practice of forgiveness, of setting things right, within ourselves and the world around us.

Take a nibble of plain old forgiveness - without expectation. Feel what it tastes like. Let your body order what it wants, you may be surprised at what is on the menu.

More? Click here to learn what Sally Miller Yoga says about laying on your left side.

Adopt the Creative

2011-08-24T19:17:00.000-10:00

When I am writing, there is a lot of not writing that happens: warm the coffee, drink more water, find a better background song, stretch, sit, stretch, search for a quote, walk the dog, and then, sometimes a freight train of words come pouring out of me; their cadence undeterred by being caught or not.

Sometimes, I just write a lot of crap.

Like now.

An impossible chapter. I would spit at it, if I didn’t have to clean my computer screen.

I open Deena Metzger ’s Writing for Your Life:

An adoption agent is coming to your house to interview you on your capacity to adopt the creative…Why do you want the creative in your house? What do you know about caring for it? How will you provide for it? (41)

How will I provide for it? I was asking it how it would provide for me. There’s the rub. Sometimes, the savior we pray for needs our humility and our care in order to “save” us, which is of course us saving ourselves.

How and what will you feed it? Where will you house it?

What? These are all things I was expecting from it! You mean you want me, me to care for it? To love it? To sit still and stare it lovingly in the eye, bow my head, and thank it for even walking in my front door, and here take my favorite pillow.

Oh, yes. Yes. To dance with the divine is to give your very best silverware, the ripest mango, your misplaced modifiers, your gutter balls, your foul play, and the sweetest tears, from which you thank the One for receiving your gifts, effective and attempted. As you empty you are filled. You are full.

Please excuse me; it’s feeding time.

Soar

2011-08-04T12:42:00.001-10:00

Lessons from Papa Shama

Several months ago, I had a Mama Shama Bird teach me the profound, courageous nature of motherhood; the resourceful tenacity of Mother Nature, and how very much I had to learn from winged, four –footed, and slithering ohana.

[Click here for Mama Shama Post]

Not too long ago, the same Mama Shama returned, same spot, same nest reconstructed. Lo and behold she laid another four eggs; four more mouths to feed. Since these parents, made the top shelf of our shoerack their babyroom, I was privy to much of the parenting process. I even watched Papa Shama, fly to a neighboring branch, holding a flailing baby gecko by its neck to be fed to his four young ones; a reminder that even in its infancy, Nature can be cruel; life and death always exist; perhaps that gecko came back with wings.

I watched them grow, these burly birds; they were fed quite often. They were all mouth: grey, flightless, winged beings. Mouth after mouth, day after day, they grew big, football player birds. Then one day, two were gone. I knew these birds would fly sooner than the first batch: they were more vocal, demanded sustenance, determined to grow. Fed so earnestly and so ferociously, they grew and grew from grey to auburn with white speckled wings; speckles dissolving into the one trademark portal of white, encircled upon the shama.

I busied about. Things to do. Flights to catch. Life to move on into, and I would wake and feel the anxiety of my flight. Where would I go? How would that last step look? Would I be caught? Would I have the strength to fly?

I received a timely call from a friend, intuiting the hesitancy of my movement. He coached:

It is in that moment that we move towards faith - we are born: we break out of the shell in faith.

But, then the mind catches up, “You want me to jump from where to where?”

I trembled.

My friend, baring sustenance much akin to Papa Shama’s gecko, said “Eat,” “Your family will care for you. And when you hit the circle of uncertainty, remember it is the family of your soul you fly to. You will be safe.”

I packed, cleared and cleaned. Seven days to go, seven days left of creation. I tumbled down the steps, past the Shama’s nest, and was scolded by Papa Shama. His cries fierce and protective: scolding and chirping, chirping and scolding.

I stopped in my tracks, and looked. The last two birds had shrunken into their own feathers, out of the nest, onto the ridge of the shelf.

Could they? Could they be getting ready for their own flight?

I looked close; they tucked their beaks. I breathed, “Good Luck,” thanked them and continued on to my business in the garden. When I returned, they were gone.

Gone. They had taken flight. My heart soared.

We wait, and we wait, and we tuck, and with the call of our creator we soar.

Home

2011-07-27T13:59:00.002-10:00

Mola`a Bay

Home. Tricky concept. As I was scrubbing the red dirt patterned floorboards of my dear friend’s new home, I was grateful for the work. There seems to be an innavigable amount of work these days: moving thoughts, reorganizing expectations, shifting space, diminishing returns.

I get disoriented in my mind without a map.

Which was why, I was grateful to be standing in my hands. My house needed to be cleaned, too, yet, cleaning hers felt easier, more definite, more doable.

Why can we see so clearly the clutter of another, yet get mired in our own mirror?

Emotional attachment. That’s what I am doubling down on. When it is our story, the red is more red, the water is wetter, and no one truly understands. Except the world knows only so many stories, and She tells them in multitudinous ways. Remember the last time you were on a deserted island, and a beloved said, “Me too,” and that was population enough?

Yes, home is where the heart is; just left of the panic button that says we are not doing, being, having or deserving enough.

So when next the time to shift and shelve arises, look around the plentitude of your life, against the desert of the unknown; be grateful for the old remembrances and happy enough to realize that when More knocks on your door, it is a belief in you, that you do know how to walk in the dark, by the light of your heart, as you have before.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you
all your life, whom you have ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Derek Walcott

The Tiger Within

2011-07-17T13:47:00.002-10:00

Trauma is rarely recognized and broadly defined as : “outside the range of human experience …that would be markedly distressing to anyone” (Levine 24). In the natural occurrence of our days, we are met with circumstances that are outside our “normal” human experience – where and when are we taught how to cope?

The truth: we aren’t.

We are taught to pull ourselves up by our bootstraps, to carry on. Often we pull on the boots but cannot take a step. And there we stay.

How freeing for us, not to victimize, but to legitimize the larger than life hurdles we clear: a declaration that perhaps would allow us to drop the emotional baggage rather than to carry it on and on into our next circumstance, our next demand for clearance. The added weight decreases our agility and can compound our immobility.

I am reading a fabulous book, Waking the Tiger, that welcomes the ability to release our tension of years ago today, by simply reclaiming and reenacting our innate ability to survive. Not to suss through emotional trauma unnecessarily, but to enact, through a scream, through a good cry, through envisioning a successful flight from that tiger of the past, through to eventual relaxation into the sensation of our survival and freedom.

Today, acknowledge that you are a survivor. You have made it. You will continue. You will allow your freedom to be legitimized and your sovereignty to be realized.

My, you are impressive.

Watch what you eat

2011-06-30T20:32:00.002-10:00

I had a horrible salad today. It was served in guilt.

I have never felt so sick, or was able to feel the negativity of emotions so quickly. It gave me some food for thought.

What am I serving myself? How do I ingest my day? What do I salt and pepper my experiences with? Gratitude or Despair?

When I see something I don't like, do I chew and chew and chew it, over and over and over and over to gestate it into my very cells, or do I say, "Oh, thanks I'm full," and bypass the indigestible meal.

Do I stoke my personal fire of self confidence, so I may digest anything around me quickly, letting it dissipate and disappear into the flames? [In Ayurveda, this is Agni, the digestive fire. It is responsible for everything we ingest: emotional, spiritual and physical.] Am I eating from all the food groups that will nourish my being or am I snacking on treats that will leave me fatigued and flat? Am I cooking my own meals? Do I see that I am the chef and I have the right to choose my own ingredients? Do I trust my culinary skills?

The next time you walk up to someone else's buffet, consult your palate before consuming.

May this new moon awaken the inner flame of you.

Equilibrium

2011-06-27T21:17:00.000-10:00

It's easy to get knocked off balance. Maybe because you left the vacuum out, and you forget as you walk down the hallway too early the next morning. Or maybe because you were really careful about handing over your heart, and you did so much background, that you are blindsided by the foreground and impending heartbreak. Perhaps you are running so quickly to catch the last train, or maybe, you are simply standing still, but the Earth underneath your feet is moving, calling you forward, and as you try to stay still there is a tipping point: forward or downward. Anyway you look at it (Have you looked at it? I mean what really is keeping you erect?), it is quite a miracle to stay in balance.

Balance between head and heart; work and play; action and stillness; good and evil; vanilla and chocolate.

Mary Oliver says, "You do not have to be good." That can throw you off balance. We are often given a compass of what is right and wrong, and a good deal of it includes not rocking the boat - the waters are choppy, please sit down, stay and "mend my life'" (Oliver).

Some of us do. Some of us can't. Either way we beat our selves up. Hard to stay in balance between the blows.

The initial rise of individuality can be a challenge larger and more demanding than one can possibly imagine - just like childbirth. In fact it is just like child birth, but you are birthing your Self. Mother, father, child: the divine trinity incarnate. To peel away the constraints of "good enough" is a labor of love, but there is no sugar candy mountain on the horizon. In fact, once you stand up in your own reality, the maps drop away; the right and wrongs, drop too; the shoulda coulda's could knock you to your knees, and all you have is the whisper of your own heart that tells you: Further.

It's hard to stay in balance when you can no longer use other's expectations as your coordinate plane, or when you turn and see your herd has stopped to graze and you have a hunger to continue for the insatiable. It's hard to stay in balance when your guidance is yours and yours alone.

Sometimes, the only way to stay in balance is to be still. Let the Earth move, let your heart guide, and keep your ears perked, trusting that things of Great Importance will come to you when you need them.

“One day the hero
sits down,
afraid to take
another step,
and the old interior angel
limps slowly in
with her no-nonsense
compassion
and her old secret
and goes ahead.
‘Namaste’
you say
and follow.”

- David Whyte

Q & A

2011-05-28T13:21:00.001-10:00

“I always thought about teaching,” says my new friend Byron as I sit in Java Kai, taking a break from writing.

“Oh, yeah?” I smile at Byron. He is easily in his 60’s, healthy, and wearing his freshly laundered Saturday t-shirt, coffee in one hand, Ipad in front of him. “What did you want to teach?”

“Well, I have a masters in Political Science, and I thought I could teach at the college, too.”

“Is that what you – did?”

“I was a financial analyst in Iowa, now I am here, retired.”

I smile, “I think the college kids would really benefit from someone teaching them something they loved.”

Byron smiles, and hesitates.

“What?” I offer.

“Well, what do you do when they ask you a question you don’t know the answer to? That’s what I am afraid of; kids today know so much.”

“I was just writing about that,” I honestly respond. “I tell them, ‘I don’t know.’ And some of them are shocked, but they aren’t tapping into the other 95% of things I do know. So there is one thing I don’t know. I just tell them I don’t know, but I will find out the answer by next class. Or at least try to.”

“Yeah, but if I was a kid today, I wouldn’t want to have me as a student.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t ask the questions I wanted answers to because I knew the teachers didn’t know and I didn’t want to embarrass them. But today -”

I saw a sweetness to Byron, and the conversation’s perfection. Just this morning I realized that there were some pretty big questions that I didn’t have the answers to, and I was starting to feel afraid. How would I provide for all the things I wanted to do? How would I ensure that the next step I took would capture the passion and the fulfillment I was looking for? Good enough was no longer good enough..so what was I going to do about it?

Nothing, especially if I stayed afraid.

There is the nothingness of knowing that all will unveil itself; and there is the apathetic doing of nothing, from frozen fear. They may look the same on the outside: but one has fire, the other is ice.

Fear looks like fear. Fear is what happens when we don’t have the comfort of seeing the outcome, but what in our lives ever, really, goes exactly as we planned? Whether we are afraid to teach a class for a phantom student to ask us a question we may or may not know the answer to, or we are unsure of a big move because we may be wrong or assuredly out of our comfort zone, or we are resigning from a position that no longer fits, before the safety net appears.

There will be questions that are unanswerable until they are answerable.

Sometimes we need to move in blind action; sometimes we need to wait in perfect preparedness until the answer appears. The “yes” always appears.

Leap and the net appears.

I remember when I saw that on a refrigerator magnet the first summer I was in Kaua`i and I actually scoffed audibly at the saying: I would never do that.

Well, I did. I dissolved and reemerged through many unanswerable questions, and I am still breathing and living: Why did I think the questioning would stop?

Why would I think that the edge of learning would soften and dissipate? Why did I think there would be no more hard questions?

“I don’t know Byron, I think you should check the human resource section online, and they’ll have postings for lecturers this coming semester.”

Byron smiled off to the side of the table, and into the horizon saying, “I think I would really like that.”

And I realized that when we are on the cusp of a question, we may not get the answer we want, but we will get the support that we need to keep going, even if it is a stranger sipping an Americano on a rainy Saturday on Kaua`i.

You just never know where your “Yes” will find you.

Answer the Call

2011-05-21T12:57:00.000-10:00

Phone calls are not events as they used to be. You are no longer restricted to the length of the phone cord. There is no phone chair or table, especially designated for the occasion of communication. Now, it is texts between traffic lights, status updates in the midst of a good meal, and phone calls under palm trees to busy streets abroad.

“Did you get my calls?”

“You mean when I called you?” I offered to my beloved friend visiting from O`ahu, whom I thought had misarranged his words.

“No, when I called you.”

“You mean when we called to have you come visit on Kaua`i two years ago,” I smiled, little miss know-it-all.

“Noooo. When I called you and invited you to O`ahu, last year.”

How was it, between email, cell phones, facebook, twitter, and even the coconut wireless I had missed that call? “No,” I stammered, “No, I didn’t get your calls.”

It can be like that. We get the horoscope updates or the latest baseball scores. But when a dear one calls to say hello, when they are really saying they are lonely, we cannot hear them over our laundry machine. When our partner calls to say they don’t want to cook dinner, we cannot hear their vulnerable request for nurturing as we huff and puff about yet another thing we need to do - dinner. Sometimes calls for love sound like demands because if we are called to give we are called to receive. Sometimes that call for love, comes from within, and so very often receives a busy signal.

    Scared to receive? You scoff. No. Busy, yes. If you could, you would. Most of our busy-ness is an ornate overlay to keep us from embodying our true gifts. Some gifts are fancy and may require much training or practice. Some gifts are in the simplicity of bending down to receive a newly plucked flower from a child’s hand, for both giver and receiver are the same. But we need to be present to receive the gift, listening to receive the call.

    Nancy Slonim Aronie, a phenomenal woman and writer, mentioned several times in her recent workshop on Kaua`i: Writers write. Yes, I nodded. Yes, writers write. I am doing more writing these days, but first I needed to get my “work” done (immediate subconscious diminishment of my craft as true work). Then, I mean, I really needed a better computer, and that was maybe something I could do in a few months. So, yes this all seemed true. Writers write and I would be doing that soon; I just needed to get ready. As long as I didn’t really write, I couldn’t really fail.

    Amazing that humans have been crafting stories without a Macbook Pro, without computers, without paper, but apparently that was where my Muse was residing, and my nimble fingers were artistically tied until the proper forum arrived, what to do? I was safely nestled into an unforgeable barrier that protected me from doing anything.

    A week ago, I walked home to find a box, movie-placement perfect, directly under the porch light - illuminated. It was a plain cardboard box. Smallish, really. And I knew what was in there. It could have been a box of dog treats, or a book I didn’t order from Amazon outlandishly wrapped in bubble tight protection. The box could even be for someone else. As all of these possibilities tossed through my mind and my heart raced a bit, I scanned the box to indeed see my name in laser printout font and I knowingly found my partner’s name as sender. I picked up the box, and laid it on my bed, a good three feet from my person. And stood there.

    About three weeks prior to my lost phone call revelation chat, I walked across the Post Office parking lot to retrieve my mail. I spotted a mutual friend, sitting in her car, chatting on her phone. She waved me over, “The phone’s for you!” she said.

    It was my beloved friend from O`ahu, telling me of his journey to Kaua`i and would I be available to receive him? Without my phone number, without my twitter handle, in the middle of the radiating asphalt, I received the invitation: come. Apparently that call found me receptive without a social media update. How? Who placed that call?

    I stood in my bedroom staring at that unpacked computer. There it was the destroyer of my excuses. A clean slate; a sleek machine; a monstrous declaration of love and faith. A remover of obstacles that left me excuseless and naked, shivering a bit. I heard the ringing, and picked up the box, although I breathed a little too heavily into the receiver, much like a nervous teenager. Unbelievably, I slit open the cardboard and peered at the beckoning keys and potent void of the monitor - boundless, speechless - I auscultated for Beloved whisperings. Not certain what to say, I simply listened.

-----

Some commentary clarifies, but with love silence is clearer.
A pen went scribbling along, but when it tried to write love, it broke.

If you want to expound on love,
take your intellect out and let it lie down in the mud.
It’s no help.

You want proof that the sun exists, so you stay up all night talking about it. Finally you sleep and the sun comes up.
Look at it! Nothing is so strange in the entire world as the sun.
The sun of the soul is even more so. It has no yesterday! The physical sun is unique, but it’s possible to imagine something like it.

The spiritual sun
has nothing comparable, inner or outer.
Imagination cannot contain.
- Rumi

Mother Knows Best

2011-05-09T10:07:00.001-10:00

Recently I hiked with a friend through the Alakai Swamp Trail. A perfect day for a hike, not too hot, and the rain held off until we safely scampered to the trail’s not too slippery end. My life was dipping and turning and I was grateful for a respite in Mother Nature to get more clarity, a little peace, from the murky journey ahead. We scooted over to the Kalalau lookout afterwards; while walking across the parking lot I noticed a hen, rounded, hunkered, and awkwardly placed on the asphalt next to a parked car.

“Is she laying eggs?” I asked Vee.

Vee shrugged.

I looked at the hen and tried to telepathically explain to her that this was the stupidest, I mean, not safest place to lay her newborns into the Earth. And yet, she didn’t exactly look like she was laying eggs. I was perplexed and agitated that this hen was so precariously placed and there was nothing I could do about it.

I remember having a conversation once with a friend about trusting the perfection of life’s greater plan. She had said to me, astutely, that I was a “know it all.”

“Are you a perfectionist?” she asked.

“No,” I replied into the phone as I looked at my disheveled bedroom.

“Yes, perfectionist isn’t the right word – it’s like you know it all?”

“Know it all?”

“Well, how can I put this, when you got the job offer, you said no because you didn’t want it to be like the last -"

“Well, right, I didn’t want to repeat the past –"

“Right, it's not the past, it's the present, you live on Kaua`i now, not Philadelphia, and you were probably right, but did you really know?”

“Huh? But I wouldn’t be able to travel whenever I wanted to –"

“Did you know that? I mean, really know that? What if you could have traveled and had the job, what if it ended up that there was more flexibility, did you know this already? Did you give the Universe a chance? Or did you say No, that won't work?”

I was silent. It ended up that it was perfect I didn’t chase the mentioned job, but the conversation was well placed. I often summarized a situation before it was allowed to breathe. Wrote it off and moved on to the Next. I knew what was best.

As the rain started to pick up again, I looked at this confused Hen Mother and wondered, why she would pick a highly trafficked area to birth her babies, or whatever it was that she was doing. I moved a couple of steps forward, but mindful not to move into her personal field. There was something about the breadth of her wings, about the steady stare in her eyes, something that I was missing.

I looked closely at her breast and her fully fluffed wings; my eyes fell where feathers and asphalt met, and I saw too many feet moving - at least four chicken feet; two pairs facing each other. Her wings opened to reveal four baby chicks being sheltered by the rain.

Their mom’s movement left everybody in a cold wet confusion. Mom and babies turned in a few circles, before moving further up the parking lot and resettling into a warm feathered refuge. Mom facing the rain; babies nestled, again unseen, to her breast.

The unveiling was a suspended moment. I had never known that hens did that. Then smack – the beauty of motherhood. The perfection of Nature. The selflessness. The tenderness of that sweet mama hen. I stood there stupefied and schooled. I had no idea.

My first reaction to nature is often – why are you doing that?

Kate: Why is the bee headed toward the ocean waves? It’ll get killed, that silly bee!

Mother Nature: Because this is where they come to die.

Kate: Why is that foolish Mina bird so close to the road? Move!

Mother Nature: Because he mated for life, and his mate was run-over, see? He is mourning her, and has nowhere else to go without her.

Kate: Why is that Shama Bird building her nest there? Doesn’t she know that is the worst spot possible? Silly bird

Mother Nature: Kate, come look. Hear the chirps of her three beautiful newborn babies.

I had watched the Shama Bird build her nest on the top shelf of our boat shaped shoe rack. What a ludicrous spot, I thought. She often flew out and away whenever we came out the front door. Frightened.

Seeing that she was determined to birth there, I started a meditation practice with her. I would quietly slip out the door, tip toe past the shoe rack, stop a good four feet away, and breathe from my heart, telling her she was safe and welcome. A few days of doing this and she met my eyes, although still a little frightened, she held my gaze, and beckoned me closer. We shared a moment and I saw the same love and tenderness that I see in the eyes of human mom’s whose children are still belly bound. Each day she let me closer; I was careful never to get too close, be too loud, or too invasive. And one day, just like that, I heard “look closer” and three little beaks, on three wobbly necks screeched their wormy wishes.

Just like that the babies were born safe and sound. Without my explaining of inadequacies, or inappropriateness of better places and times, Mama Shama, as I call her, knowingly gave birth to three little Shamas and shed a little light on one ignorant human. Who knows the dips and turns of what is best, why things are the way they are. We are always children of learning, and it seems Mother still knows best.

Blinded by Sight

2011-04-06T20:27:00.000-10:00

It didn’t take me long to realize that focusing on what I expected to see left me functionally blind.

– Deena Metzger

I remember sitting and watching What the Bleep in the Theater, early on in my new age thinking escapades tickled as my yoga friends, munching popcorn between us at the Ritz East downtown, and I watched mainstream media delve into the realms previously only seen from my yoga mat. And many years later, as I sat at a conference on the Vesca Pesces (I had come quite a ways, literally and figuratively) on Kauai that the same movie bit was reshown. It was the piece about how the Native Americans could not see the approaching ships on the horizon because they had no mechanism to understand what a ship was. It was not until the ship was close, perhaps even landing, I cannot recall, that the poor Native Americans watched the Caucasians waltz off these magical creations – and well, we all know how that went, holiday construction paper turkey commemoratives excluded.

It’s a fascinating concept that if we cannot imagine it, we cannot see it.

Recently I was at Tunnels Beach on Kauai, lazily enjoying my afternoon, listening to the bird serenades, pretending that I could accurately differentiate between the Brazilian Cardnials and the other birds. Until I heard the Shama. I know the special song of those beloved birds, and I thought: Gee. I wish I could understand what they were saying; that I could communicate with the natural world. I let my intention drift off as my attention went back to my book, Savage Breast, while I laid on my stomach and soaked in the leftover heat of the sand.

And then I screeched. Loudly.

Shooting up on one arm, I whipped my heard around to see an equally frightened Morning Dove who had apparently waltzed onto my feet, and I in my over-caffeniated Zen-like presence had screamed at the unknown touch. I hadn’t seen it coming. I had no clue of what bird’s feet and wings felt like, until the poor frightened thing flapped away, much to its shock and the chagrin of the beach onlookers.

Kaua’i can be like that: life can be like that: You get what you ask for. But most of us have decided what it will look like and we sit and wait for it, just as we imagined - as our life quietly passes us by. I watched plenty of Disney movies where the bluebirds land on your shoulder, tweet sweetly in your ear, and perhaps even adorn you in ribbons and scraps for a much needed ball gown. I had not seen what a hungry, innocent, domesticated-pretzel-eating Morning Dove looks like when it happens on to a frightened, unobservant Caucasian girl’s tender feet.

So what was I expecting to see?

Didn’t matter. I wasn’t looking and the moment passed.

We cannot always be looking with our eyes, but can we be present to the guaranteed unexpectedness of the moment? Answer carefully. It’s a tall order. But may be doable in baby steps.

If we attach to our expectations, we never know what unidentified gift or gamble may pass by our expectantly blinded eyes.

A Mind Full of Greatness

2011-03-06T09:58:00.000-10:00

Last night, on our little island of Kauai, there was a fundraiser for local public radio station, KKCR with Makana and Buffy Sainte-Marie.

I adore Makana; I have seen him play several times and enjoyed every moment. To a sold out crowd, this one man and his golden guitar, filled a whole auditorium with awe. There is a dance between him and his guitar; there is a soul communication that is sheer beauty to behold, and he is only getting better.

I went to the fundraiser with a dear friend, to see Makana. I admittedly did not know who Buffy Saint-Marie was. By the end of her first song, I wondered how I hadn't known her. Not only is she responsible for endless songs I do know and love, but she is a kick-ass performer. At 68, she tore up the stage with her energy, her vivaciousness, and her Cree cries pierced through a veil that baffled, and dazzled a Celtic Caucasian like myself.

I found that my hurried mind was stupefied by brilliance. When Makana manipulated his guitar into a Hawaiian waterfall, I was no longer thinking about how I was going to spend my time at the end of Spring semester, or how I was going to afford the endless list of travel destinations I had in mind for myself. In fact, I involuntarily gasped at the melodies cascading over us.

When Buffy played with a fire that most twenty-somethings cannot comprehend, and with a tenderness that is only from wisdom, I no longer wondered what I was going to do to jump the next phase of my work, to get to the next level of an illusioned race, or how I was going to achieve my self-imposed accolades. Rather, I thought: I need to fill my mind with greatness.

The stars that "make it" - and my stars, may not be the same as yours - serve to remind me, that with heart and action, they do it. That's it. Heatbeats and footsteps. One at a time. One after another. In the light of their brilliance, I resonated my own brilliance; I did not shirk into questions or doubts.

So not only did I receive an amazing night of musical mastery, but a reminder to be responsible for my own environmental diet: to surround my mind with greatness, to perpetuate its own.

Inspiration and Aspiration

2011-03-01T09:13:00.000-10:00

What happens when you run out of steam? The mist that condenses over water, an indication that there is fire, a light of creation. What happens when that vessel of water’s (humans are approximately 70% water) combustion is retarded; when there is not enough friction to create that palpable mist of aliveness?

Friction is an interesting component. We (whoever we are) are taught (by whomever they are) on the spiritual path to relinquish desire, but the friction between wanting and having is part of the fire, the friction, that ignites creation. How is there desire-less creation? Should we be desire-less? Should we be creation-less? If we stop attempting to change or create, and linger in the acceptance of nothingness, does the merry-go-round stop: the ride is over? You win. Now there is nothing.

I have heard, that when you realize that you are no longer the doer, you may hand yourself over and the light of the Greater Source pours through you. Well, what if you are trapped between the third dimensional, palpable enjoyment of money and socially accepted power (i.e. living in a body) and the Universal acceptance of a created life (i.e. know you are more than the body)? What do to? And do we not need some steam to get that locomotive going?

Some etymology:

Inspiration:

"Inspirare" is a compound term resulting from the Latin prefix "in" (inside, into) and the verb "spirare" (to breathe).

To be inspired is to be on the in-breath.

Some also say, that around 1300’s, the translation was "immediate influence of God or a god," especially that under which the holy books were written.

Aspiration is the action.

Aspiration: 1530’s, "action of breathing into," from L. aspirationem (nom. aspiratio), noun of action from pp. stem of aspirare (see aspire). Meaning "steadfast longing for a higher goal, earnest desire for something above one" is recorded from c.1600 (sometimes collectively, as aspirations).

To aspire is the action of breathing life into.

Breath, meeting air, creating steam, stoking inner fire: Creation.

And if we heed the great sage, Rabindranath Tagore:

"Inspiration follows aspiration."

So what does that tell you?

To be continued...in-sight welcome.

Just like That

2011-02-08T13:03:00.002-10:00

A moment of teaching at Kaua`i Community College:

"Well, I probably won't be here next week."

"Why?"

"Well, there is family stuff and then there is dealing with the family stuff..."

"Like - "

"Well," he shifts his weight in the chair, looking at me briefly. "I already dropped all of my other classes to buy the plane ticket home to deal with the family stuff, and now I need money - "

I listen, heartbroken, but silent.

"And, so if I keep this class, then that means I can't work on Fridays at this job I just got because I have to be on campus - but only for 50 minutes - " and his eyes meet mine. We both know what is next.

"So this is it then," I say evenly to not insult him with "you can make it work's" and "it will all work out's."

"Yeah," he says with balanced acceptance.

"Sucks," I reply academically.

"Yeah."

"And all this stuff, with the stuff, sounds like there is no other way," I have to try.

"Nah. But at least I tried. And what if I just have to put off college for one more semester," he says, not for the first time.

"Right," I play because there is no other role available. "Well," I inhale, "I do need you to know that this is a bummer, and not for the obvious reasons, and I wish you could stay... " I recross my legs. "However, since you can't, just know you will be missed."

"Yeah."

We both exhale, except I simultaneously suck in my stomach and squelch the rising frustration that for the second semester in a row, a star student has had to willingly commit to dropping his education, again, for money.

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

And just like that, book bag over shoulder, they are gone.

This is a test. This is only a test.

2010-12-09T09:08:00.002-10:00

Test Anxiety.

     One of the things I have come to learn, quite well, is standardized tests. It doesn't mean that I can ace any test, but after working with test-takers for a decade there are few truths I come to rely upon and recognize: familiarize yourself with the material; understand the layout of the test; spend more time with the question than the answer; translate the question into your own language so you can maintain your focus; and, maintain a neutral mind-space when testing.

     All really good advice. If you don't want to hear me wax philosophical, I'd stop reading now.

     All of these "evident truths," of course, are easier typed than done. That's where I come in. Lately, I have been allowed, or aligned, to start delving a little deeper into the mindset of testing and the emotional blockages that wind quietly through the subconscious and sabotage the individual's performance. The test-taker, in effect, stands in the way of the very thing they want.

      Sound familiar?

     "But, Kate, I understand what you are saying, yet I think there is more I can do to improve."

     Of course there is. There is always more to do. Do it. And, I ask you, how are you at be-ing? How are you at not doing? At delving inward and seeing what is there? What is that voice that says: "It's `c;' no, `a;' no; `c;' wait. let me read the question again..." until one feels like they are sinking in quick sand.

   I argue that this is not merely content based, but also the domain of the psyche - do you believe in doing well? Is this test connected to a deeper truth or identity about yourself? Are you afraid of success? Are you un-worthy of your own dreams?

      Think I am crazy? I probably would, too. Except, I sat outside a Starbuck's yesterday and listened to a teenager reflect upon her poor SATs, an exceptionally bright teenager. An hour into our conversation, as we began to suss out where the anxiety to "perform" came from,she reflected on certain pieces of her life, and that she was not "always like this" and there was the "time when things changed." Unexpectedly, she welled up, as she began to grieve her grandmother's death. From three years ago. She had never cried over her passing before.

     Do I believe this one piece will cure her anxiety? No.

   Does it play a part? Yes.

     Is this rational? Of course not.

     As I sat there listening, I watched fascinated at the intricacy of each of us, and our desire to be whole again. I did not bring about this grief, but I was there to listen. I did not try and fix this child, but I did offer her the perspective that she deserved to feel free. Who knows what lurks at the bottom of a very long thread of the psyche. Perhaps, it is time to sit with these questions.

     Grab your number two pencils.

Interested in test preparation or holistic counseling? Just ask.

One Beat at a Time

2010-12-04T12:25:00.005-10:00

I have been busy.

A little busy making and a little legitimately tasked. This is normally when I stop doing the sensible things that keep me on track; when things like walking my dog along Kealia beach seems to be a distraction rather than necessary exercise and natural de-stressor; when caffeine intake increases, and so can other habits: "I'll take the coconut muffin with that, to go." 'Tis the season you know.

But I live on Hawaii. What's my excuse? So I woke up early this morning for a nice long yoga practice, not exceptionally difficult, just a reverent, fluid practice. And as I came out of Salambhasana (Locust Pose) to rest, before rising again. I heard my heart beat. And I realized, I couldn't remember the last time I had listened to that sound.

I had listened to the new Michael Franti cd; I had listened to my friend's complaints about her co-workers; I
had listened to students ask about their last paper, but I could not remember the last time I had heard the unmistakable drum of my own heart. The very drumbeat of my existence. One missing thump and my whole life would change. Then what would I have time for?

This morning I made the time to actually listen. It was so simple; I was astounded.
That's all it takes. One heart beat at a time.

If you are interested in meditations of the heart, just ask. www.wisdomofone.com

We're All in the Same Boat

2010-10-18T19:04:00.000-10:00

I was having a crazy morning, running too far too fast: dog walk, coffee pick- up, book selection, a sprinkle of errands, all before a ten am appointment.

Did I mention that the library opened at 9am?

I whisked into the library, scanned the shelves for a charming, informative book for my ESL student and found it. I was grateful for the ease and perfection of the moment. I powered to the counter at 9:12, enough time to change my clothes and be ready for my client.

“Your library card?”

“My – uh no,” I flipped through my wallet. “Oh – “ I looked imploringly at the gentle face behind the counter.

“You need your card,” he smiled.

“Oh."

He still smiled.

"But, I just returned two books; they are still in the bin. That proves I am who I am,” I offered. I think tourists checked out too many un-returned books, so now you must have a library card.

“I’m sorry,” he appeared to genuinely offer. “I can hold them -"

“Oh, I need one for my 10 am appointment. I don't have time to come back," I stalled and scanned my mind. "Can you hold them while I look in my car?”

“Sure.”

I knew my card wasn’t in my car, but the walk gave me a chance to plead to the Goddess of Serendipity to please let my card be in my car console.

The card wasn’t in the console.

I returned inside the library, defeated but accepting. This was my poor planning; my unimpressive last minuteness; not the librarian's. Plus, I really liked the guy that worked in the library; he was sweet and gentle. Always. And I came to the library a lot.

He was holding the two books that I had returned a moment ago in his hand, “It’s, ok,” he said.

“I don’t have my card,” I simultaneously spouted.

"Katharine, Brenton?"

"Yes," I automatically confirmed. Then I heard him. In hope, I ventured, “Really?”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “We could all use a break, yeah?”

“Yeah. Oh, yes. Thank you,” I brimmed over.

I know it isn't the biggest of things, but in the moment it was. It altered my day from catastrophic to serendipitous.

Oh, and here's the book:

Read Here

I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

2010-10-14T21:54:00.000-10:00

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Last Sunday, I meandered my way to Moloa’a, with some friends, to listen to music. Lounging on the side of a sloping hill, nestled by the mountain valleys, it truly was a beautiful moment. Which was nice, because I was a little rattled by the cops (cops?) that were standing outside the event. I had definitely seen a few more cops this past year with the unsolved death of Amber Jackson, but I had never seen cops, looking slightly, but not truly, menacing. I had heard, on the way, that there were cops that had spilled into the Saturday night show, and they there were looking to give tickets. I would almost not mind if the money would go to having a five day school week for the children, assuredly it doesn’t, and I digress.

I remember my roommate triple checking her parking job, “Am I really not touching the road?” As I would have too, if I was in fear of being a recipient of the rampant ticketing. Alas, we all looked at the car from separate angles and agreed it was a good foot away from the asphalt (there was no curb where we were). We walked down and around to the entrance of One Love Farm. I smiled at the cops, hoping. I do not recall getting a smile back. Most of the time I do. My grandfather was a cop. I respect the work they do, but I don’t unaffectedly remember getting a smile back.

I do remember showing my armband to get in and wanting to keep moving as we heard the walkie talkies going “crrrr” on, and then muted conversations ensued, but the vibe was definitely not friendly. I noticed all of this, because I never saw so many cops at one spot. Not even at the Kapa’a police station, where I had gone once looking for a cop to get some assurance about the unsolved murder. I don’t want to sling the “where” and “why” of this against the KPD, but it was peculiar seeing that many cops, especially with the state that Kauai’s budget is in right now. But again, I digress.

So there I was, on the mountain side. Grateful. Behind me, two mothers were nursing. Beside me, four friends - spanning four decades in age - were talking; I was soaking it all in. As a transplanted Mainlander from the East Coast, I marveled at the serenity in front of me. There were a few musicians on the stage singing, people dancing, babies playing, sun shining: it was a beautiful celebration. I turned my attention to my friends and began chatting it up.

A little while later, the music had stopped, and Dove Liddle, the producer, had started to speak. Actually, he started to cry, “I feel like an outlaw,” he muttered head hung. And I felt much compassion for him. He informed us that the cops were looking to shut the music down for a noise violation. I was stunned, really. I have been to many concerts. Heck, my neighbors sing their karaoke – every Friday – louder than this concert. I could call the cops on them, my neighbors that is, but I don’t. Because singing makes them happy, I think, and they are always done before ten. It was still daylight as Dove explained, “That they are gathering at the gate…” and I simply disbelieved what I was hearing.

But it was true. The cops didn’t storm the stage. They did take away Dove, in handcuffs, for a misdemeanor, which I am not entirely sure is legal. Perhaps someone else is? The music went on, acoustic style. The dancing went on, in solidarity and joy. The babies smiled still, oblivious and safe. Kids sold banana bread and bottled water to help support the bail money to release Uncle Dove.
Why do I think the caged bird sings? Because he can. Because song is infectious; because music is boundless, and because he believed in what he was doing, and I do too.

Read the Garden Isle's coverage here.

dearest

2010-10-13T20:42:00.000-10:00

dearest

Thank you -

Mahalo-
for pulling the race through my
ears into my toes,
sucked and spat out,
just like the moving blade
reduces
the grass to
its necessary bits.

Thank you for
pulling this girl to
your breast and nursing
her whole,
resetting her compass,
turning her home.

Treat Yourself

2010-10-09T20:34:00.000-10:00

Mana Foods of Maui never disappoints in expanding my chocolate selection.
This time was Righteously Raw Maca Bar:

Yum.

The Aloha Difference: Hō‘ihi

2010-10-01T15:42:00.000-10:00

www.afeinphoto.com

Brain-storming. Brains storming. A component of writing that is essential, whether acknowledged, or not. For some it happens easily, for some a struggle. Huddled over their work, in a fluorescently lit, tan cinderblock room, the none-too convinced class of community-college writers awaited their next wrestling match.

I had been teaching writing, in one form or another, for a decade. I was still adjusting to the fact that I had been doing anything for a decade, professionally, but that’s another story. On the Mainland, as the contiguous United States are called in Hawai’i, I had wrangled minds into the finer arts of language and writing. The concepts were the same; now, however, my playing field contained coconut trees and luscious greenery.

“Okay, so the important part is not to censor yourself,” I scanned the eyes that peered back at me. “Just write whatever comes to mind, and keep writing. Good, bad, ugly, makes-no-sense,” a couple threw me some chuckles, “just keep writing. Your topic to brainstorm, both sides of the argument: Taking Art Out of the Schools.”

A few groans escaped, as I continued, “What would someone say that would advocate the schools saying. And advocate means…?”
“Argue for,” a voice offered.

“Right. Who would argue for, or advocate, to keep the Art in schools. And then, who or – what would the reasons be – to argue that art doesn’t need to stay in schools?” Then heads went down, the pencils started, and I began making my laps of paper-peering.

Heated scribbles, waning sighs, and labored breathing were among the indications that the students had begun. One student, I shall call him Koa, was clearly thinking, but nothing was moving into form. It was only the second week of classes, but I had already come to admire this student: strong, intelligent, independent and kind. I slipped into a chair next to him and asked, “So--?”with a my leading pause.

“I can’t think of anything, Miss.”

“No?” I thought of the countless times that I had given this prompt on the Mainland, and students promptly spit back their utilitarian answers.

“No – I mean, I know that you are asking, and I know why you would want me to think of something, but I don’t agree…”

Intrigued, I cocked my head to the side.

“I mean, you want me to say why someone would want to pull art out – right?”

“Yes,” I answered. “Now, Koa..I am not asking you to agree with art being taken out – “

“Yeah, but you are asking me to imagine why someone would tell you that it is ok to take art out?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, see that’s the problem. I know,” Koa continued, “that you want me to say, that it saves money and that everyone is not an artist, and stuff like that…”

“Yesssss,” I repeated, hearing my own predictability. “But – you don’t have to believe the reasons; it’s just a way to see what the other side would say, so you can predict their argument. See it from both sides, and understand…”

“That’s it, Miss,” Koa switched gears, to explain to his teacher. “Ok, so someone would say, ‘Take art out of schools, because not everyone is an artist.’”

I shook my head.

“See, I don’t think that is true. I think everyone is an artist. And people think they aren’t good at art because they sat next to some kid that was better than them, or someone told them they were bad.”

I exhaled.

“See, there is always going to be someone that is better than you, but it doesn’t mean that you aren’t good at Art. You could play ukulele, do ceramics, draw – everyone can create something.”

I listened.

“And, maybe the teacher thought there was only one way, or they liked one style better than another, so then the kid thinks he’s crap – Sorry, Miss – but it’s not true. It’s just one teacher’s opinion.”

I drank Koa’s every word.

“And because this kid thinks he’s no good, then he just decides that art isn’t needed. Or maybe that art doesn’t make money, but art helps everything. If you sing, you dance, you draw, whatevah (his Pidgin slipped in) -- then that makes you a more well rounded person, and that leads to things, too. It’s not just the one step of money, or whatevah, like Math or writing…it’s not just one thing.. I just don’t agree --”

This, to me is the practically imperceptible difference of Hawaii: When tourists land here, they breath in the air; they soak in the sun; they pull in the beauty, but they can’t pinpoint the one thing that is unmistakably, Hawaiian. And this twenty-something who was returning to school, after being out for ten years and waitering-car-parking-tourist-catering service jobs, until realizing he would need his own business to afford a home on the island that me loved, served up to me, the aloha difference. Just a sliver. I, in reality, was a tourist, too, although I lived here, and am sure there is a depth that I may never access. But in this moment, I was listening.

Life was not just about the creation for consumption. Life was more. There is value in beauty – look out the window – there is value in song – listen to the pules- there is value in who you are, as you, for you. Just being you. Expression is a product of living; creating beauty was what the island of Kauai was all about. Beauty around. Beauty within. Respect for all. Hō‘ihi.

I wanted to rush this man, with the brilliance and innocence of a loved child, and hold him in gratefulness, then clone him, and send him all over the Mainland, and plead and pray that people would actually hear what it was that he was saying.

What I did: was smile. What else could I do? I smiled. I shook my head and gratefully, graciously, accepted “defeat.”

“You don’t have to.”

“What, Miss?” Koa asked.

“Just - you don’t have to. You don’t have to bother with the other side. I hear you.”

“No, Miss, I can if you want I just was saying--”

And our eyes met, and I hope - although I will never know- that Koa saw my gratitude and admiration. I hoped, and still do, that he will be heard, in the quiet way he will live his life on this beautiful Kaua`i, land of boundless gifts, by anyone who is able to listen.

The moment broke, and I muttered, “Just, just go ahead with your thesis. You’re done brainstorming.”

“Alright Miss,” he chuckled. “Whatevah you say.”

The Forty Rules of Love

2010-07-31T13:29:00.000-10:00

A life without love is of no account. Don't ask yourself what kind of love you should seek, spiritual or material, divine or mundane, Eastern or Western...Divisions only lead to more divisions. Love has no labels, no definitions. It is what it is, pure and simple.

- Shafak

Read Here

I just finished a gorgeous read: beautiful, sorrowful, true and contemplative. Like many, I enjoy the depths of Rumi - even beyond the fields of right and wrong; however, I knew very little of him.
I am not one for historical fiction, but rather, like Virginia Woolf [ To The Lighthouse, for example] intimated, I enjoy the capturing of life in the details, in the undefined edges, in the misty glow of lamplight rather than the definitive composition. That means, if you want to go find out the birth, death and history of Rumi, look for another read. If you would like to ruminate on the depths of loving the Beloved and crevices of duality, this is for you.
This is a well crafted novel, inspiring heart and mind to delve a little deeper, whether a Rumi-phile or novice.

And here is an interesting interview with the author.

Great Expectations

2010-05-17T13:01:00.000-10:00

I received an email request to write about expectations. My response: don’t have them. At the time, I had little else to say. At the time, I could have chosen to see, that the Universe was giving me a heads up, a needed follow up, to my previous post on anger. Expectations are the seeds that, unattended, blossom into the manifestation of needs unmet: anger, fear, jealousy, rage.

I have heard this, but not listened before. The moment that I expect an outcome I have lost my presence. It really is that simple. And yet: of course we have preferences, and of course we are conscious creators, and of course I expect there to be chocolate ice cream and not just vanilla. So in the simplicity of duality there is confusion.

Neti, neti. Not this, not this.

Neti, neti: found in the Upanishads (Hindu text) speaks to the quest of trying to comprehend the undefinable, Atman, or the brilliance of Source, of Life, of whatever your belief structure is that says there is more than can be understood. There is a hunger for something, and the hunger is un-satisfiable from anything that you can comprehend, so the best that can be done is a weeding out of what it is not. It is a slip of the emotion that you have when standing in front of a full fridge and you are hungry: not for pizza, or a smoothie, or a yogurt, or a sandwich, or leftover pad thai, you …just…can’t….place...what…you…want. Neti, Neti. But you know what you don’t want.

So here we are on the Earth. Hungry. And instead of going to the grocery store, we expect someone else to feed us.

Uh-oh. Here the demise begins: If you would have _______, I could have ________. Insert life circumstance. Grammatically, this is called a dependent clause. We live our lives with dependent clauses, and expect our needs to be met, intuited, or delivered by our jobs, lovers, families, weather, et cetra, and throw blame and anger when we are left unsatisfied.

Why can’t we be met?

Neti, neti.

What is it that we are actually wanting? What are we expecting to arrive, that is not already present, perhaps tucked away, inside?

Consider this your invitation inside.

A Moments Indulgence

I ask for a moment's indulgence to sit by thy side.

The works that I have in hand I will finish afterwards.

Away from the sight of thy face my heart knows no rest nor respite,

and my work becomes an endless toil in a shoreless sea of toil.

Today the summer has come at my window with its sighs and murmurs; and

the bees are plying their minstrels at the court of the flowering grove.

Now it is time to sit quiet, face to face with thee, and to sing

dedication of life in this silent and overflowing leisure.

Rabindranath Tagore

Ignorance

2010-05-06T18:22:00.000-10:00

If I am eternal and perfect, why am I ignorant?
Answer: Who is ignorant? The real Self does not complain of ignorance. It is the ego in you that complains. It is that which also asks the questions. The Self does not ask any question. And this ego is neither the body, nor the real Self, but something arising between the two. In sleep there was no ego, and you had no sense of imperfection or ignorance then. Thus the ego is itself imperfection and ignorance. If you seek the truth of the ego and thus find the real Self, you will find that there is no ignorance.

Sri Ramana Maharshi

RAGE

2010-04-17T23:37:00.000-10:00

Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten. - Buddha

In the path of the seeker there are so many emotions that are looked upon, meditated through and discarded. In the embodiment of being human there are so many trapdoors;confused turns; sideways exits; perplexing predicaments.

And we wonder why there is so much anger.

There is a burning desire in humans to be at peace. So much so that we will harm others to feel justified in our state of despair: blame to reclaim peace. Let me state this more plainly: I have witnessed myself hurt others because I was unable to effectively communicate my needs. In my hurt, I hurt.

Yes, yes. The whole scenario is much more complicated than that, but aren't all the scenarios much more complicated? How often do you need to tell the back story so that the listener can feel the full impact of the punchline? Why is that necessary? What is it about the mechanism of the past that is so prudently leveraged for the triumph of the future? Why drag the story along kicking and screaming?

Why do we need to be heard? Or seen? Or carve our name, or a desire, into another living being?

Is that what life is?

The more I read. The more I need to read.

The more I analyze my behavior. The more areas I notice for improvement.

The more I desire to awaken. The more perplexed I am to what that even means.

Anger is an acid that can do more harm to the vessel in which it is stored than to anything on which it is poured. Mark Twain

There are many schools of thought that explain: whatever is outside of us is inside of us. That whatever you want to clear or claim in the outer world, must first be achieved in the inner. That whatever you judge in another, you judge in your Self. Whatever you admire in another, you admire in your Self.

So I am grateful to watch this rage. This blame game and this facade rear its ugly (is it ugly?) head. For then it is seen. And with light, there is darkness. And with darkness, light. With anger, release. With history, the future. With failure, success. And as long as there is breath: the power to change it all.

"It is your show.
It is your universe.
There is no one else here, just you,
and nothing is being withheld from you.
You are completely on your own.
Everything is available for direct knowing.
No one else has anything you need.
No one else can lead you, pull you, push you or carry you." Jed McKenna

An Easter Love Poem

2010-04-03T15:32:00.000-10:00

Photo: Kate Brenton

XLV

Pablo Neruda

Don't go far off, not even for a day, because -

because- I don't know how to say it: a day is long

and I will be waiting for you, as in an empty station

when the trains are parked off somewhere, asleep.

Don't leave me, even for an hour, because

then the little drops of anguish will all run together,

the smoke that roams looking for a home will drift

into me, choking my lost heart.

Oh, may your silhouette never dissolve on the beach;

may your eyelids never flutter into the empty distance.

Don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because in that moment you'll have gone so far

I'll wander mazily over all the earth, asking,

Will you come back? Will you leave me here, dying?

100 Love Sonnets: Cien sonetos de amor (Texas Pan American Series) (English and Spanish Edition)

Book Review: Jed McKenna

2010-03-31T13:29:00.000-10:00

This book is not for the faint of heart. You see this in the review and you hear other people say it, but it is kind of like the first time you hear about hotel comforters and how abhorrently filthy they are: You can never not know it.

I had never heard of Jed McKenna; then, about a month after landing in Kaua'i from my travel to Peru. I couldn't go twelve hours without hearing Jed McKenna:

"Have you read Jed McKenna?"

"No."

Gasp. "Oh, you have to read him. Talk to me after you've read Jed."

This was then normally followed by some rollicking expletive about how this man has rocked a person's perceptive world.

About two months after hearing this, I listened. I ordered the first in the trilogy: Spiritual Enlightenment: The Damnedest Thing

I immediately tuned into the modern, flatline tone. Nice. I had't read a spiritual seeking text that was this accessible - in mere language and structure - in awhile, so intrigued by the writing style and the dog on the cover I googled Jed McKenna. Who is this cat?

"Hey, you didn't tell me Jed McKenna isn't a real person."

"Oh," they say perpelexed by the relevance. "Oh, yeah. No. Of course he's someone else. No one knows who he is. But he's awesome."

What?

This made less sense. Everyone was raving about the qualities and insights of a man that didn't even put his name on the text.

And then I really started to read.

For me, I saw why he had to be a pseudonym. Jed is merely a function. A man could never live up to the scrutiny of the message he was delivering. It would give the ego an easy excuse to execute the messenger and dismiss the message. Nope, you had to simply read and watch how this truth resonated, and start to look at your life in a whole new way.

By the time this realization hits you - you are too far in the book to turn around. Your reality has already shifted and now you look down to see yourself, swaddled in layers upon layers of smarmy hotel bedsheets.

And thus begins your mental peeling a' la Jed.

Seeing the Unseen

2010-03-28T18:35:00.000-10:00

Photo: Jeffrey Courson

In the presence of eternity, the mountains are as transient as the clouds.

~Robert Green Ingersoll

To see the unseen.

A few weeks ago, some friends and I traveled up to Koke’e to hike along the jagged cliffs of the Kalalau Valley. It was raining, notoriously not a good fit for a day of hiking. In fact the weather report cautioned for us not to go at all, but rain is common in that Valley and there have been plenty of hikes that have proven just fine once we arrived. So we packed our gear and went.

“Now, if anyone isn’t feeling the hike, let’s all acknowledge how we feel, so we stay safe,” my friend cautioned as the car swiveled her way up the mountain. He was answered with unanimous “uh-huhs;” however, when we arrived at the parking lot, all started to silently suit up. Flip flops exchanged for hiking boots. Short sleeves layered with rain jackets. We were all in tandem: today we hike.

The mists over the valley erased the valley to the naked eye. Tourists stood with fogged cameras, hoping to grasp a glimpse of its infamous splendor, while the Valley offered nothing less than a thick fog of cloud cover.

What we see depends mainly on what we look for. ~John Lubbock

We walked on the clilff’s edge, towering over magical green valleys, cloaked in the impenetrable mists.

And then it changed.

When the mists parted, we saw four waterfalls that were – to us – never before seen. The heavy rains had refilled the crevices of the mountain's rivulets. Abundance poured forth. And yet, to those still on the top of the mountain – these waterfalls were hidden, the veils did not completely clear. I stood with my four other hiking companions and thought: this is for us.

There is grandeur in solitude.

There is a choice in what you see.

I looked up at the mountain top, imagining a woman who had come here for the first time, disappointed that she was not seeing what she expected. I had been that woman. And I saw myself, in this moment - not attached (granted because I had seen this view on open days) to what I would see. In this perspective, I stood, counting waterfalls cascading down mountain faces of green opulence.

And then the mists returned.

Now I knew what was on the other side.

What is the difference when one sees the unseen? How does that function in our memory? How much does our positioning in life affect our perspective?

Are we in control?

Is it best to design for the best view? Is it best to be unattached? Is there a right or a wrong?

If you do not raise your eyes you will think that you are the highest point. ~Antonio Porchia, Voces, 1943, translated from Spanish by W.S. Merwin

Preciousness

2010-01-07T19:55:00.000-10:00

I recently had the opportunity to witness preciousness. It did not come in the form of a cute toddler, or even this snuggled bird. It came in the form of ferocity and disaster. It game with blood and terror, adrenaline and tears. In the deafening roar of helplessness, I tasted the preciousness of life.

Our nervous system, I suppose, wouldn't be able to go grocery shopping and weed the garden if it knew the precarious balance we tiptoe with grace in our lives. Or can we? Is that what it means to "get it?" This life - to understand how precious, how uncontrollable "it" all is and try to match your socks anyway?

I wonder.

The topic - the sanctity and preciousness of life - is not a new one. So I won't belabor the point. Yet, I wonder. How do we breathe in this awareness and still get our driver's license? How do we remember that all life is sacred, and yet hold our boundaries with our bosses or our partners? What does that balance look like? How high does the beam have to be to allow the picture, yet permit the necessary safety of performance?

I know not only why today my life is all astir,

and a feeling of tremulous joy is passing through my heart.

- Rabindranath Tagore

Unseen Support

2009-12-17T19:49:00.000-10:00

The other day, I was granted a peek at a miracle. I watched this very butterfly emerge from her cocoon.

I watched the shriveled wing poke through seemingly plastic encasing and unfurl her self from her shell.
I stood breathless, as she took in her first breath. I watched her rounded, bloated belly, pulse. I saw her feeling through her new life, a timid flip of her wings, an unsteady grasp upon her too small, no-longer-serving safety of a home.

I was baffled with brillance at witnessing such an intimate moment, for this new life.
I silently cheered her on, in my awe. I thanked her for allowing me to witness her unfolding - but I knew better than to help her. Even when, she swayed precariously as she resitatuated, even as she struggled to flex into her full wingspan, I did not touch her. Why?

Well, as you may or may not remember, a butterfly's wings are not flight worthy immediately. Rather, she has to work to expell the fluid in her abdomen into her wings, allow them to dry and build her muscles before flight. If the butterfly (you know where this is going) does not struggle, she will not live to fly. The strength she garners in this uncertainity births the fortitude for flight.

What I found particularly significant, was that this butterfly, as a gift to a Waldorf school, was being born in a large mason jar; the second of three. Her brother born before her, had gotten confused, when he dropped to the bottom of the jar and needed to be helped out - after which he flew away happily. We didn't want this to happen to her, so we watched.

I stood there and watched with admiration - her struggle. She would endure this weakness until it bore strength. She would struggle to achieve her liberation: but I would stand there to ensure that she would not fall; she would not fail; she would fly. As I stood there, sending her my silent cheers: the preciousness of the moment revealed itself: Just as I stood watch for her, behind me, this Universe had legions saying the same of me: Kate would endure this weakness until it bore strength. She will struggle to achieve her liberation, but she will fly.

And so will you.

Deliberate Creation

2009-12-13T13:52:00.000-10:00

Excerpt: "Deliberation"
Constant, slow movement teaches us to keep working
like a small creek that stays clear,
that doesn't stagnate, but finds a way
through numerous details, deliberately.

Deliberation is born of joy,
like a bird from an egg.
Birds don't resemble eggs!
Think how different the hatching out is.

A white leathery snake egg, a sparrow's egg;
a quince seed, an apple seed: very different things
look similar at one stage.

These leaves, our bodily personalities, seem identical,
but the globe of soul fruit
we make,
each is elaborately
unique.
- Rumi

What are you hatching?

Loving Tides

2009-12-04T17:31:00.000-10:00

Photo: Makaleha, Kauai: Transformation after the Storm

Tired of Speaking Sweetly ~ by Hafiz

Love wants to reach out and manhandle us,
Break all our teacup talk of God.

If you had the courage and
Could give the Beloved His choice, some nights,
He would drag you around the room
By your hair,
Ripping from your grip all those toys in the world
That bring you no joy.

Love sometimes gets tired of speaking sweetly
And wants to rip to shreds
All your erroneous notions of truth

That make you fight within yourself, dear one,
And with others,

Causing the world to weep
On too many fine days.

God wants to manhandle us,
Lock us inside of a tiny room with Himself
And practice his dropkick.

The Beloved sometimes wants
To do us a great favor:

Hold us upside down
And shake all the nonsense out.

But when we hear He is in such a "playful drunken mood"
Most everyone I know
Quickly packs their bags and hightails it
Out of town.

Fruition: Lessons of a Papaya Tree

2009-12-02T23:16:00.000-10:00

You can accomplish a great deal by standing still.

I didn't use to think that was true. So I spent a lot of time running in and out of my house, in and out of my car, in and out of my destinations, to try and accomplish something. Each in and out, I had, each time I walked out my front door, I passed this papaya tree.

I admittedly scoffed - a little - at first. What a scrawny tree. Truly, she was not much to look at, in the lost corner of her yard behind a tool shed, and next to my yard, which also boasted very little. I had taken a monthly rental, before packing up and moving on, so I invested very little effort - what could I really do for just one month? Oh, did I mention, she was a good 10 - 15 yards away from a highly trafficked road? This was part of the reason I was moving - how could I thrive next to such loud, disruptive noise?

Then one day - somewhere between a week and a half to two, she started popping out these small green balls. Little. Nothing to really notice. I noticed, but I also continued schlepping in and out - with out any real result.

Then one night, yes night not even day, I noticed, all these papayas and thought, "Where the hell did they come from?" Somewhere between scrawny and this moment, this "little" papaya tree had produced an abundance of fruit. So much, that the family whereupon she lived would have to give some, or sell some, or at least freeze some.

And me? Well, I'm just standing here wondering how I can be more like a papaya tree.

Abundance

2009-11-20T10:41:00.000-10:00

I was recently listening to a segment with Neale Diamond Walsh, where I heard an idea, that had been swirling around my own circle of friends. Walsh said that the economic "despair" that people were experiencing was self - or communally - created - to bring people back, to remind them how they were happier with less. I heard the ping of Truth in his words.

I remember talking to a friend of mine, who has the financial freedom to travel avidly, who is a self proclaimed "Abundist;" she said she spent time investigating the responsibility and reverence for Nature's abundance. This is the phase I am gratefully in now. I make my grocery list much more carefully, thinking and planning my purchases, as flashbacks of throwing unused food trickles through my head. My diet is now much more fresh, as I recall my lazy over-indulgence in consuming too much take out food, too fast, between jobs, and zooming right along. I have undeniably been slowed down in many ways.

Does this mean I don't want to eat out more, or enjoy counting my grocery store pennies - no! It does mean, I am garnering an appreciation of how even less - is abundant. And how less isn't even a possibility - it's a comparison to a past that does not exist in this moment now. And if I constantly crane my neck backwards, well, it's most likely I will crash into the street sign of abundant present moment, rather than smoothly flowing ahead.

You pray in your distress and in your need; would that you might also pray in the fullness of your joy and in your days of abundance.
- Kahlil Gibran

Photo: K. Brenton
Kaua'i Farmer's Market Find

My Own Place

2009-10-27T09:48:00.000-10:00

Good girls don’t cry. Or is that big girls? Nice women, behave; even though they rarely make history. Women should know their place – and with this I agree. The glitch, or rather, the opportunity being the place, and the time, and the pristine opportunity that is offered in this multitudinous variation. What is the right place, and the right time, anyway?

I can only speak what I know, and I know I often felt out of place. Others, apparently, knew their place, so I deduced that if they knew, and I didn’t, it made sense to just work around them. A colossal misinterpretation.

I know that being raised Catholic I was told to be quiet. Not silent, quiet. There is a difference. I was disciplined to behave, act nice, and think of others. Others were always first; not something I disagree with, but we never really discussed where my needs fell in the hierarchy of behaving and being quietly nice to all creatures, great and small. Therein lay the problem. If I was always thinking of others, then who was I relying on to take care of me?

Here I am thinking of others, and all the others knew what they were doing, so I was a little bit like a pinball either bouncing off of them in deference or in defense. Either way it was reactionary and haphazard, rather than focused and purposeful. What to do?
The first step, of an evolving process, was to cultivate an appreciation for my place in this world. That even if another seemed to know more, they only knew their place, and it was not their job to know my place, that was mine to divine.

The next step: practice the first step until I stopped falling flat on my face.

Photo: K.Brenton

Be, Do & Have

2009-09-03T12:14:00.000-10:00

There is nothing you cannot be, do, or have. – Abraham Hicks.

This theme has been swirling around me, day after day, moment after moment. There is nothing I cannot be do or have. I see that. All around me. The trick is seeing that for me. And instead of seeing that I see what I am not, do not, have not. Why?

From what I have absorbed, Why is the least effective question to ask in this situation. It provides a hamster wheel of astronomical proportions, whereupon I can spin, spin, spin, satiating my desire to feel like I am trying, but in reality, not getting anywhere. Fast. For example: Why me? Why them? Why this? What answer would satisfy? These questions establish a polarity of separation that, if answerable, will confirm there is a Have and a Have Not, and that these two distinctions are justifiable by the Universe: when most scripture, avatars, and mystics beam that this is not true. There is no separation, no matter what. So if I search for Why, I am feeding energy into the very aspect I am trying to dissipate, thus furthering and deepening the chasm between myself and Truth. Humpf.

The next, seemingly appropriate question to ask is: How? Recently I had the gift of standing in the Kauaian ocean with a most astounding woman, powerful, strong, sensual, and soft. A well balanced woman who has manifested living her dharma joyously in this life; she leads groups of open hearted seekers to Egypt. www.presenceofheart.com We were lapping up the ocean waves and talking about manifestation. She said, “I have seen many people so close, so determined in their manifesting and then they ask: How. That one word stops it all. You, [she turned and looked at me] stay focused,” she motioned forward into the vast ocean, “on your path and let the Divine deliver the how.” She went on to explain that how, is the mistrust, the fear, the disbelief of the ego. When you let go of how, “miracles flood in.”

So, in case you missed it – like I apparently did – don’t ask how.

Recently, while watching a video of Osho, a most profound soul speaker, it is not only what he says, but the manner with which he delivers that is so easy for me to absorb. Osho said all you have to do is witness. Witness your emotions: I am angry. Notice the anger. Notice the fear, whatever, you are dealing with. Don’t change it. Don’t rationalize it; give it nothing, but allow it to be heard, to be seen. At first this seemed over simplified to me. Then I remembered an example of this in my own life: I was upset and shared my emotions with my partner, and he listened. Truly listened. And as he listened, I could hear the deflation in my emotions. And when he asked, “What do you want?” I felt in my heart, that simply being heard was what I wanted. I realized that I did not want him to change or do, but there was an immense value in his patience of allowing me to expose and allow my less evolved (a nice euphemism for fear, anger and jealousy) emotions and complaints to receive their space. And in that reception, there was a moment of great relief.

Clearly, I am still climbing this mountain. But even in this typing, I am remembering the shanti (peace) or that moment, and it feels like the same tonation that Osho spoke of. The lesson is not in these words, but in this experience. Try it yourself. Call the one trusted soul you have in your life: parent, friend, lover, pet, et cetra and allow the indulgence of speaking your truth. Without concern of appropriateness, righteousness or external appearances of any form. As you do this, tune in to your breathing: does it accelerate (how about your heart?) when you tell your tale? Does it change? Are they really listening? Are you really listening to what you are saying? Try, as you are recounting, to also witness your Self. If possible. If not, practice.

Then, I think, with that practice, we start to be the listeners to our own inner dialogue. To offer that peace to our own Souls. And when there is peace within our own soul, there is space for creation. There is acceptance of grandeur, or at least more viability to believe in our own ability, our own gifts, rather than the apparent desperations or absences. And with that, maybe there is nothing we cannot be, do, or have.

Blessings.

Creating your Reality

2009-08-23T11:39:00.000-10:00

Yogi Bhajan was known to comment on his “obstacles” with endearment. Stating, that if he didn’t enjoy [said predicament] he would never have created it. When you look at your environment and consider yourself as a co-creator of the circumstances that you are in there is a shift on many levels. What happens when the other person, the external factor is no longer separate from you, but perhaps very intimately connected? This alone can send the mind reeling.

Following along those same slippery lines…There is much talk about manifesting these days, as well as the collapsing economy. A lot of woulds, coulds and shoulds. Better not do this; can’t afford to do that; what if I dared to do what I wanted. Where WILL the money come from? Et cetra. I recently plopped down to feel through an abundance exercise and when I silently uttered the words, “I am now a millionaire” I felt a surging amount of resistance; thankfully, so much resistance that I could not not notice it. When I felt through the resistance, what I uncovered was: Fear of my own power. If I was a millionaire, where would my excuses go? I could spend my whole day in service; I could spend more time with my loved ones, be slower with my word choices, more nourishing with my diet, and more fearless with my life.

If I had all the money, I desired, would I do all the things I claim I would? Is it possible that I have prevented the flow of money, because I enjoy the safety of not having to do something because I “don’t have the money for that.”

What about you?

SO MANY GIFTS

There are so many gifts
Still unopened from your birthday,
There are so many hand-crafted presents
That have been sent to you by God.

The Beloved does not mind repeating,
"Everything I have is also yours."

Please forgive Hafiz and the Friend
If we break into a sweet laughter
When your heart complains of being thirsty
When ages agoEvery cell in your soul
Capsized foreverInto this infinite golden sea.

Indeed,
A lover's pain is like holding one's breath
Too long In the middle of a vital performance,
In the middle of one of Creation's favoriteSongs.

Indeed, a lover's pain is this sleeping,
This sleeping, When God just rolled over and gave you
Such a big good-morning kiss!

There are so many gifts, my dear,
Still unopened from your birthday.

O, there are so many hand-crafted presents
That have been sent to your life
From God.

~ Hafiz ~

Reference:
Yogi Bhajan Lecture

Koke'e

2009-08-21T10:49:00.000-10:00

I took a Seed from a Stone
Planted it in a Tree
and watched
my Soul bloom.

For the Love of Classics

2009-07-24T10:14:00.001-10:00

On a lighter note, Oprah, has posted - what in my mind is a needed bow - to the classics. Loved Classics
Take a look and thank a high school teacher if they had a part in your experience; they could definitely use the support right now.

One of my favorite classics, is Graham Greeene's Heart of the Matter. The writing appears effortless, yet it is meticulously slender and potent. The story serves up a protagonist of universal proportion that threads into the core of the human predicament.

Belief

2009-07-17T17:12:00.000-10:00

Belief. To even tackle the concept intimidates my fingertips, yet the pursuit of which births my every breath. The human existence craves to believe: they are loved; they are worthwhile; they are purposeful; they are supported; they have a reason to exist.

Isn’t that why we need to hear our partner (girlfriend, husband, lover…) say: I love you. If we hear it, we believe we will believe it. Isn’t that why we say show me: If we see it, we believe we will believe it. Have you ever looked at your watch to see the time, then had to look at it a second later? Why does that happen? Did we not believe it the first time? Was our mind so busy that the information, just sort of slipped? What does that say about us?

I read The Alchemist last year, by Paul Coehlo, and I highly recommend it. The writing is admirable, but more importantly the metaphorical comparisons are easy launching points into the specifics of your own psyche. I read it a few months before I was deciding to travel with my beloved on his journey to Egypt. I didn’t go. I could say that I didn’t go because I felt that it was the right thing. It was neither right nor wrong; however the reason I didn’t go was because I didn’t believe I could. I couldn’t afford it. I couldn’t quit my job. I wasn’t worthy to “have it all.” As I was traversing this cranial terrain – I was simultaneously reading the book. I detest a spoiled ending, so I won’t do that to you, but the ending was, for me, cosmic comedy. None of it mattered; the journey mattered; there was no golden answer; there is only my journey and it is all necessary.
For you.
For me.

How does the journey become an expression of belief?

Journey Home

The time that my journey takes
is long and the way of it long.
I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light,
and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds
leaving my track on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,
and that training is the most intricate
which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.
The traveler has to knock
at every alien door to come to his own,
and one has to wander through all the outer worlds
to reach the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed far and wide
before I shut them and said `Here art thou!'
The question and the cry `Oh, where?'
melt into tears of a thousand
streams and deluge the world
with the flood of the assurance `I am!'

RABINDRANATH TAGORE

Playing it Safe

2009-07-17T11:27:00.000-10:00

This past year, I guided my first student teacher. After five years of teaching, I wanted the experience of bringing another into the fold. It reaffirmed for me - how much of teaching is instinctual. There is a great deal that can be taught, should be taught, and even the best, go-with-her-gut-eyes-in-the-back-of-her-head teacher should be exposed to new theories and new modalities - even if most of them are recreations from the past; I believe all human beings benefit from some personal development, or alternative exposure to get the creative juices flowing.

That being said, I was reading a great article - especially for new teachers, but really for any human being that is in need of sharing information with another human being, in the classroom or the boardroom - One Mind at a Time http://findarticles.com/p/articles/mi_qa3666/is_/ai_n17169827/
There are many things to be said about how to teach or even why to teach. There are numerous modalities Universal Acceleration, Differentiated Instruction, Theory Based, Experience Based, and the list careens around a multitude of corners. Endlessly. I believe in my heart, and through personal experience, the most basic of tenets, as Peter W Cookson, Jr. said, is:

Children do not learn when they are afraid or in emotional conflict. Creating a safe, warm, clean and organized classroom is the foundation for learning.

Truth's simplicity so often is easily ignored.

I ask you to remember the last time you were in a group setting, perhaps at work, perhaps at a happy hour, and someone proved what you said was wrong, dismissed you, said, "Actually, no that isn't true, I just returned from Kathmandu..." or "No, Sally, that is not what the client request for their promotional marketing blitz. Did you read the specs?"

How did you feel? Anger? Embarrassment? Shame? Dismissiveness? Now, realize that children are in this situation, all day long, with different teachers, different personalities, and the ever present jury of their peers.This is just one, minuscule aspect of safety in the classroom.

Back to my student teacher, this simple tenet, was difficult to teach. In my opinion, it is partially my inexperience at teaching a teacher and - as Cookson mentioned - how one views teaching will dictate the how and why a teacher does what he does. I am grateful to my student teacher, for showing me - from the most preciously limited bird's eye perspective of a classroom - what it is like to be a student receiving the regulations and instructions of a teacher. Granted, a student teacher is in her very right a student. Many teachers will tell you that who they were as a student teacher is light years from who they are after their second, or even first year teaching. The specifics of this one teacher simply served as a momentary insight into the world of studentdom and how much they receive, tolerate, and enjoy. And how this precious information can be leveraged for the benefit of all. And it starts -- the inception of learning blossoms - when one feels safe to grow.

Patience

2009-07-11T12:28:00.000-10:00

Patience. A begrudging practice at times. Wayne Dwyer says: Infinite patience brings immediate results. This feels about right. When the impatience of my mind stamps its feet, for more - now! -it kicks up the dust - clouding the clarity of the moment. Have you ever rushed a moment - received it - looked over your shoulder at the past and wished you had savored it rather than slurped it down?

For example, I recently relocated - - with any relocation there are bits and bobs to be attended to: mail transfers, cooking supply stocking, sun block buying, and Internet connecting. For whatever reason, there was a bit of a cloud around the Internet installation - the computer guy was on vacation, the Internet company was also celebrating their Independence holiday and I was left with an, "Eh, it'll happen," for my timeline. Being from the East Coast, hyperventilation quickly kicked in. How would I check my email? How would I stay in touch? How would I shop for the new car I needed to get around this oddly large island? How would I write my book (I have been finding blame - casting for this one, for years)? How would I......? How would I? How would I?

I herumpfed about for a few days, driving daily to a lovely little coffee shop to zoom into the caffeinated connection of online-dom. One morning I woke up and realized: When I get Internet, I will have to find a job, a car, a reason to be on this island. I won't have an excuse to sip on latees and putz around the breeze-filled cafette. When I realized this - I realized the gift that I was being presented with: space. Space to be in between the known. I could kick and stamp my feet, or I could allow this moment to ease passed, with the reassurance that I will eventually be "online" and connected, and right now the only thing I needed was patience. It is not hard to see that my reaction was disproportionate to the actual situation. But the situation was an easy place to put all my angst about the uncertainty of my move: my work, my friends, my connections, my very identity was all wrapped around this Internet connection.

I believe life's lessons come in these stages. Practicing patience is practicing patience, whether it is in reference to an Internet connection or reestablishing my self in a new community, very far from what I have ever known, finding a job, finding a car, et cetra, et cetra. Just like on a little league field, whether the ball is being tossed in practice or in a game -- it needs to be hit. It is a gift to take the pressure-less moments to hone our skills, to cultivate our muscle memory (links to two different articles if this is a new concept for you), so that when another moment comes -- we can flow with ease in the tide of patience and the assurance of faith. The lila (sanksrit for "divine play") of life is ongoing whether I understand the timing or not is - at best - irrelevant. For me, there was a great release when I shifted into gratitude of - not being online - in fact, I picked up a novel and decided to indulge myself in reading good books and languid yoga practices, to lavish myself in the freedom of not doing...the very next day, the computer man arrived at the door and I was online - connected - back into the great wide world. Incidentally, the hold up for the online access was a previous misconfiguration - the router simply needed to be told how to read the configuration, or in my mind, the situation.

Like my perpetual teacher, my sweet dog Kyla featured in the photo, knows her moment of freedom will undoubtedly come, where she can bound around in all her glory, until that moment comes, she props herself in comfort and allows my busy-ness patiently. She may glare, she may nudge from time to time, but mostly she stretches out in comfort and acceptance. Sometimes, it seems, that the work is to elicit patience, to enable bounding rather than tiptoeing into the next great moment.

Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.
- T. S. Elliot

Resting on Kauai

2009-07-03T11:50:00.000-10:00

The landing on Kauai, for me, has notoriously been an arduous one. This is the third time, and although it has been expeditiously improving, I still kick and scream, gasping for breath from Kauai's demands. Her demand? To be who I am, not what I own, not what I claim, not any external disclaimers. Rather, to just reside, to be. A tall order of trust, in my mind.

This morning I awoke with the realization that here - I am identity-less. My story is not known here. My income, my work, my home, my car, my role, are all in formation. And here I am - the master craftswoman. Needless to say, this had me awake at 6 am with an irregular breathing pattern (read: panic attack). So I packed a bag, and headed to the heiau in Kapaa for some yoga under the morning sun.

I stretched and breathed, feeling more invigorated, more in "the body glove" as Guru Singh says, letting my mind focus on a tight neck rather than a tight space. Rejuvenated and refreshingly receptive to the idea that I was in the right place for the right reasons, I packed up my towel and flops, walked out of the heiau and saw the beach roped off. I smiled, knowing who had arrived.

When a monk seal slides in for a nap, the beach is roped off; the humans must concede to their blubbery neighbor and his naptime. It's a wonderful reminder that there are many inhabitants on this planet. There is something extravagantly peaceful about a monk seal sleeping. He has no concern that the hotel staff rushed out to shush off the beachcombers. He is non-plussed by the caution tape that partitions off the beach. He simply follows his need and it is fulfilled. Just like that.

I thanked my sea friend for showing me just how comfortable of a home Kauai can be; how a space will be carved for you, even if you are a monk seal: The rest will come.

Why take the journey?

2009-07-01T07:47:00.000-10:00

Often it is easiest to stay put. It is easiest to continue to live a life that we know, and pad through to further accomplishments that keep us as we are. Is this good? Is this bad? Depends on the circumstances of your life. Only you know - which makes the equation that much more precarious to balance.

In Stephen Buhner's The Secret Teachings of Plants, he writes about changes:

For any living system very close to the phase transition between a synchronized and nonsynchronized state, a small peturbing signal produces a very large effect, moving the system in and out of synchrony at a regular rate. But every time the system reorders, it is in a new state of equilibrium. The resulting self-organization and emergent behaviors are different from those that went before. The novetly in living systems arises at points of instability, at bifurcation points. Instabilities are indespensable sources of biological innovation. [46]

What signals of reorganization are you receivng?

I have found that the call for change can be ignored - to a point. Once this pinnacle point is reached (the first of infinite) - you have reached critical mass and change must occur. One can chose to evolve or ride the waves of a system that collapse and reorganize upon itself in dis-ease, until the proper space is acquired for expansion.

This was the ringing I heard, in my ears, as I walked this very hallway, into my classroom. Each day I taught - through the veils of English literature - to follow the call of one's own heart, the notorious advice of Joseph Campbell to "Follow Your Bliss." What happens when the teacher realizes that the very advice she serves needs to be followed? What happens when the one who needs to learn is one's self?

The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff finger
sat the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
© Mary Oliver. Online Source

I packed my bags and bought a one way ticket to Kaua'i.

What are we doing?

2009-06-03T05:29:00.000-10:00

After posting "Unexpected Stars" I was asked about more of the meat of parent-teacher relations. So I began scouring for different stories about this fragile and necessary landscape. I was shocked when I read:

Teachers in the U.K. are concerned that parents are failing their children. In a talk at the annual conference of the Association of Teachers and Lecturers, Mary Bousted said that children are arriving at school without being able to dress themselves, use the toilet properly, or eat at the table. Chlidren from various economic backgrounds are beginning school with social and language delays that interfere with classroom learning and behaviour, according to Bousted.
http://www.familyanatomy.com/?p=1645

I suppose I supposed this was an American epidemic. How can we improve the support, communications and expectations between parents and teachers in a way that is most supportive to our students?

In this pursuit, I came across some interesting – although not shocking – findings in Harvard Research Publication. Unsurprisingly, parent involvement lessens – and should lessen – when students reach high school age. Further exemplified:

Parent Expectations Achievement
The further in school parents believed their adolescents would go, the higher the adolescents' academic achievement.
Parent Expectations -- Perception of Parent Expectations -- Student Expectations Achievement
The further in school parents believed their adolescents would go, the clearer the adolescents' perception of such expectations, the higher their own academic expectations, the higher their academic achievement.
Parent Expectations -- Perception of Parent Expectations -- Time Spent on Homework Achievement
The further in school parents believed their adolescents would go, the clearer the adolescents' perception of such expectations, the more time they spent on homework, the higher their academic achievement.

In agreement with findings from other studies (Catsambis, 2001), high educational expectations constitute a powerful way through which parents can encourage continuously the educational attainments of their adolescents in high school and beyond.
http://www.hfrp.org/publications-resources/browse-our-publications/adolescence-are-parents-relevant-to-students-high-school-achievement-and-post-secondary-attainment

Expectation still is the main driver in the fruition of a student’s academic performance. Parental expectation is the forerunner for a multitude of reasons. How are teachers to promote this environment in the home?

One idea being piloted in Washington, DC is cash for grades:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=104817411&ft=1&f=1013
Is this the incentive we want to promote - that all learning is the means to material success?

On a different note, it also begs the question, with standardized testing overwhelmingly sprawling through current curriculum. What type of expectations are we communicating to our students – and if we only expect them to perform in limited, linear thinking, what will educating children with this endnote produce? Which begs the question: What are we doing?

Educating in Education

2009-05-14T15:22:00.000-10:00

I was recently reading on Will Richardson’s Blog , where he posted a snippet from:

Deborah Meier on Bridging Differences :

As long as we use test scores as our primary evidence for being poorly educated we reinforce the connection—and the bad teaching to which it leads. If by some course of action we could get everyone’s score the same—even by cheating—I’d be for it, so we could get on to discussing the interactions that matter in classrooms and schools: between “I, Thou, and It.” I’ve spent 45 years trying, unsuccessfully, to shift the discussion to schools as sites for learning. Such a “conversation” might not produce economic miracles, but it would over time connect schooling to the kind of learning that can protect both democracy and our economy. Because that’s where schools are (or are not) powerful.

I was astounded. The acumen of the statement. I truthfully, would support allowing everyone to get the same scores, chopping my class sizes in half and finally getting down to business. I used to say, that if the general public understood what truthfully happened in the classroom we would have an immediate overhaul; a capitalistic system like our own would never tolerate such poor business planning. But then I look at, what poor business planning has received – billions upon billions – and my analogy falls flat. Even with weak analogies, the reality of a misconstrued understanding at the creation of a human mind, in a classroom is still unbelievably askew. Just ask the kids.

The kids offer a vast depth of information on how to educate them; sure you have to wade through their default complaining at the prospect of work, but ask a kid who has had a poor – or easy - teacher, if they enjoyed the boredom: children prefer to learn, and they know when they are not learning.

Unexpected Stars

2009-04-26T14:04:00.000-10:00

Education is undoubtedly changing: the texts we read, the assignments we assign, the demands of the children, the demands of the parents and the ever changing societal landscape that calls forth new skills from these burgeoning citizens. Change is a constant - a simple known, but change can happen in mediums we may never have seen coming. These are the elements that prompt me to share this recent anecdote with you.

I had taught a child two years ago, after she and her family had had a disruptive experience with a fellow teacher. This teacher, whom I will call Mr. English, is beloved by many - if not all of his students as well as his peers. He is, in my mind, a compassionate and supremely intelligent individual. He was know - and revered - for his ability to prompt children to deconstruct whatever was in front of them - a media myth, a Greek tragedy, what have you. He was also know for showing his students the all too common preoccupation of English literature with the phallic symbol. With these components in mind, he taught Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle with Dr. Strangelove - to which this particular student felt uncomfortable. Saying that the content was irreverent and inappropriate. This student then went on to analyze the 1988 play Zooman which was apparently the last straw. The student was moved from an upper level class, into my classroom where she would finish out her year and return to a higher level class for the next academic year. All of this background to say that I had a precarious situation on my hands. I taught most of the same material as Mr. English, perhaps not in the same style as each person presents their own flare - but nevertheless I had never objected to anything that Mr. English taught, in fact I looked up to him, so I was not sure what this new arrangement would bring.

Suffice it to say the the year with this student went exceptionally well. I steered clear of an direct reference to why she was in the class, held her to the same, perhaps a little higher in certain departments to ensure her growth, expectations and the year ended, not with a bang but a whimper.

Fast forward two years, the previous student's brother lands in my honors freshman class. He is delightful and witty, just like his sibling and perhaps it is just the altered circumstance, but he is a bit more outgoing than his sister. The year continues all is well. This past month I decided to teach Zooman, the play that caused the outcry previously with Mr. English. I decided that the conversation around the play was worth having and we would continue onward; I did, unlike Mr. English, send a letter home stating my case.

It is an interesting argument, the asking for permission, the inclusion of the parent in the classroom. On the surface it appears a no-brainer. But every teacher knows that there are more intricacies there. For one, there is the organic discussion that is timely and appropriate for the students to interogate, but perhaps the topic becomes more mature than you intended? Or perhaps it is a topic that is seen from a widely varying perspective based on culture or creed? These are issues for the novice teacher, especially, but the seasoned teacher as well can always learn from the delicacies and the lastest horizon of such issues. All this being said, the letter from the aforementioned family came back signed, and I was good to go.

Two days after I started the play, I was sitting down to eat my moderately interesting lunch of homemade macaroni, when the school phone rings. I walk over, interupting my conversation with the other teachers that used my room as a safe haven from the drab skepticism of the teacher's lunchroom, and answered the phone. It was the school secretary, informing me that the mother of the aforementioned family was standing in the office wanting to know if I was free to talk.
Crash. There it was.
I stalled and stammered; it was my lunch, my one respite from all things negative or taxing for the day, but I was never a good liar and quite frankly, I didn't see the point. I now knew a conversation was to be had, so I might as well have it now.
I swallowed my macaroni and headed down the hallway. Grumbling across the linoleum. Why had I chosen this play? Was it even going to be worth it in the long run? Why? Why? Why!

By this point, I just crossed in front of the nurse's office, three-quarters of the way to the office and I decided to change my tune. This woman had a right to voice her opinion. I had the right to my decisions, and I decided, right then and there, that this would be a productive meeting - a fine meeting - no matter what happened. I walked into the office, up to Mrs. _____ and provided a genuine smile. Truly.

What transpired next, I never saw coming. This woman had come to school, to thank me. She wanted to thank me for taking in her first child. She wanted to thank me for reaching out with her second child and making her feel, "Included in (his) education. Your letter let me feel a part in my child's classroom and helped me to understand your motives and trust that the proper care was given."

I was floored, as this woman continued to talk I was reminded that even in the predictable unpredictability of teaching, there is still room for the unexpected. As I tuned back in, I realized that tears were welling in her eyes as she recounted her incident with Mr. English and that she "didn't regret her decision, but the fallout was regrettable and not at all what [she had planned]." She then opened up a bag and brought out two books; I am pretty sure that this point my jaw was literally on the floor. She wanted to "give these to [me] -- just - just as a thank you." And atonement - was what I saw in her eyes. Gratitude for me, which I was humbled by, and forgiveness for her from the notorious uprising of a few years ago.

In that moment, I learned many things. I learned to set your expectations for the best outcome and trust that they will happen - perhaps there won't always be gifted books, and some of the gifts may look like problems, but it is your choice to see them as gifts. As an educator, I was reminded (even though it is truly something that I try to remind myself of) that the beings that fill my classroom chairs are special star creations in their own right; the very best of their parents formed and betrothed to my ramblings and my curriculum choices- my instruction both planned and tacit. I will never forget the preciousness of this woman's generosity or take for granted her trust.

All work and no play....

2009-03-29T06:39:00.000-10:00

I found the following link on NPR and was jutted into the cross-current of two emotional streams: first, gratitude that these children were surrounded by adults that actually wanted to teach and shape these young minds; second, incredulity that humanity has strayed so far away from commonsense and the simple roots of being human that we need to be reminded that kids need to play.

It is astounding to me that commonsense has fled the scene of the classroom. Parents, guardians, grandparents, perplexed business owners, and every day civilians are flabbergasted at "these kids today," but how much do they truly know? Very few people understand what the educational and social landscape is like for these kids. This is but one slice of what is missing, and thankfully being reinstituted in this California school, from the lives of children.

Oakland Group Seeks More Play In School Day

by Sarah Varney

Listen Now [4 min 4 sec] add to playlist

All Things Considered, March 19, 2009 · Shrinking budgets and strict academic mandates prompted California schools to cut gym classes and cut back on recess time. Now, an Oakland-based nonprofit is trying to put more focus on fitness.

M is for Meditation

2009-02-09T14:06:00.001-10:00

Classrooms adding 'M' for meditation - Sacramento News - Local and Breaking Sacramento News | Sacramento Bee

Posted using ShareThis

Create

2009-01-25T06:56:00.000-10:00

"You can predict what
will happen, or create
what you want."
----Cesar Milan

2008-11-08T09:59:00.000-10:00

Preventing
Results
On
Creative
Remedies
As
Soon as I
Think
I
Need
Another
Thing to do.
I am
Over this
Nagging lack mentality.

Photo: K Brenton Sedona, AZ

2008-11-06T14:16:00.000-10:00

Hope Is A Thing With Feathers -- Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Congratulations Mr. President, Barack Obama.
Lead this country whole.

2008-10-25T07:15:00.000-10:00

Welcome. Namaste. This blog's birth has been the longest gestation, ever. I believe this life is education, in multitudinous forms, for evolution into the highest form of our Self, whatever that means. The definition of which is as numerous as the people, the grains of sand, and the flap of bird wings on this planet. It is these observations and moments that I intend to share here.

One of my roles, this moment, is to teach high school students, which offers an easy starting point. Here is my philosophy (a recycling of an education essay) on teaching:

The most important qualities of an outstanding educator may slip through the confines of a one-dimensional resume; they become clouded and weightless when reduced to mere adjectives. If I had a thesaurus I would scatter words like eleemosynary, scintillating, and implacable across the page to create a colorful web of teaching strengths; instead, I will relegate myself to the simplicity of three words, compassion, thoroughness and persistence, to paint the perfect teacher.
To have compassion does not mean to merely feel sorry for someone. In fact the crux of compassion is the desire to alleviate the suffering, or the burden from someone; to be so sensitized that one’s focus shifts from the pain to the removal of pain. In terms of teaching, an outstanding teacher does not confine her attention to the student’s deficiency, but rather to the removal of it. It is through this filter that a teacher diagnoses, addresses and strives to correct the weakness or to remove the insecurity from her students. A compassionate teacher accepts the whole child, socially, emotionally, and intellectually, as part of her charge. She does not shrink from the responsibility, nor does she assume the burden; rather she guides the child through, instilling confidence and strength along the way. A compassionate teacher sees the potential in front of her and commits to its fulfillment.
It is not enough, however, to be compassionate; a teacher must also be thorough. Thorough? Yes, thorough. In today’s classrooms there is a plethora of learning styles and disabilities, a brigade of standardized tests, and more pairs of eyes and ears filling desks than there has ever been before. In order to balance IEPs, PSSAs, SATs, ADD/ADHD, creative writing, divorces, school newspaper, make-up tests, gerunds, analytical writing, student enjoyment and proficiency, a teacher must know where her ship and all her passengers are headed, at all times. She must be thorough in the execution of her lessons, her feedback, her follow up, her paperwork and her support of her students. It is not enough to enjoy teaching; one must also be effective at it.
One last critical component of an exemplary teacher appears when all else fails: persistence. The truth in “try, try, trying again” is grounded in teaching. A teacher may be empathetic and have all of her “i’s” and “t’s” appropriately aligned, but if her students are not picking up what she is putting down, it does not make a difference. Persistence wears many hats in the educational world. Creativity lies in persistence; determination and integrity make their home there too. Persistence is what makes a good teacher great; it is what lingers long after the lesson has faded.
To the naked eye, a teacher is but three adjectives. She is compassionate. She is thorough. She is persistent. But to the students whom she helps, words do not suffice.