Energize Your Actions Toward Wholeness

Create. Develop solutions. Make plans that offer concrete alternatives to those you disagree with. Seek cooperation and energize your actions toward unity. 

It’s okay to feel sad, disappointed, angry. Of course it is. Each of us has a personal lens through which we experience and view life. The pendulum swings, the ocean ebbs and flows - trite yet accurate metaphors. (I’ve written a few posts before on POLITICS so will try not to repeat myself.) Develop goals to care for and help those in need, and the best place to start is in your own local area.

Yet it is also true that when we focus on negativity and fear, demonizing others or referring to them as evil, that feeds the morphic fields that vibrate with those energies. 

Study history or simply live long enough, and most of us can reflect upon our human past as constantly shifting. Sometimes what occurred, we vehemently disagree with. And with the path, group, or party we chose. That’s normal. 

What I see, though, is how responding in the moments of despair and putting that negativity on public platforms, deranges one’s self as well as others. Feel the feelings. Absolutely. But is there an actual need to vomit those feelings all over social media without having even processed them? Without having found your own path through them so that you can continue forward with strength? Without showing others how you are rising above your fears? Without providing constructive criticism and potential concrete solutions? Probably not. Our culture has promoted public proclamations that encourage ‘misery loves company’ — a tendency that ratchets up all our negative feelings and actively builds division. 

We need to focus on what we are feeling and then be honest: are we actually, tangibly being affected right now or is it manifesting as constant fear of what might happen? Most of the time, it’s the latter. Or we are projecting our fears onto others and envisioning what might happen to them. I saw a brilliant meme/post last year with this common sense advice: make a list of all that you’re afraid of, then get on with your life, periodically checking to see what, if any, of your fears actually manifest in a concrete way that is harmful to you. If something does manifest around you, work to change it or leave — choice. Is it easy? No. Can it be done? Yes, although sometimes it does involve planning and time to implement. Activism has always been honored as a part of American freedom, but to be worth the time and effort involved, its best results arise when we have a concrete plan to implement that is legal and ultimately unifying. Ranting and raving along with destructive actions is divisive.

I’m dismayed when I see ‘influencers’ on social media, especially those who profess to be spiritual or enlightened or simply see themselves as kindhearted caregivers or healers, spreading fear, usually based upon their own past experiences and then projecting them into the future and onto people they see as evil, just because those people take a different view and approach to life. 

In our country of the United States of America, we are gifted with a vast land of opportunities and possibilities — for everyone, if people would focus on actually living their best life — this means act in every moment to build the life you want in the location you want. 

Stop making enemies by trying to mandate/force others to acknowledge who you see yourself as; that only matters to your inner world. Stop trying to coerce/force others to believe as you do; part of freedom of speech and freedom of religion is in NOT forcing others to believe as you do. As long as no physical harms are done, which are already illegal actions and need no further clarifications. The majority of people are more concerned with living their best lives. 

If you feel scared to be yourself — move somewhere else when you become an adult. We have fifty states we can choose to live in, every single one of them different in a multitude of ways. I did that myself; as a young adult, I sought out locations where I felt safe and at home there, pulling up and moving on if it didn’t work out the way I’d hoped. Was it hard? Absolutely. Did I learn a ton? For sure.

Stop blaming other people or being frightened of them just because they disagree or don’t see you the way you demand that they do. Just be you. Being disliked or disapproved of isn’t violence; only children or immature adults fall into that trap. Force, coercion, and mandating acceptance of differences nearly always backfires.

We don’t live in a utopia; we humans are a deeply flawed species while also containing amazing qualities. So keep choosing a path toward your best life, be the example, and that will filter into inspiration for others. Being all ‘doom and gloom’ lacks vision as well as inspiration and drags everyone else down unless you can also reveal options of encouragement.

The best way to change our world remains the oldest and simplest: walk your talk and be the change you want to see.

I end as I began this essay …

Be creative. Develop solutions. Make plans that offer concrete alternatives to those you disagree with. Seek cooperation and energies of unity. Express compassion and peace.

Flying High

Today, I hit that place within creative writing where my excitement for the story suddenly skyrockets. This inner high comes and goes throughout the process for every WIP (work-in-progress), so when the sensation of flying lifts me up, I just enjoy the ebullience.

As backstory, while Book One in my Chantilly Lace series is heading out to some friends for final read-through and editing (the novel will be available for purchase by Christmas), I'm deep in research mode on Book Two: taking notes, sketching outlines, listening for the voices of characters, watching for settings to reveal themselves.

During the writing and research journey, sometimes I fall completely into a scene and quick-as-a-wink I've written a couple thousand words. At other times, full scene visualizations go dormant, but that doesn't mean I'm not buried in the imaginary world I've created. It can feel like puzzle pieces spread in front of me and I know they all fit together even if it takes a while to put them all together. And then - woosh! Creative moments strike without warning - my breath catches, my heart pounds, and I feel like I'm vibrating from the inside out! Today held one of those precious soaring moments!

Write On!

Equinox Creativity

Today I am celebrating the Autumn Equinox by being creative in a different way than I usually do - I'm drawing and doodling. Hubby got me a new kit of pens, pencils, and pastels, and encouraged me to take a break from my writing (I sent off my Family History Book to the printer last night- YAY). So I did.

This was the perfect time for bringing some balance into my days. I've been caught up in writing for months now, pushing myself, especially these final two weeks, to complete the Family History book project. Time to bring in creativity from another part of my being.

Give it a try!

On Not Knowing

I follow the moving and evocative Brain Pickings, and today's post is one I am compelled to share. Both the reflection on Inspiration, and the reference to how damaging Certainty can be, spoke to me in Maria Popova's How Our Certitudes Keep Us Small and the Generative Power of Not Knowing, using Polish Poet and Nobel Laureate Wislawa Szymborska's words as a doorway. Beautiful!

Meanwhile, back at the homestead, hubby and I spent the weekend outdoors cleaning away massive amounts of dead leaves and tidying up the neglected beds with an eye toward where to settle new plants in a couple weeks. Because our house is on a steep, rocky hillside, and surrounded by wild, tangly woods -- which I do totally love; once the trees leaf out, three sides of the house are snuggled in a green nest -- our challenge is to find resilient, hardy plants that thrive on limited sunshine.

At the end of an earlier post HERE, I had included photos from the back deck, that were from August and January. Below is one from this past weekend (taken from same spot); I delight in how our view continues to change through the seasons in our new home. While the trees are still bare from winter's hibernation, the fields across the bottoms have become verdant and magnificent, rather than brown.

April 2017

Puzzle Pieces

The puzzle of morning is which piece to start with … 

the frame is so far away that we can’t see it, 

like looking across the vast desert 

and wondering if that is a mirage or a real oasis …

The puzzle of morning is which gorgeous piece to start with. They are all right choices, one cannot go wrong, but some will make a smooth flow while others leave greater confusion for a while. And I like how routine — or sacred ritual — or both — provides a template through the scattered pieces on the table.

The puzzle is begun. Do I want to continue working around the edges or take a chance and create a larger section of detached pieces who create their own whole but sit in the middle or to the side without physically touching the frame? The center morphs and grows, expanding. I know it will touch the frame at some point, and the image is already complete in vibration, on an invisible plane it is whole, but for now I choose the pieces, put one down because it doesn’t quite fit, it doesn’t go “here” but it will fit later — all the pieces will make sense when the puzzle is put back together just as it was originally dreamed into being. 

Meanwhile, enjoy the mystery, the journey, the process of knowing each part of one’s self and all those connections that reassure as well as surprise. 

I can’t remember what it was like not to be writing, not to be working on a creative writing project. I know I spent decades with zero creativity of story or thought — except in sporadic diary entries. Those “Dear Diary” entries that helped me tell “someone” what I was feeling, but I didn’t go the next step into trying to understand on a deeper level what I was feeling or doing.  

That’s why I believe we need to be helping children learn how to process their experiences and themselves and others. Not because I am in a position to physically help kids — I’m not — but because we all have a child inside us who is still confused or wounded. It is that child I seek to connect with, to describe through creative writing that might illuminate a hidden treasure in the dark corner, to help find the pieces of our/their lives that are mishapen and seem not to fit into any larger framework at all. The frame is so far away that we/they can’t see it: it’s like looking across the vast desert and wondering if that is a mirage or a real oasis, a mountain to climb or an illusion in the mind. 

But I am realizing now how one piece of my life fit into another, how saving a creature’s life ended up saving my own, how change created opportunity. And if I can see the connections, so can others. Pieces of the universal puzzle. Putting it all together for healing our planet.

born in fields of uncertainty

"Words have a weight to them. How you choose to present them and to whom is a matter of style and choice."

" … I believe my own voice continues to be found wherever I am being present and responding from my heart, moment by moment. My voice is born repeatedly in the fields of uncertainty."

"Earth. Mother. Goddess. In every culture the voice of the Feminine emerges from the land itself. We clothe her as Eve or Isis or Demeter. In the desert, she appears as Changing Woman." 

~ Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-Four Variations on Voice

There is so much I'd like to say about this woman, this author. She holds me breathless ... traversing her stories, treasuring the exquisite expressions felt through her words. When Women Were Birds picks up the story of Terry's mother's journals … the journals I first learned of while reading Refuge.

"A story grows from the inside our … if I begin traveling with an awareness of my own ignorance, trusting my instincts, I can look for my own stories embedded in the landscapes I travel through."

"A story allows us to envision the possibility of things. It draws on the powers of memory and imagination. It awakens us to our surroundings."

"Story is a sacred visualization, a way of echoing experience. There are lessons along the way." 

~ Terry Tempest Williams, Pieces of White Shell

In all of the author's books, Terry's voice is strong and clear, and yet each book is a distinct image. I admire her ability to hold her voice, soft or crisp, no matter the topic. And she is able to balance her story within the context of the alternating story of place, something I aspire to do in a few of my WIPs.

I'm grateful to have come across this author; she is inspirational on many levels.

Fragility in Writing

A quick note of support for other writers …

When I am feeling particularly fragile in my writing, there are two audio programs I often turn to for support, neither of which focuses upon technique. I've listened to both of these many times and in each experience I discover some new and inspiring aspect. Because these programs are and have been encouraging to me, I share them here for anyone else who may be feeling a bit vulnerable. I highly recommend both of these!

The first is Thomas Moore on Writing. 
I had never heard of him or read any of his books until I found this audio and I just love it … I resonate with his sacred approach to and connection with writing because he is not only appreciating the sacred nature of creativity but is held in the grace of the sacredness of writing and words themselves, the soul-filled type of writing wherein the writing is soul and not only coming from soul’s creativity.

The second is The Writing Life, a dialogue between Julia Cameron and Natalie Goldberg.
I had already read part of Cameron's The Artist's Way (and have benefitted enormously from utilizing her process of "morning pages") and Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones and Thunder & Lightening before listening to this audio conversation between the authors. Every time I listen, I am captivated by how the diversity of these two women writers fuels their respect for one another and honors the uniqueness of every writer's journey.

The Magic of Creativity

I enjoy finding those authors and artists who approach creativity with a sense of joy instead of struggle, with an overall feeling of magic rather than drudgery. Yes, there may be -- and probably are -- moments of frustration and challenge in the writing process, but I have no interest in spending the majority of my creative time caught up in angst and despair (it is enough for me that pivotal points in my life dwelt within that conflicted space and led me into healing through creativity).

Over the past several years, I have been tickled to hear various creative types speak to this joy in creation (Thomas Moore, Julia Cameron). Most recently, Elizabeth Gilbert talks about what she refers to as Mystery and Big Magic in her conversation with Tami Simon (Sounds True):

“ … to think of my creative life as a collaboration between one human’s efforts—and that would be me—and the divine Mystery of inspiration. … I’ve spent my work days in collaboration with that Mystery. I can’t think of a more beautiful way to spend my life—sort of talking to it, asking questions of it, cooperating with it. [I sit] down to work every day with the commitment that I will not wrestle it or fight it or abuse myself against it. But I will ask it every day what it wants from me and try to work with it as respectfully and reverently as I can. It leads to a really joyful kind of creation.” 

I held off reading Gilbert's Eat Pray Love until much of the hype had died down, and was, I confess, a bit disappointed in it. Probably as a direct result of all the hype. So, when I saw that Gilbert had released her new novel The Signature of All Things, I decided to get it sooner rather than later so I could make up my mind about it without the influence of reviews. I'm glad I did. I found it an odd blend of lovely style, strange characters, and unique story; I didn't particularly like the protagonist and yet at the same time, I was compelled to finish the story at a rapid pace. I felt that Gilbert was able to immerse herself in a freedom of creativity and choice in this story, and, to a large extent, I was carried along in that wake. Perhaps because she had already achieved "success" and could write the story exactly the way she felt it coming through her?

Whatever her personal path to writing and publishing Signature, I am inspired by many of Gilbert's comments throughout the interview (which, with Tami, is usually more of a conversation than a traditional Q&A session).

Let's celebrate the joy and magic of creativity!

Vines

A story ...


Vines winding their way up along the edge, 
rounding a corner and spreading their leaves 
until the front wall is splendid in dark green 
that makes love to the ancient stone.
The peace of movement and stillness, 
the joy of how opposites attract.


Once upon a time, 
the old castle facade was barren, 
constantly stripped of the yearning tendrils that 
sought to climb his walls and were instead 
kept to the base to gaze up in wonder 
at the hard surface, 
the multi-sized rocks placed one upon the other 
lending themselves to the protection of the fearful 
against marauding bands of humans 
bent on power and destruction. 
And when the people were done with their 
wars and desires for possession, 
the vines joyfully sought the cool stone edifice 
like a quilt finally able to 
cover and comfort and heal. 

Now, the vines paint their way upon the surface, 
scrolls of unwritten words 
yet the meaning of life is clear 
in the verdant swirls and sassy curls 
with slim fingers beckoning "here, this way." 
Tangle and twirl, 
a net of interwoven wonder that becomes a blanket of love.




A winsome feather drifts down from the blue 
and a tendril reaches out with tentative bend 
to grasp the softness, 
bringing it into the nook 
where the light bone and delicate quills 
decorate the vine 
with a touch of the flight of distant visions 
of peace upon the world. 
The ivory bit of wing 
a stark contrast among the green, 
singing still the song of the dove.


Days pass and all is quiescent 
until a gentle breeze carries 
a puff of milkweed's downy breath with seeds clinging, 
floating up and bobbing like it cannot make up its mind where to go. 
Another supple green finger beckons 
and the puff investigates, 
tossed nearer by a laughing sylph, 
and sighs in relief as it settles 
into a home among the vines 
that climb the sturdy walls 
of the abandoned abode 
of those who used to be 
but are no more confined 
by the walls they once hid behind 
in fear. 
The milkweed puff expands its chest in breathless delight 
and creates a vision of loveliness, 
for within a crack of the wall was soil built up over time 
and nourished by the cycling of vines living and dying, 
and a single seed had stuck its head 
into the richness to sleep and then the vines spread 
ever so slight and opened a window of sunlight 
upon the tiny space wherein the seed burst open in joy, 
split its sides in laughter, 
and up rose the stalk of empowerment 
upon which the purple buds emerged 
and then popped open with a delightful aroma 
that called the winged whispers of 
sienna and ebony satin poets-in-flight 
to drink and expand ... 
reproducing the sunset glow of themselves into the leaves.


The vines welcomed the stranger 
who stayed in their midst, 
closing around it gently at night 
and opening again for morning light, 
with pride and devotion the vines caressed the cocoon, 
lullabies of the song from the immaculate plume nearby 
were carried into the sacred space of renewal and transformation. 
And when the time was 
... just so ... 
the vines provided a ledge upon which 
the newly created being could drop and dry 
and flutter away to spread the good news of life 
and love in a new day, a new world.


The milkweed's purpose complete, 
it sighed and fell into a deep sleep 
leaving its body safely withering into the 
faith of future generations 
for before it sighed, 
it too would provide 
a seed pod from the blossoming of renewal, 
an offering of self-less creation for those who may have need. 


In the distance, 
a lone dove, 
her purity a beacon, 
glided in close and 
paused upon the green finger 
offered in peace, 
and plucked some downy delight with seed attached 
into her beak, 
and, nodding in gratitude, 
flew into the orange half-globe of a new day.

The vines wriggled and giggled in glee, 
and the stone face cracked a smile in contentment,
creating a broad line 
and stretching the vines 
with encouragement toward growth and 
with deeply felt gratitude for communion.
____________
As I settled to write this morning, I paused as usual, closing my eyes for a moment, and the first thing I saw as I opened my eyes was the design painted upon the cabinet across from my chair. From those images emerged the above story. What fun! I love how unexpected story flows from an image we've seen a thousand times.

thoughts of a novice novelist

     Calling in the recruits (inviting the muse, asking the guides, etc.) to assist in the new imaginary world, my thoughts turn to story and worlds created in mind and emotion, blending the pros and cons, making choices.
     I might want to have this perfect eden -- a utopia. It's how it began. And yet, I am not ready to live in that world and neither are other readers. We are still learning how to Be -- be present, and content, compassionate and wise.
     Instead, the world I create is a microcosm of that which I am still working on within myself, the aspects that resonate with me and the situations that challenge or scare me or make me feel unable to cope in the world.
     The protagonist is on her own journey -- some of what she experiences I have been through and have become perhaps a little wiser, and others I am still experiencing. And I'm sure many lessons await me just around the bend. And that is okay. Even novel writing is cathartic -- maybe more than journaling in some ways because I move the characters through all the scenarios unfamiliar to me as well as those known! And that's exciting and fun but also a challenge just as the real world would be. Except that in my written stories I have the time and space to pause, think about the different responses available and play them out a ways instead of reacting quickly in one direction with no way back. Perhaps if I can embrace this perspective more fully, I will be able more easily to let go of a scene or passage and try a different direction or response. I can always return to my original scene if I find that it remains the truest to character and plot and theme.
     I continue growing into all the components of writing, learning not to fear changing a scene or adding something new. To recognize myself as the author of the story and not the reader. This is a shift that becomes more apparent the longer I continue writing. To realize that what emerges initially as the story can be changed. Repeatedly, if necessary. To realize that as the author I am not locked into one path for the story or even one footstep. All is open. I could potentially change one thing, everything, or nothing!
     It's that simple and that complex because I feel this obligation of sorts to remain true to what came out originally. To love it as it is.
     Where is that loyalty coming from? Fear? Stubbornness? A rigidity of form that resists change? Do I feel it is control or a lack of control to venture away from the birth of the idea and storyline? To add and remove? Or do I simply feel I can trust what emerges initially more than I can what my mind tells me to do later to change or disguise the original story? The past nearly two decades of my fifty years have been a huge learning curve to trust intuition rather than negate it; is that influencing my resistance to changing my 'baby' story into something that I 'think' is better or more appealing? How to wed the revisions to both imagination and intellect, to create a hand-fasting that binds intuition with craft yet leaves both free to give and receive?
     Writing is a journey of Self, whether fiction or non, and I am enjoying the process, the opening, the melding of worlds and psyche, of lives unreal and real experiences. None of the people who populate my imaginary world are insignificant, they are all vital, and I feel myself opening further to that same realization in 'real' life, too, on deeper/higher levels. Everyone is key and all parts are vital. Setting is as important as character, for it becomes a character in its on right. Or at least it does in what I am writing and in how I live. No separation.
     I feel everything that happens, not just in my mind but in my body, because I have to feel what they feel or this entire thing becomes just letters on a page with no heart or purpose and no rhythm. I hear their song, the melody of the story . . . sometimes only faintly in the background but there . . . and how well I write, how true I am to listening determines to some extent whether someone else reading it also hears the entire orchestra and not only the string section.
_______________________

The first thing I read later in the day, after writing the above stream-of-consciousness piece, was:

"The idea running through these lectures is by now plain enough: that there are in the novel two forces: human beings and a bundle of various things not human beings, and that it is the novelist's business to adjust these two forces and conciliate their claims. That is plain enough, but does it run through the novel too? Perhaps our subject . . .  has stolen away from us while we theorize, like a shadow from an ascending bird. The bird is all right--it climbs, it is consistent and eminent. The shadow is all right--it has flickered across roads and gardens. But the two things resemble one another less and less, they do not touch as they did when the bird rested its toes on the ground."

(E.M. Forster's "Aspects of the Novel" - emphasis mine)

This "ascending bird" is a good touchstone for me, something to return to when I become lost in a single aspect of writing, or become confused in contemplating the minutia of the journey. Whenever I feel myself flying further apart from the core of the story, I shall land and reconnect with the whole--the big picture.

Spiral Woman

A woman stands in a field, and then spins, twirling, not knowing which direction to go or even to look toward . . . arms flung wide, spinning, so many options and she can't stop spinning, becoming dizzy until she drops, resting at last among the field of flowers that cover all the graves of other women who didn't know where to go or who to turn to, not realizing that they only had to look within to find the stillness and a pure guide that would point the direction of life that would be strong and full.


A woman stands in a field, the plow sturdy beneath roughened palms, the rows behind her circle gently into a spiral, and the horse before her calls out, tossing its head full of mane and spirit, inviting her to pause in her work. The woman steps away from the tool, releases the harness, and, grasping a handful of coarse hair, flings herself high onto the back of the horse and they are off, galloping across the field, into the woods, up the mountain . . . they lean forward together, one Being, as legs tighten around a full chest breathing powerfully and four legs run uphill, muscles bunching and releasing, incredible endurance even after a day of plowing the field; once freed, the horse knows only the pure joy of running, and they breathe as One, nearing the top, and then they pause, chests heaving, nostrils flaring. Together they see all directions from the peak -- past, present, and future. And peace descends like a soft mist enveloping them in its cool embrace, pleasantly blinding them to all but the present moment. Breathing returns to normal as they stand as One, heads bowed in Grace.


A woman stands in a field, lost, slumping . . . she looks up and sees a vision upon the mountain, she sees a Being of Beauty: horse and woman as one. She sees freedom and power, grace and strength to move forward without knowing the destination because she will be safe and guided once she accepts and welcomes her own wisdom. She keeps her eyes on the woman-horse, and lifts a foot -- for a moment the golden shackle is heavy, but she continues lifting her foot, and believing, and all resistance dissolves as the shackle's lock falls apart and the gold breaks into a thousand pieces that begin glowing and rise into the sky like sparks from a campfire chasing each other across the field. And the woman walks, first slowly, then with more confidence, across the the field that held her sweetly grounded, but knowing now was her time to fly and, eyes upon the horse-woman, she transforms into an owl, a tiny Elf Owl who will fly both day and night, witness to all that is in the world, until she creates her own nest among the saguaro forest.

Elf Owl at AZ-Sonora Desert Museum

A woman stands in a field, then is spinning in joy, knowing she can pause any time to run or soar or fall back among the daisies waving happily all around her in encouragement and support. No more sad waiting or spinning without direction. Gallop or soar into the world of imagination and do it now!

____________
The above stream-of-consciousness piece came out of the ClarityWorks prompt "a woman stands in a field" but was clearly influenced by an image of a horse I saw this morning on fb, as well as the Elf Owl I saw Wednesday at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. Ron and I had both agreed that the Elf Owl won the "cutest critter of the day" award; some amazing photos of the Elf Owl are HERE.

A week ago, before the rains came, Ron helped a pigeon in the park quench his thirst and cool his head! See the short video below.

A Song in My Heart and A Voice in My Ear

SoulCards(c) Deborah Koff-Chapin

Listen to the harmony within the sacred sounds of Her universe! 
I hear a symphony that is the inspiration of all creation! 
I sit and listen and learn to play my instrument--this wonderful body and life. With each note, I re-member, and the melody courses through the earth and up to the sky reverberating in the ether. I know this song of love and faith! Isn't it beautiful?! 


I sit in Her chamber and allow Her guidance to resonate within before it flows out of me into the world in the life I create and recreate. I sing the world alive with my joy and sing it to sleep with my love. In moments of silence, I hear the orchestrations of the angels as dimensions beyond my knowing vibrate to the drums of the cosmos. Her incredibly beautiful voice fills my head without passage through my ears, for I suddenly realize that I don't need the body to hear the mysteries of the universe; the body is an intricate instrument of teaching and exploration.


Creation...harmony...song...vibrations...sound...voices...!


Angelic teacher with humble student as they create a world, swirling energies like conjoined spirals of conch shells or the delicate bones of the ear--the chambers where transformation occurs...


We sit within the hollow chambers, the pink interior smooth from the lovely tan sand that even now rests in nooks and crannies, its abrasive nature calm. Whispers of Her echo the turning of the tides of time as I pause to listen, feel, absorb the messages of She Who Creates. I can choose to listen without participation or I can choose to take charge of my own creative development and accept Her guidance. She shows all of Her own creations in their infinite diversity and I am inspired for no two are the same--ever. The beauty of creation is harbored within each unique expression that mirrors a facet of the One. And so I create, joy shining through even in the darkest moments or images simply because I now realize that every creation has an inherent vibrant spark of the Divine cherished within its design. The sacredness of expression of Spirit. 


Listen...the symphony of life is playing! Her voice is singing!
Sit within the Divine Chamber of Gaia...listen...create!


___________________
And this joyous message would not feel complete without sharing one of my all-time favorite songs -- Lisa of CelticWoman singing The Voice (and a delightful video). I wrote about this song in a previous blog that also contains the lyrics and their source.

Oh, and it just wouldn't be right not to share some of Her creations with you...

Phoenix, Pooka, Guinevere, Morgana

Tiny Beings Who Dwell Within

I cradle within new life and light, and the will to bring gifts of realization into the world. My soul glows and warms the seeds of all creativity and inspiration. All the stories are sheltered here, they perform their own metamorphoses, as they grow into thought forms and then into words on a page.

See all the tiny beings and their dreams? They laugh and love and experience challenges, waiting to be born. These tiny beings work hard to capture my attention, to encourage me to see life in a new way; they explode firecrackers to atomic bombs, and share love as vast as the great plains once roamed by millions of magnificent beasts. They help me and guide me, these tiny beings, sharing their thoughts and ideas, and showing me that all ways of being are good and all paths lead eventually to the top of the mountain or to the edge of the sea. I birth feelings - what I feel or wish to feel or see others feeling. The tiny beings who dwell within build their invisible worlds and show me stories, they open my eyes and heart to all the lives I could live or have lived. I hold them near, for they are all of us experiencing this world.

Like fireflies, I see them flitting through channels of energy, feeling a spark here, another there, but they always return home to rest and recharge in my Center. I feel them in the static when I brush my hair, charged with power, wisdom and the strength of the Divine Feminine. The tiny beings that dwell within, lighting their hearth fires, keeping the love lights glowing in all seasons.

Are the stories within any less real simply because they have yet to breathe?

Are the stories and their beings less deserving simply because they are imaginary?

What is imagination anyway but the creation of life from nothing?

The stories are not new and neither are their beings. Cycles come and go, and the stories are our living of these cycle, within and without, but nothing is new really. Only our perception is new, fresh. Maybe I couldn't hear the message, their voices, Her voice, any other way. Maybe this story, this character, this experience, this tear or death or fear or breath, will be the spark that lights the fire that shifts just one person backward or forward into Harmony.

And so I hold the stories within as they grow until they are ready to be born...

___________

SoulCards® Deborah Koff-Chapin, Center for Touch Drawing

the enkindling fire

‎"It is important to keep our eyes open and to carefully weigh offers of an easier existence, a trouble-free path, especially if, in exchange, we are asked to surrender our personal creative joy to a cremating fire rather than enkindling one of our own making."

~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Women Who Run With the Wolves

Reborn

"From her very flesh and blood and from the constant cycles of filing and emptying the red vase in her belly, a woman understands physically, emotionally, and spiritually that zeniths fade and expire, and what is left is reborn in unexpected ways and by inspired means, only to fall back to nothing, and yet be reconceived again in full glory."

~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Ph.D., Women Who Run With the Wolves

I am particularly drawn to this imagery as a way of connecting with my creative Self. We are so hard on our own creations and creativity, aren't we?! Expecting constant manifestation in a form that is gloriously perfect! Yet, understanding natural flow is comforting and reassuring; to know, truly know, that waxing and waning is fine, that birth, death, rebirth are fine and simply express transformation, not an end. To realize that perfection is only perception related via comparison is freeing and transformative in itself!

Creativity

If you google or go to Wikipedia, you'll find all sorts of discussion on what defines "art" as well as the topic of creativity vs. art and whether they are synonymous. Is it simply that creativity comes from within and art is the result of that? Or have we made it more complex? Is what we create only art if others deem it so? My grandmother created beautiful embroidered tea-towels, but were they art? I treasure a quilt that she hand-made, tiny stitches, every piece sewn together with care, the work intricate - is that art? Because these items have a function, does that mean they are not art? And what of the so-called merit of a work of art? Our entire culture is obsessed with comparison and competition which permeates our appreciation of the products of an individual's creativity. Because most people dislike or disapprove of the end result, does that make it not a work of art? Or is all of it art and society simply categorizes it and evaluates it based upon perceived levels of quality?

Things that make you go ... hmmmm ...