unwrapped

A present unwrapped*; such is the morning, waiting with infinite possibilities.
Pause and feel the stillness of Her unwrapped moment, the fullness of discovery, see the gift before us.
How is it wrapped?
With bright colors or pastels in muted shades of sage and dusty rose, or with ribbons of light, thin and curly or broad and substantial. 
The unwrapped gift of the moment offers itself to be whatever we need: a hand to hold, a bird on wing, the eyes of devotion, the simple wiggle of a toe, or blink of an eyelid that protects yet reveals.
All before us is laid out in a patchwork quilt of unwrapped moments. 
We are the ones who choose the packaging. 
We are given the grace of opening into the space wherein the gift lays waiting. 
All we have to do is reach out and pull the tied ribbon, release the moment so beautifully wrapped in wisdom and love.
But what about the dark package, the box sitting to the side in shadow, a haze drifting about it like smog?
Maybe we can barely see it out of the corner of our eye, abandoned or neglected or purposely ignored until the ebony ribbon is a little frayed and the wrap is dusty and dull. 
Maybe it was a beautiful moment when first revealed but we were distracted and didn't see it, too busy to slow down, stop, admire the gift and unwrap it to reveal the most wondrous of all gifts nestled softly within?
Maybe it was a frightening moment, paper all lumpy and crinkled, tattered corners and coarse twine barely holding it together beneath the thick dust?
Unwrapped...
Asleep within, as the light infuses the box, a tiny sprite, barely visible until we look closely, stretches, yawns and then, upon the joy of our smile, it flutters up to whisper a secret into our ear. 
What is it? What is the gift of that moment that lay unwrapped for so very long?
The dust from the wrap is carried quickly away by the cleansing winds of change and the ribbon heals itself, weaving its frayed ends back together with silk threads of loving recognition that slide easily with a gentle touch.
And we find that this moment is exquisite--how could we have overlooked it for so long?
Just imagine all the other unwrapped gifts that might be lying around waiting, those precious moments now revealed in all their splendor when we pause long enough to recognize them and unwrap their mysteries.
Some large, some small. Some take place in a second, others were hovering nearby for hours or days just waiting for us to return to them. 
Yes, a moment is only here and now but the gifts of memory and imagination allow us to revisit the treasures we might have lost forever. Isn't that marvelous? 
So once in a while, pause and go on a treasure hunt, explore the inner world of Self and Soul, a landscape rich in possibility, to uncover, discover, and unwrap those moments too long set aside. 
Blow off the dust, pull the faded tape, tug at the delicate ribbon nearly falling apart, and unwrap that gift--the gift of Life. 
Every moment a treasure. 
And then, just maybe, they will no longer be missed in the full gift of Presence--presents right now. 
Each one will be seen, known, and unwrapped while fresh and new and full of Infinite Love, full of Grace, full of growth even in the darkest hour, because maybe their wrap is a little dark and black ribbon a bit intimidating but there is always Light within...

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* "unwrapped" was an emailed daily writing prompt through ClarityWorks online.

Essence of the Experience

Essence of the experience rather than specifics.


That thought came to me while I was contemplating writing character bios and scenes for my novel. I was thinking about how it is an effort for me to focus upon the specifics of what's happening around me--from conversation to appearance to action--and I realized that I seem to absorb the essence of the experience rather than the specifics, or at least in recall mode that is what happens. And it may account for my poor memory of past events and people in my personal life, too, because unless something is to trigger the sense or es-sense of the detail of whatever it happens to be, my recall can be anywhere from hazy to non-existent. My mother despairs of me because she easily and accurately recalls enormous amounts of detail from over the course of seven decades!

For writing novels, it is repeated, in nearly all of the instructional books I've read, that one needs to be a good observer of the details of speech and action and all the other facets of real life. I am willing to exert myself in this if it means a more realistic presentation of the story that allows the reader to be drawn in, in fact, encourages it. But also what about imagination? If one can imagine the story can we not imagine the entire manuscript to create from essence rather than specifics? I wonder. I have to since I am currently deficient in specifics!

But if I am to also encourage recall and therefore allow transference of details, then I need to focus. Maybe these can be 'dates' with myself, with my memory tissues, to set into prints upon my mind the sights and sounds of experiences? To sit quietly for a while along a street or sidewalk or inside a mall or museum, and listen...watch... I find when I am participating in the experience actively it is quite difficult to recall specifics, partly because of the speed at which life moves these days--fast talk, quick movements. Even slower movements are without pause, without stillness to take in the segments and photograph them into mind, and so are still challenging.

It's like when life becomes too hectic, I withdraw my senses back into my self, including memory, and life bounces off like a ball against a wall. An invisible wall that moves along with me, bending and reshaping itself to the outer edges of the me that is form. So all I receive is the essence of what is happening around me. Did I erect this wall? Or is it simply part of who I am? I know the scattered thoughts of my own busy mind and when I feel additional scurrying of the outside stimulus become too much, up comes the bubble wrap like a Star Trek captain, somewhere inside comes the directive "raise shields!"

When I sit down to write, I feel a scene arise more than see the specifics, and then I find I dig up the remnants like I am on an archeological journey of discovery, finding bits and pieces fitting them together like a puzzle. A fragment from childhood here, a shard from a first relationship there. It seems that there is plenty there to recover, but they don't arise easily on their own. I have to look for them. On hands and knees. Sometimes with a magnifying glass, nose in the dirt, and hope the bit isn't prickly...

They definitely aren't recalled like Mom's where she recalls stories instantly in all their former glory, darting back and forth, past to present and back again, all the names and faces and dates and experiences. Story is an integral part of her--she lives those events again in an instant, repeatedly, yet doesn't struggle to find them. For me, the past--last week or two decades ago--is gone and it is effort to recall it.The present moment has always been more here for me.

So where do they come together, the essence and the specifics of an experience, and how do they mesh. How do they affect the end result of a novel? Could this be an aspect that determines whether one person creates a 'realistic' version of a story? Is a 'literary' novel or a mostly narrative novel easier for an essence person to write as compared to so-called 'popular' fiction with all its dialogue? I enjoy reading all kinds, but what is mine to write?

This writing process is a journey, even aside from the story that is being written! LOL

Real or Illusion?

These past weeks, as I explore more of Arizona*, I fall into the impressions of those beings who have traveled before me; I sense the spirits of the native tribes, the pioneers, the average people, and the many wondrous creatures of the desert who experienced their passages.

Contrast the sensations of walking Tombstone  -- 

"A phantom bullet whizzed by my head and spectral puddles of blood blotched the desert skin like the pox as I trod the streets of Tombstone a century after its hey-day. Yet beneath the crass commercialism and tourist-trap stores, enhanced or at least invigorated somewhat by staged gunfights and corner pitchmen offering wagon rides with or without  spiels on the infamous of the town, I could sense the struggle, the haunting faces of the regular people who only desired to feed themselves or family and who tried to stay out of the way of the power struggles of wealthy, influential and often violent men of the times. This was a town once full of saloons, adventurers, and painted ladies, and their ghostly breaths scratch and drift like tumbleweeds across my aura, tingling." 

or strolling Old Tucson Studios

"Walk the sand that holds within its depths the footprints of entertainers, of actors who brought the stories to technicolor life. Walk down the streets, view the facades, touch the weathered wood and crumbling adobe that was once sensed by those familiar faces of old. Ghosts but not because they lived the stories--they didn’t bleed and love and suffer what I saw on the screen. Rather, they absorbed the essence of their characters, portrayed many lives, and now these buildings and creaking wooden sidewalks speak of how all life is tied together. How we connect through our stories and feel the vibrations that linger within the dirt beneath our feet and soar in the sky overhead. These elements hold the past, present and future. Not as archeological dig but of memory and story. The air seems to carry the echoes of all these voices who spoke their lines and told the stories." 

What is real and what is illusion?

Or go deep into the mountain that shelters the Queen Mine.

"Tunnels into a mountain, horizontal or digging down in vertical shafts.

Like leaning over and falling into Her depths.

Stretching our meager reserves to push further into Her core.

Backward-birthing to return to the dark and recover the pure shine of precious gems and metals that remind us of our own light within.

Does it feel like acupuncture to Her?

We think we go so deep and yet we barely graze the surface of Her skin.

Thank goodness our efforts are shallow."

Drive the wide-open desert-meadows (who knew?!) of Sonoita-Elgin.

"Pale brown stalks of prairie-like grass roll and sway gently all the way to the horizon where only moments before there was cactus--now gone. The pale green of yucca dot some of the blond fields ... acres and miles of unexpected softness. A pocket of pillows plopped into the desert just to be different yet again!" 

photo courtesy Sonoita, AZ You'll Like It Here

Soar within the world of the remarkable Harris' Hawks
at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum.

... we can only soar in our conscious awareness 

and imagination--that is where we humans are able to enjoy ‘free flight.’

I am finding Arizona to be an entire country in and of itself as there is so much to see and do; I can choose to explore physically or to be in stillness within each presentation of diversity. The above are linked to my usual lengthier 'stream-scapes' (stream of consciousness writing style) on my other web site; if you are so inclined--enjoy!

And I made a new friend, too! Isn't he adorable?

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* My mom is staying nearby for two months with a friend so, since they both enjoy exploring, we are doing far more in a shorter time than I would have done on my own!

Falling Diamonds

(c) Jeremie Vaubaillon - The Quadrantids

diamonds falling

trails of stardust

disappearing

pastel dawning

painted with feathers

appearing

Stars fall in streaking shimmers,
there for an instant,
a mere blink,
and then gone,
waving to sisters and brothers
on their quick journey-flash
across the inky stillness
of space.


An infinity of existence, 
winking in and out,
ecstatic.
Crisp and brilliant,
Her diamonds placed strategically,
enticing lives and eyes alike.
A streak here, the nakedness of random showers,
sparkling ... effervescent.


Head tilted back,
scanning for a glimpse of showers of light at night 
and rewarded again and again.
There!
And there!
Cold seeps into my body and I sink further 
into the big puffy coat that now has a happy purpose 
instead of shoved to the very back of the closet.
Reclining while the tail end of the shower finishes Her glimmering rhapsody 
in the minutes before dawn eases into the expansive bed between earth and space.
A subtle transition, shades that shift into each other, 
their fingers touching as they lay side by side sharing the sky.
In the moments leading up to dawn, 
I feel an amazing sensation; 
like the world is brand new, just being birthed. 
I am witness to Her labor.


Watching the ancient stars who are already gone, 
merely winking good-bye from a distant past, 
their smiles reflecting the light of possibility 
for all those new sparks who begin the journey, 
witnessed by us as diamonds on a necklace 
scattered across Her infinite neck and waist, 
ankles and wrists. 
Hear them jingling as She dances in the night sky? 


She offers inspiration from every pore; 
Her stars and moon and shadows of lunar-illumination.


Dawn is soft and speaks of faith,
to trust in the new day, new beginnings.
Ours is the choice--same or different?


Shivers and chills chase themselves around this body 
not used to the dense darkness.
Watching the stars hanging in their space, 
I could have been anywhere--another galaxy, 
another realm of existence. 
What if I had been watching from the other side of Now?


As I meditate, time pauses, 
do I feel myself shimmer out of this space, into another, 
my star-soul winking here and there, 
no more substantive than the light I see from a star that is long-gone.
Amazing wonders of our universe.
Gifted to have seen even once the miracles 
of star-shine and dawn-scape 
and diamonds piercing the mysterious black cape of night as they transform.
Each moment precious.
Senses bringing delights that satisfy and are ... enough.


This, a reason to rise early, 
to experience, 
at least once in a while, 
the birthing of this new day that is 
merely a spin on an axis, 
a twirl of timelessness.
Easy to take it for granted and allow it to be unrealized.
But don't. 
Know the passage of the turning of earth 
beneath feet stuck to Her skin by the weight of Her love.
Experience all these miracles and know diversity of life and spirit.


Now, as I sit writing, the sun has arrived, though of course never really departed.
A star. OUR STAR.
So strong and powerful in its light.
For a moment I am once again elsewhere.
I see the light from our sun long after it has ceased 
and we are the people who once inhabited the orbiting earth. 
Moved on to different planes of existence.
Twinkle, twinkle, little star, 
how I wonder who you are, 
and who you held in your light and nourished and shone the way forward.
I welcome our lights joining as One. 
All lights as One.
Spread out across the sky yet connected by the invisible threads woven through the eons of life, 
the sprinkled glimmering, sparkles that once were ... are the stardust that falls upon my eyelids and open my vision to Her light and our One light of love.
I see diamonds in your eyes.