Obligation?

Because of a recent situation with my own mother, and synchronistically, the problems two friends are having with their mothers, and another friend with her sister, I can’t help but think about obligation. What do we owe to ourselves and to others? Where does expectation set up a house of cards ready to tumble around us? How do we balance helping others with maintaining healthy boundaries for ourselves? Where can we transform relationships into compassion-derived rather than guilt-driven? How do we provide care from a space of love instead of duty?

I am reminded of one of the verses from the Tao Te Ching: 

When the greatness of the Tao is present,

action arises from one’s own heart.

When the greatness of the Tao is absent, 

action comes from the rules

of “kindness and justice.”

If you need rules to be kind and just, 

if you act virtuous,

this is a sure sign that virtue is absent.

Thus we see the great hypocrisy. 

When kinship falls into discord,

piety and rites of devotion arise. 

When the country falls into chaos,

official loyalists will appear; 

patriotism is born.

~ 18th Verse of the Tao Te Ching of Lao-tzu, from Wayne Dyer’s Change Your Thoughts, Change Your Life

It seems to me that when we are expected to offer services, when we are pushed and shoved and guilted into behaviors, then the actions that were previously provided out of love become empty and tarnished with a dangerous, damaging energy. How do we provide kindness to ourselves then? How do we maintain the greatness of our heart energy?

I know there are no easy answers, and, certainly, every situation is different. With these thoughts, I also recalled a scene from Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner -- one that has stayed with me for decades: 

Embedding is not available, but the short YouTube of this scene is HERE; Sidney Poitier playing the role of the son speaking to his father, and following is the script: 

"You listen to me. You say you don’t want to tell me how to live my life. So what do you think you’ve been doing? You tell me what rights I’ve got or haven’t got, and what I owe to you for what you’ve done for me. Let me tell you something. I owe you nothing! If you carried that bag a million miles, you did what you’re supposed to do! Because you brought me into this world. And from that day you owed me everything you could ever do for me like I will owe my son if I ever have another. But you don’t own me! You can’t tell me when or where I’m out of line, or try to get me to live my life according to your rules. You don’t even know what I am, Dad, you don’t know who I am. You don’t know how I feel, what I think. And if I tried to explain it the rest of your life you will never understand. You are 30 years older than I am. You and your whole lousy generation believes the way it was for you is the way it’s got to be. And not until your whole generation has lain down and died will the dead weight of you be off our backs! You understand, you’ve got to get off my back! Dad… Dad, you’re my father. I’m your son. I love you. I always have and I always will. But you think of yourself as a colored man. I think of myself as a man. Now, I’ve got a decision to make, hm? And I’ve got to make it alone, and I gotta make it in a hurry. So would you go out there and see after my mother?"

May we all find the spirit within to somehow retain or recover our ability to act from our heart, and not from tainted obligation.

another blog

For those of you who may be interested, I have started another blog called On the Gaia Path because I wanted to create a separate space in which to more deeply write into my relationship with the Divine Feminine. Some of the types of writing that used to appear here will be posted there in future. But, no worries, this one will continue as well.

Blessings!

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.

Poppy

Bud in the heart ... and in the flower ...
where in every moment her love is a shower
of blessings that guide us and share in the night
the wisdom of peace over power of might
and so is the little one growing in height
receiving the blessing of full moon's cool light.
See the bud opening from sleeping in white,
so tiny and faithful, a golden delight.


     Clear and sweet is the message of the flower bud, awaiting its turn to shine yet already drawing to it the butterflies and hummingbirds, all hovering to find out who she will be and what gifts she brings into their world. Their glorious colors mingle with hers ... she is darker at first, contracted, arms wrapped around herself, also waiting in this moment yet already knowing her purpose that rises upon the wind, her scent going out, seeking and showing.
     She allows the food she needs to flow gently into her roots and leaves but she doesn't have to do anything except open to the bounty all around for she has adapted and what others see as scarcity, she sees as opportunity and a serene wisdom in knowing now is her time. Now is her moment in the sun before the long sleep of the cycles that continue, repeating themselves within the illusion of form that is cherished.

     I open a random book and read " ... your fleeting steps kiss the dust of this world into sweetness ... "

     There is a mesmerizing appeal to reading Rabindranath Tagore (the quote is from The Fugitive). His words flow like poetry yet their rhythm is that of prose holding itself proud and tall upon the stems of Divine flowers, second to none and absent the rigid affectations of some poems that spit in short, concise stutters upon the page as if they fear saying too much and expect us to glean their hidden intent by digging without the proper tools (I love poetry but some definitely has this effect upon me). But Tagore's writing ... what a glorious feeling to watch the shapes of the words and sentences bend in an arc that covers the pages like a rainbow, the imagery heart-felt. It is as if Tagore knew the intimacy of the Sacred World and the Divine Source as One and merely opened himself to their harmony.

______________

I remain devoted to the lovely Arizona Poppy and her sweetness. :-)