One More Voice in the Chorus

Sit Still and Be Quiet

2012-02-02T08:32:00.000-08:00

At least they didn’t put me in the corner like they did my brother
I tell myself smugly
I tell myself other things too, and they pile on like stinky cattle cars

how I hate my brother and how God will strike me down and how Hell will be everlasting and
how unfair it is and how I will run away and how my stomach hurts and
how I wish I had been born to some other family and
how scared I am and how sorry I am and how lonely I am and how I despise myself as I
sit still and be quiet

and the humiliating wordless spew gushes, too
tears and snot and big red blotches
itchy feet and sweaty hands and what if I can’t hold my pee but I must because I must
sit still and be quiet

and after awhile, fifty years or so, I stop holding my breath and start noticing it
in and out, in and out, in and out, waves on the stony black beach of my subconscious
and on all that petulant persecution still garbling in the deep

and those headstrong ponies still resisting the bridle

as I do my best, my good girl best,

to teach myself how to
sit still and be quiet

© Angela Hite 2012

Free, Indeed

2011-12-07T09:08:00.000-08:00

It seems to me the big spiritual lesson of our generation, and of these current times is the recognition of our subjective consciousness and the practice of redirecting negative thinking. Problems in life rarely bring us down or do us in. It is our thoughts about our problems that do, and our thoughts are 100% malleable. This is the ultimate freedom of choice.

I know this is not news to most spiritual students. We all know it. Yet the power of negative thinking is so insidious, entangled, and pervasive, we need constant reminders to snap us awake.

This morning I was struck by multiple comments on Facebook all leading back to this kind of wakefulness, and I'm grateful. Also, my devotional piece today was a quote from Kahlil Gibran that reminds us so eloquently:

You shall be free indeed
when your days are not
without a care nor your nights
without a want and a grief,
but rather when these things
girdle your life and yet
you rise above them
naked and unbound.

What's So Bad About Falling?

2011-11-16T20:02:00.000-08:00

Today in my writing group, the conversation took a turn for me that had to do with the unconscious self-judgments we make about our spiritual "progress." We get a new insight or feel as though we have reached a new level of awareness, and then we "fall." We can't sustain the awareness for whatever reason; the new plane of consciousness is fragile and tender, and suddenly it is as though we are under attack. The rug feels pulled out from under us and now we question whether our experience was even real.

But perhaps the fall is as important as the climb. As we wrote, this is the piece that emerged for me:

What's So Bad About Falling?

A bird flies,

her wings outstretched in a miracle,

her breast blissfully bared,

enrapt in her gift.

A feather falls,

tumbling and tossing about,

till gravity wins,

and the feather finds its way

into my hands

outstretched for a miracle.

I catch the falling thing
and look up.

©Angela Blaine Hite, 2011

Don't Think About All Those Things You Fear. Just Be Glad to Be Here.

2011-11-06T07:00:00.000-08:00

This video is powerful! It is a little disturbing, but it underscores the challenge of keeping our thoughts focused on the light. I found this on Facebook today after waking up with Phillippians 4:8 on my mind -

Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.

What Do You Have Faith In?

2011-11-01T10:39:00.000-07:00

Below is a Marianne Williamson quote she posted today on Facebook. It struck just the right chord in me.

There is no such thing as a faithless person; we either have faith in the power of love or faith in the power of fear. For faith is an aspect of consciousness. Have faith in love and fear will lose its power over you. Have faith in forgiveness, and your self-hatred will fall way. Have faith in miracles and they will come to you. Amen.

This Is It

2011-08-01T07:53:00.000-07:00

This is it. This is your life. This moment. Not past victories and/or failures, not future aspirations.

My daughter just got back from an amazing camp experience, in which many basic, and yet profound messages were part of her daily learning. "This is it," was one of them. If ever there was a message we needed to listen to and not gloss over because of its simplicity, this is it!

This is it! Seize the day!

New Moon Two

2011-07-01T11:01:00.000-07:00

I seem to have some affinity for the new moon of late. Last month I wrote a short poem about the new moon. Today, I stumbled upon an astrologer’s blog whose work spoke to me, then, from one of his links, stumbled upon some information about the moon that also resonated. Given that today is a new moon, it seems synchronous to post this little blurb from astrologer Hank Friedman. Since each new moon represents a new beginning, we can imagine these moon gifts and lessons revealing themselves to us afresh.

The Gifts of Moon:

The deepest love, with complete selflessness and openness. An instinctive and spiritual connection with Mother Nature and Goddesses. An awareness of the Sacred rhythm to life, and the music within it. The ability to relinquish control, to surrender and become the vessel for a Higher Source. The awareness of exactly what is needed in a situation, and the instinct to fulfill it.

The lessons Moon has to learn:

To bring to consciousness what is hidden to self. To sort out

one's own feelings from others. To live in the present, instead of the past or fantasy. To witness self in present time, especially when agitated. To let go of others, and objects, when it's time. To "teach others to fish" instead of fostering dependency.

HANK FRIEDMAN, ASTROLOGIST

Our Mistakes

2011-06-30T06:49:00.000-07:00

"Our mistakes

are sometimes what it takes

to make us humble,

and that’s when we’re most of use

to God."

Marianne Williamson, The Gift of Change

"Brokenness and wounding

do not occur in order to break human dignity

but to open the heart

so God can act."

Martin Marty, Theologian

"I had the same dream each night - that I had a child,

and even in the dream I saw that the child was my life;

and it was an idiot, and I ran away.

Until I thought, if I could kiss it...perhaps I could rest.

And I bent to its broken face, and it was horrible...but I kissed it.

I think one must finally take one's life in one's arms."

Arthur Miller, After the Fall

Suffering

2011-06-29T07:52:00.000-07:00

This is an excerpt from Pema Chodron's When Things Fall Apart. One aspect of spiritual awakening is the process of challenging some of our basic assumptions. In this passage, Chodron asks us to look at our assumptions about suffering.

“Why should we celebrate suffering? Doesn't that sound masochistic? Our suffering is based so much on our fear of impermanence. Our pain is so rooted in our one-sided, lopsided view of reality. Who ever got the idea that we could have pleasure without pain? It's promoted rather widely in this world, and we buy it. But pain and pleasure go together; they are inseparable. They can be celebrated. They are ordinary. Birth is painful and delightful. Death is painful and delightful. Everything that ends is also the beginning of something else. Pain is not punishment; pleasure is not a reward.

Inspiration and wretchedness are inseparable. We always want to get rid of misery rather than see how it works together with joy. The point isn’t to cultivate one thing as opposed to another, but to relate properly to where we are. Inspiration and wretchedness complement each other. With only inspiration, we become arrogant. With only wretchedness, we lose our vision. Feeling inspired cheers us up, makes us realize how vast and wonderful our world is. Feeling wretched humbles us. The gloriousness of our inspiration connects us with the sacredness of the world. But when the tables are turned and we feel wretched, that softens us up. It ripens our hearts. It becomes the ground for understanding others. Both the inspiration and the wretchedness can be celebrated. We can be big and small at the same time.”

Compassion 101

2011-06-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the most universal of spiritual concepts, across all religions, is compassion; yet so few of us practice compassion in its truest sense. We may interpret the word as sympathy or pity for another’s suffering, or we may stick to a surface kind of definition such as “love” without delving into its depths. The Latin origins, however, bring out a more profound interpretation and one much harder to enact. From the Latin “cum” and “pati” the words come together, meaning “to suffer with.”

When we are genuinely compassionate toward someone, we make ourselves willing to suffer with the person who is suffering. This is a much more intense action than sympathy or pity (which are removed and objective, viewing the person’s suffering from the outside). Compassion requires a subjective experience, whereby we commit ourselves to stepping into the skin of the other, seeing through their eyes, feeling what they feel, and walking the proverbial mile in their moccasins. This is hard to do! It requires:

The conscious decision to override our instincts of self-protection.
The willingness to temporarily suspend our own point of view for the sake of understanding and caring for the other.
The live, awkward transition from comfortable and familiar objectivity to uncomfortable, unfamiliar subjectivity and its inherent vulnerability.
The willingness to feel pain.

I had intended to write today about compassion and boundaries - how to have compassion while also having boundaries in our lives, for otherwise we would be perpetually overwhelmed. There is so much suffering in the world, if we truly opened to it all, all the time, how could we live? This is a dilemma for many of us who have strong empathic abilities. I struggle with this constantly, and I am intrigued by Brene Brown’s research on boundary setting and learning how to live what she calls wholeheartedness. I promise I will get to this.

But for today, I am captivated and humbled by the four steps listed above, that came forward as I began to write. Theoretical compassion and experiential compassion are two different things. Practicing compassion is a life-long unveiling, and a subject that is so rich, countless books about it have been written, yet it still boils down to a day-by-day, moment-by-moment, one-on-one commitment to courageously engage in vulnerability and kindness. Even the most committed have their blind spots, perhaps the biggest toward their very own selves. I know I do. More to come.

Prayer

2011-06-11T09:19:00.000-07:00

My creative tide is out to sea, gathering fodder and force, to make its way back to shore. In the meantime, I'll allow those beautiful works of others to speak for me. Here is another piece from Patricia Donegan's HAIKU MIND.

the spirit, the truth

of silent prayer -

just the moon on the road.

KIKUSHA-NI

"Perhaps every haiku is a silent prayer in the broader sense. The medieval German Christian mystic, Meister Eckhart said that if the only prayer we used in our life was 'thank you,' that would be enough. Eckhart also said that 'the eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me,' a view quite compatible with haiku's spirit of being one with Nature. For each haiku is a grateful acknowledgment of the sacred, an honoring of the sacred in each and every thing: each caw of a crow, each dewdrop on a leaf, each child's scream, each empty street. Whether good, bad, happy, or sad, we honor it, as part of the spirit and truth we call 'life.' In this haiku, the focus is on the moon, which represents the truth of sacredness, silent prayer, and the symbol of enlightenment to awaken us." PATRICIA DONEGAN, HAIKU MIND.

Pausing

2011-06-08T07:00:00.000-07:00

Below is an exerpt from Patricia Donegan's HAIKU MIND, a book I recently picked up and found to be a wonderful meditation tool. As a poet, I love the simplicity, depth, and soulfulness of haiku. Donegan chose 108 of the world's best haiku and wrote a short reflection piece for each, which I find very helpful. See if this one speaks to you.

pausing

halfway up the stair -

white chrysanthemums

ELIZABETH SEARLE LAMB

"Pausing is the doorway to awakening. This haiku epitomizes a moment that occurs naturally in our lives, but that we often hurry or gloss over. Haiku awareness is a simple way to slow down and tune in to this fleeting moment, to appreciate what is right in front of us. And sometimes we can be attentive and sometimes we cannot, but that is all right, for the next moment always brings us the fresh possibility to pause and be present again. There are no steps to follow, there is no enlightment to work toward - there is only the simplicity of relaxing into this very moment that is complete in itself. This naked moment is the only guide that we need to relax our mind. We need to trust this: in the midst of our daily life activities, the possibility to slow down, to stop and then to appreciate naturally unfolds. For a fleeting moment we pause and note the sunlight on the sheets as we make the bed, note the warm sun on our cup as we sip tea, or note the fading light on the curtain as we enter the room. And we let out a breath or sigh. Pausing."

And Then There Was Black

2011-06-03T09:23:00.000-07:00

I'm breaking away from my recent, studious trend to post a new poem that is much ado about nothing, but was a "musing" nevertheless (perhaps a color rorschach):

His blue was nice. It relaxed me.

But his red made my temples throb, and more.

I found myself dancing.

From the violet perimeter, she stepped out and cut in,

lofty and regal, oozing authority,

roping his red, dragging him away,

but I kept on dancing. Why shouldn’t I?

Gold drums beat on. Pink hips shimmied yes.

It was all so very amusing.

Over her shoulder and back at me,

she launched a savage green,

so tight, so hard, so persuasive, it pierced my throat.

And then there was black.

Mercy Once Again

2011-06-01T08:15:00.000-07:00

“Choose once again if you would take your place among the saviors of the world,

or would remain in hell, and hold your brothers there.”

A COURSE IN MIRACLES

Day by day, minute by minute, we have the opportunity to choose a new thought, a new way of perceiving the world and our role in it. The deeper we go into this understanding, the more we become aware of the heroic challenges involved in turning away from fear and negativity disguised as realism. Becoming awake to the implications of a sticky, dark thought as it happens, halting, and reversing course in the moment, are hard enough. Doing so without self-judgment and with patience …is extremely challenging. And then to realize that the hell of any false perception also holds one’s loved ones trapped as well….this could cripple us if it were not for mercy.

This is why the words “once again” are so powerful. As we practice, and stumble, practice and stumble, practice and stumble, we are given the mercy of starting over, again and again and again.

Sensibility

2011-05-31T08:07:00.000-07:00

"Communication is not limited to the small range of channels the world recognizes...The limits the world places on communications are the chief barriers to direct experience of the Holy Spirit, Whose Presence is always there and Whose Voice is available but for the hearing. These limits are placed out of fear, for without them the walls that surround all the separate places of the world would fall at the holy sound of His Voice. Who transcends these limits in any way is merely becoming more natural. He is doing nothing special, and there is no magic in his accomplishments." A COURSE IN MIRACLES

For as long as I can remember, my inner ear heard what I call the whisperings of angels. We are all familiar with the phrase "the still, small voice" as a reference to our conscience, or to God's voice inside us, but because we are exposed to so much sensory overload everyday, we often lose track of that inner beckoning. Though I'm tuned in to the whisperings, I will admit that I frequently forget the presence of God's communication through other senses. I take for granted the exquisite visual, auditory, gustatory, olfactory and textural experiences of nature, blowing right past them, while longing for greater connection to the Divine.

Today, let me remember that God is speaking to me, loving me, in a tangible way - through my senses. Let me observe, hear, taste, smell, and feel God's natural presence in my life.

The Way Out

2011-05-29T07:53:00.000-07:00

"Forgiveness is the only road that leads out of disaster, past all suffering, and finally away from death. How could there be another way, when this one is the plan of God Himself? And why would you oppose it, quarrel with it, seek to find a thousand ways in which it must be wrong; a thousand other possibilities?" A COURSE IN MIRACLES

Only Words

2011-05-28T09:20:00.000-07:00

"The teacher of God accepts the words which are offered him, and gives as he receives. He does not control the direction of his speaking. He listens and hears and speaks. A major hindrance in this aspect of his learning is the teacher of God's fear about the validity of what he hears. And what he hears may indeed be quite startling. It may also seem to be quite irrelevant to the presented problems as he perceives it, and may, in fact, confront the teacher with a situation that appears to be very embarrassing to him. All these are judgments that have no value. They are his own, coming from a shabby self-perception which he would leave behind. Judge not the words that come to you, but offer them in confidence. They are far wiser than your own. God's teachers have God's Word behind their symbols. And He Himself gives to the words they use the power of His Spirit, raising them from meaningless symbols to the Call of Heaven itself." -- A COURSE IN MIRACLES.

This was the passage in A COURSE IN MIRACLES to which I randomly opened this morning. I know I'm not alone in using this method of meditative reading. I pray for what I need to hear, then allow a chosen book to open to whatever page it will. I was moved by this passage, and it triggered the memory of a piece I recently wrote in my writing group.

Each week, the group spends an hour or so discussing whatever topics present themselves, usually derived from our current experiences. We each then create a short piece, right there on the spot, and read it to each other. There is no time to ponder, doubt, or edit. The structure has evolved to this and has caused us to evolve, too. We've come to trust ourselves and each other in letting words flow, letting Spirit speak, even if we don't understand in the moment what the message is.

Another quote from the COURSE, in relation to the one presented above, goes: "Strictly speaking, words play no part at all in healing. The motivating factor is prayer, or asking." Part of the work of my group, therefore, is asking.

In one of our get-togethers, the word efflorescence became our topic title. That's not a word you hear every day, and I wasn't even sure what it meant. Its primary meaning has to do with chemistry. The piece I wrote seemed to have nothing to do with the word, but I trusted. When I got home that day, I looked it up.

Encarta gave a definition to describe its literary use: a process or time of unfoldment. That definition helped to bring my little parable more into focus. In conjunction with today's quote from the COURSE, I can feel the continuing unfoldment of the piece. There is a Jungian aspect to it, as if there are layers of meaning percolating down beneath the surface of things. Here's the story:

Somewhere underneath the rubble, there was a child. He was certain of it - a little girl, he thought - but he had been looking for hours and hadn't been able to find her. The whimpering cries were almost out of ear shot no matter which way he went, as if they were moving around. He’d follow the sound in one direction, and then become startled to hear it again behind him.

Soon it would be dark, and the soldier was beginning to panic. He had no flashlight, and the demolished buildings would be extremely dangerous to maneuver when the sun went completely down. But he would not, could not, abandon this child. Why wouldn’t she hold still?

“Please, little one,” he called out to her, “I want to help you, but I can’t seem to find you! Don’t give up! I promise you, I won’t leave you! I promise you I will get you out of this!”

The whimpering grew fainter, and yet it continued to move just out of reach. Long into the night, the weary soldier stumbled through the wreckage, constantly calling out words of encouragement and hope, until finally his voice gave out. And then, as if an electrical cord had been pulled, all his energy drained out as well. He fell into a slump and cried for the little lost girl, and for the broken little boy he had become. The failure.

He drifted off to sleep, then woke, startled, to find a tiny sunbeam of a girl sitting in his lap.

“I found you!” she cried.

Ordinary Joy: Look Closer

2011-05-25T14:13:00.000-07:00

An ordinary life has become synonymous with a meaningless life. So often we are missing what is truly important because we are on the quest for what is extraordinary, not understanding that in our ordinary lives, in the ordinary moments, are where we find the most joy. BRENE BROWN

I heard Brene Brown make this point in the TED video from my last post. It struck me deeply, because I am up to my eyeballs in ordinary life, and I must confess that more often than not, ordinary feels inadequate to me...which means I'm up to my eyeballs in inadequate. Not good!

We know that life is how we perceive it to be. Yet our perceptions are under assault both directly and subliminally from the media and society at large, and the message pumped in is that ordinary is not enough. We chant American Exceptionalism and drive ourselves to the brink to fulfill that promise. We go to the movies and find ourselves hypnotized by the desire to live a heroic storyline – chock full of drama, romance, and excitement, while editing out the tediums of daily living. We are told through advertising that we could be (therefore should be) thinner, sexier, smarter, younger, healthier, wealthier, stronger, more beautiful, more interesting, more successful. More, more, more. Brown calls this the “commodification of perfection.”

And so we live our lives in a state of “trying to become” rather than “being.” Certainly there is nothing wrong with striving, but when striving becomes a habitual and reactionary mindset against feelings of inadequacy in the ordinary, when we can't relax and enjoy right where we are, monotony, complexity and all, we have lost our way. We know this, and we can point blaming fingers, but what can we do? How do we loosen the grip of striving's shadow side?

This is an excerpt from Ordinary Joy: Finding Fresh Promise in Routine Moments, by Joe Campeau:

“I was taking photography lessons from my friend Rich, who, in another time and place, had been a photojournalist. The key to taking interesting pictures, Rich explained, was in learning not to just look at an object, but to see it with fresh eyes, to recognize what is present but unnoticed. Rich gave me an assignment: Take thirty-six pictures of the same object. Each composition had to be different, not because of a change in surroundings but because it reflected a different point of view. Since I was a cycling enthusiast, I chose my bike.

The assignment seemed easy at first: Here’s my bike from the front. This is my bike from the back, from the side, here’s a view from the top…now what? This was impossible. I squeezed off about ten frames, and I was stuck. There was nothing left to see, no pictures left to take.

“Look closer.”

I threw up my arms to make sure Rich knew how unreasonable he was being, again leaned in toward the bike, and wondered what he could see that I was missing. “It’s easy for you,” I grumbled. “You’ve trained your eyes to recognize beauty. All I see are a few metal tubes and a couple of wheels.” That’s when I noticed the graphic pattern the spokes made as they flared out from the wheel hub, intersecting each other in a pattern called ‘lacing.’ I grabbed my camera and moved in tight for a close-up. Glancing toward the handlebars, I realized how gracefully the brake cables curved and how interesting they were from this angle. Soon I could see how bits of dirt and grease clung to the chain, creating miniature mountain ranges.

Rich taught me a fundamental principle of photography that day: Look closer. If you want to see beauty, learn to view ordinary things in new ways.

Applying the same principle to life reveals the potential for joy. We live most of life firmly in the grip of the ordinary. The beginning of most days echoes the start of the day before. The alarm pierces the best sleep of the night, and as usual, you’re late before the day has even begun. The kids are fighting an explosive battle over something profoundly unimportant. The bills lie scattered across the desk waiting to be paid from a checkbook whose financial health was terminal a week ago. You day gifts you with clogging traffic, a sniping boss, and a demanding customer. Back home again, your spouse is snappy, the dog is whining, the car is failing, and dinner is on the run so everyone can make his or her evening commitments. A sigh escapes your lips; something like sadness fogs your heart. The thought crosses your mind: ‘Where’s the happiness in a day like this? Shouldn’t life be something more?’”

Look closer.

It’s one thing to look closer through a camera lens at various angles of an object. It is much more difficult to look closer and from different angles at a struggling relationship, a complicated life circumstance, or a laundry list of monotonous daily chores, but therein lies the spiritual challenge - letting go of a biased and limited vision and investing energy into discovering the art and the joy of the ordinary.

It is both a perceptive challenge and spiritual practice I want to take on.

The Vulnerability of Joy

2011-05-17T11:05:00.000-07:00

Here is another great talk by Brene Brown.

Have you ever thought about the vulnerability of joy? And perhaps, this is the reason we find it so hard to hold? Listen to what Brene Brown has to say. I think she is onto something.

The Mountain, The Cloud, and Self-Empathy

2011-05-16T09:05:00.000-07:00

There is an old Zen saying that goes something like, “You are the mountain, not the cloud that obscures the mountain.” I love these pithy spiritual teachings. They stay in the mind because they are so simple and succinct, yet the message underneath is so very profound.

It takes a great deal of presence and self-awareness to remember that the true you is solid and unchangeable like the mountain, when emotions, especially the dark, roiling ones like anger, sorrow, or despair, obscure the mountain’s view. It’s easy to believe that the clouds are permanent and substantial. But they aren’t. By their very nature, they are vapor. Though the mountain may be socked in for long periods of time, the mountain is the solid thing. The clouds will eventually pass.

There are so many spiritual questions to answer within this teaching, no doubt the most profound of which is in defining the mountain: “Who is this ‘I AM’ that is so solid and eternal?” And then come all the questions about the clouds: “If I am not my emotions, why do I have them? What good do they serve? How do I deal with them? How can I get rid of them quickly? How do I come to terms with their blinding powers?” And on and on. The work of answering these questions is a journey, an ongoing individual interpretation.

But here is a new piece of the puzzle for me. Self-empathy. I recently heard this term by Dr. Brene Brown, from whom I have been learning so much, of late. Her work on unraveling shame centers around the development and offering of empathy. Empathy, defined as the ability to understand someone else’s internal experiences, allows a person’s shame to come out of the closet and be compassionately witnessed by another. Dr. Brown says shame cannot survive empathy. Self-empathy, then, is the ability to compassionately witness the various aspects of ourselves that we might deem shameful.

When I first took on the mantra of “I am the mountain, not the cloud,” I had a subconscious tape playing that said, “I’m glad I’m not those bad emotions. They are shameful.” The result was that in my quest for spiritual growth and identification with the mountain, I judged and rejected the clouds, which kept them around for longer periods of time, raising a ruckus, trying to be seen.

There is so much paradox in spiritual work. The nexus of spiritual growth and psychological healing requires an ability to handle such paradox, and that means, in this case, identifying with the mountain, while simultaneously allowing the clouds their due.

To bring this down into practical terms, I’ll relate another piece of the story I wrote about yesterday, my Pelican Dream. (See yesterday’s post). The way I wrote the piece, for the purpose of story-telling, I left out a part that now needs to be told. My friend Debbie commented after reading it that she was amazed at my instant interpretation of the dream. But my interpretation wasn’t instant. Though I was able to access the totem information that informed the interpretation right away, it took all weekend for the message to sink in and do its healing work, because I was caught inside the cloud of anger. But applying this new challenge of self-empathy, I managed to give the anger my compassionate attention. I didn’t demand that it evaporate, I didn’t deny it or shame myself for having it, and I didn’t attempt to do a work-around. Nor did I impulsively follow its dictates. I stayed in my consciousness as the mountain, but I didn’t reject the cloud. Within 24 hours or so, the anger evaporated, and the dream’s message became clear. The anger, while painful, played an important role in bringing the dream’s comfort and relief into focus.

This was a great experiential lesson and victory for me. It's a good feeling...a big white cloud, which will, no doubt, pass in time!

Pelican Dreams

2011-05-15T12:07:00.000-07:00

I’m going through some struggles with my daughter, and Friday night, after an unpleasant altercation with her that afternoon, I was feeling quite wounded. As I got ready for bed, I prayed to be given a dream of comfort. I prayed that angels show themselves to me. And boy, oh boy, did they.

I dreamed I was standing on a dock looking out over the ocean. Suddenly a group of white pelicans popped up out of the water, rested their beaks on the dock, and squawked at me. When I looked down at them, the first thing I noticed was that their beaks were all broken and mangled. They were hideous to look at. I thought they were dying and squawking in pain. But then I looked into their eyes. What I saw was very striking. I saw not only elevated consciousness but downright joy. They were happy to see me and determined to convey their happiness to me, seemingly oblivious of their broken beaks. Instantly I knew they were messengers, but the message was not yet clear.

I woke up the next day with that image firmly planted in my mind – the contrast of the pelicans’ mangled beaks with their joyous eyes. I have several animal totems books by Ted Andrews, so I looked up the significance of pelicans, and what I discovered was quite incredibly on point. There were two references – one which applied to the beaks aspect of my dream, and one which applied to their happy eyes!

The first was an old folk tale in which the pelican wounded its own breast and fed its young on the blood, which signified maternal self-sacrifice. The broken beaks in my dream were a very painful, graphic illustration of the specific emotion of brokenness that I was experiencing. Though I didn’t want to have these feelings, I couldn’t stop the tape from playing in my head that I had sacrificed so much on my daughter's behalf, and yet to what end? I have been working lately with the concepts of shame and empathy (as evidenced in previous posts), so I think this part of the dream was to convey empathy. They acknowledged the pain I was in, and this allowed me to receive their teaching, which was the in the second reference.

It was about buoyancy, represented in the dream by the joy in the pelicans' eyes. I learned that pelicans have a system of air sacs under the skin that make them unsinkable. Here’s the passage from Ted Andrews: “Symbolically, this hints at being able to be buoyant and to rest on top in spite of the heaviness of life circumstances. The pelican teaches that no matter how difficult life becomes, no matter how much you plunge – you can pop to the surface. The pelican holds the knowledge of how to rise above life’s trials."

Andrews also says, "In spite of their lightness, sometimes they have a difficult time taking off from the water. Still they do manage, and again we can see the correspondence to freeing one’s self from that which would weigh you down. The water is a symbol of emotions, and emotions often weigh us down. The pelican teaches how not to be overcome by them.”

Isn’t that amazing? I asked. And I received. My spirit is much lighter today. I was given some floaties.

Shame, Part 2 - The Rock and the Hard Place

2011-05-14T07:49:00.000-07:00

“Shame is the intensely painful feeling or experience of believing we are flawed and therefore unworthy of acceptance and belonging… Shame creates feelings of fear, blame and disconnection.” Brené Brown, I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t)

This definition hurts me and confuses me, so I know it is something I need to look at more closely. I want to skim it with my mind and acknowledge it as true on an intellectual level, without feeling it. But when I engage my heart around it, I feel pain, fear, and a blurring over that can only mean resistance. I recognize its awful truth in the lives of my loved ones and the pain of this is pure anguish. When I apply it to my own self, I blur; the shamed self is down so deep that while I know she is in there, (evidenced through various outcomes, and no doubt as obvious to my loved ones as their shame is to me), I can’t feel her. Shame is…well…shameful, so it buries itself.

Brown says there are three basic facts about shame –

1) everyone has it

2) no one wants to talk about it

3) the less we talk about it, the more destructive it becomes.

The destructive effect of unresolved shame is disconnection, which is the antithesis of what we are hardwired to be as human beings. We are built for connection. It is our deepest yearning, and from a spiritual perspective, our soul’s ultimate truth. When we live our lives experiencing the exact opposite of what we are meant to feel….we are not fully alive; we go numb to cope.

“The most terrifying and destructive feeling that a person can experience is psychological isolation. This is not the same as being alone. It is a feeling that one is locked out of the possibility of human connection and of being powerless to change the situation.” Jean Baker Miller, Toward a New Psychology of Women

This statement hits me right between the eyes. Locked out of the possibility of human connection and powerless to change. What a horrific way to live, and yet so many do.

So there you have it. The rock of unacknowledged shame and the hard place of disconnection and it extreme - psychological isolation. What can move us from being stuck in between?

More to come.

Shame, Part 1

2011-05-14T07:42:00.000-07:00

One of my spiritual commitments this year is to dig into the subject of shame and how it plays out in my life. This is a vulnerable process, both in shame's deep uprootings and in my development of enough courage to share it. I'm particularly moved by Dr. Brené Brown's work on this subject. Her book, I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn't) is a powerful resource. On every page I'm finding those kinds of "aha" moments that make me underline and asterik in the margins.

For example, she talks about courage, going back to its latin roots. Cour is the Latin for heart. Courage is the speaking of your mind with your heart. Telling your story, with all its darknesses as well as its light. This is a terrifying experience in modern culture, where people are so ashamed. Not only do we resist our own shame, says Dr. Brown, we resist listening to others' shame, too, because it triggers our own. But we can't clear our shame without naming it. Unspoken shame breeds fear, blame and disconnection. And yet our deepest desire is to connect.

I think this is especially true in "spiritual" circles, where we are trying to move into greater spiritual awakening through positive perception. Positive thinking can only be worthwhile, though, if we work through our dark corridors to arrive at authenticity. For example, if we look closely and discover that our main purpose in spiritual growth is to become more okay with who we are, there is some secret shame about our value that needs to be uprooted. This can only be done by looking at our shame with kind eyes and naming it. Dr. Brown says shame corrodes the part of us that believes change is possible, but shame cannot survive empathy.

The video below is one of several interviews with Dr. Brown. Take a look.

Small Moves, Part 2

2011-05-10T08:56:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning with the phrase small moves chanting in my head like a mantra. I wrote about this idea just a couple of days ago, so I’m calling this piece, Small Moves, Part 2. I’m not sure what the message is in this, frankly. The phrase was not tied to a dream, at least one that I can remember. So I’m writing about it to converse with my intuition; to allow my soul to clarify.

My first thought is that it is somehow connected to the dietary changes I have made, the most significant of which is that I have become a vegetarian. (Though this is hardly a "small move," it is the outcome of ten years of small aspirations in this direction, so ironically, the final decision does feel small).

As a result, I feel more clear-headed in a very specific way – I am more awake to habitual negative thinking (worry, mostly) and the drama and exhaustion it evokes in my body and mood. I am clearer that I do have a choice in this, and that despite my espousing freedom of choice for years, I have nevertheless had a subliminal program of self-doubt (and even victimization) that undermined the embodiment of that knowledge. Even though worry is a habit that must be broken by systematic self-catching and gear-switching, I do have this choice. In my mind’s eye, I see a line drawn in the sand of thought. On one side is anxiety and depression, but also titillation. On the other is a simple, uncluttered path out into the light. I am on the fence. Even if I can't yet throw my whole body to the bright side, I can turn my head in that direction. This image may seem subtle, but I can feel its significance. A picture is worth a thousand words. So I acknowledge this small move.

My next thought is that small moves is also a mantra for my next steps. As a result of these dietary changes, my body is waking up , as well as my mind. I can feel some energy coming back online, and it feels like that starting-line kind of energy, like I want to bolt out of the gate. But bolting is impulsivity. I know all about impulsivity and its consequences. So I think small moves is also about learning how to sit in and accept the revving that is at hand, making peace with the now. Sometimes, not moving is a small move.

And lastly, I think small moves is an experiential lesson in faith. Faith is one of those high altitude words that needs to be brought down to earth whenever possible. By practicing small moves, there is a melding of “my will” and “thy will.” Believing that creating a worthwhile life is entirely on my shoulders is one of those slippery self-sabotages. Fearing failure, I attract it to me. Small moves is a faith in partnership with Source. Taking one step, I can be met there, and the next step can be revealed.

This is really the story of evolution, isn’t it?

Mothering the Body

2011-05-08T11:57:00.000-07:00

It is Mother’s Day. And while I celebrate my mother and allow my own motherhood to be celebrated, I’m awake to a new notion, today, too; mothering my body.

Like many women, I have been at odds with my body my whole life. I know this isn’t good. Though I was taught that my body is the “temple of the Holy Spirit,” and though I believe that my body is a gift, I have yet to make lasting peace with it and treat it with ongoing respect. I have gone through long periods of managing it, and even longer periods of ignoring it or being pissed off at it.

But it is Mother’s Day. And I’m thinking about motherhood’s ideals and challenges. I’m thinking about the sacrifices mothers make and the steady intention mothers have toward their children, whether or not their attention measures up. I’m thinking about the balancing act mothers must negotiate in teaching their children…between providing guidance and discipline on the one hand, and allowing their children freedom, spontaneity, and natural consequences on the other. I'm thinking about the one fact of motherhood that goes beyond any of the how to's: unconditional love.

I know this role and how hard it is, but I also know its value. Perhaps, if I apply the mothering paradigm to my body, I can help it along into old age more gracefully. Perhaps love will finally blossom. Perhaps it will mother me back.

Small Moves

2011-05-06T11:30:00.000-07:00

Does it seem to you that lately it is harder to hold a sense of stillness? That everything is moving faster, more frenetically? That there is a radical increase in clutter, both within and without? Like perhaps, at any moment, it could all just be too much?

I’m convinced that this sense of inner chaos is the early byproduct of the leap we are making into an expansion of consciousness, the leap into oneness. As our interconnectedness becomes more tangible through instant communication mediums such as Facebook, Twitter, and the 24-hour news cycle, apprising us of all the radical changes we are experiencing world-wide, (not to mention the billions of opinions about what it all means), our poor little nervous systems are struggling to keep up. We are experiencing, way down deep inside, down where the inner child lives, a sense of primal fear. We are popping anxiety pills, drinking too much, eating too much, talking too much about distractions, and zoning out right and left, just trying to get a moment of relief. But we're not admitting the fear, because we don't want to appear childish.

One of my favorite lines from the 1997 movie Contact was when Ellie Arroway was interviewed by a congressional panel member regarding her nomination as Earth’s ambassador to the planet Vega. The panelist asked, “If you were to meet these Vegans, and were permitted only one question to ask of them, what would it be?”

Dr. Arroway’s response was, “Well, I suppose it would be, how did you do it? How did you evolve? How did you survive this technological adolescence without destroying yourself?”

Later, when she met the Vegan representative and bombarded him with questions, his response was, “Small moves, Ellie. Small moves.”

My small moves for today are to admit my fear and honor that inner child; to give my grown-up, analytical, problem-solving self a rest and feel my way around for awhile; to find faith in the notion that this brink really is an expansion, not a downhill demise.

As I have mentioned in several recent writings, I’m working with the imagery of angels in my creative/meditative work right now. Spiritual practice, to be truly nutritive, takes you down into those deep, dark places where the inner child lives. I find angels to be very helpful down there. They provide light and a loving authority, which helps quell the fear.

The Angel du Jour, the one who whispered her name to me this morning, is the Angel of Peace. I'm getting to know her. May she light up your deep spaces, as well.

History Is Just A Story

2011-05-05T10:34:00.000-07:00

Henry Churchill said, “History is written by the winners,” which, of course, implies that history is not just a journalism of the facts, but an interpretation of events through the lens of perception. As we awaken to this awareness, we begin challenging history, such as the evolution vs. creationism debates, eastern vs. western civilization narratives, and “history” vs. “herstory.”

But on an intimate, personal level, how often do we question our perceived histories? How often do we separate the facts of our pasts from our interpretations of those facts, and consciously choose to dismantle those interpretations that do not serve us?

We go to therapy and bring to light our secret shames, and we work, work, work to understand, forgive, and accept ourselves, all of which are absolutely necessary. But sometimes we let therapy stop short and go awry. We develop a powerful vocabulary and have some lightbulb moments, but instead of changing our narrative, we use therapy as explanation and excuse for our narrative, which reinforces it. For example, “I know I am untrusting. It’s because I was abandoned as a child.” Or, “I know I’m overweight. It’s because I stuff down my feelings.”

While the facts of abandonment, abuse, alcoholism, drug addiction, obesity, or any other personal struggles might be true, are there any conceivable interpretations of those facts that might be empowering rather than disempowering? Have you ever heard a cancer patient say, for example, that the cancer that is killing her is also the greatest gift in her life? That something Divine is occurring, finally waking her up to how beautiful her life is, or how deeply she loves her children?

Underneath the rubble of any factual event, there is a holy perfection that we are put here to unearth. This is the hero's journey that may take a lifetime of small steps, constantly sacrificing our dark and painful perceptions, or it may come in a flash of instant enlightenment. Even the “how” of its coming must be surrendered to the Divinity that drives the awakening.

But here is the thing. To participate, we must start by acknowledging and engaging our one, indisputable superpower – the power of perception. History is just a story. Stories can be rewritten.

The Poisonous Sword

2011-05-04T08:07:00.000-07:00

Hate is a poisonous sword. It may pierce and kill the opponent, but it infects the wielder, as well.

I had a dream a few years back, in which an angel came to me and took me on an awful but illuminating field trip. He carried me to the scene of a violent rape in progress. I heard, saw, and even smelled the graphic horror playing out in front of me, and I began to feel hatred swell up in my chest. I wanted to kill the attacker. I wanted to tear him limb from limb, but I could not move. I could only witness. I asked the angel, “Why did you bring me here?”

The angel waved his hand in the air in front of me, and suddenly I could see a new dimension – a thick, brown ooze coming off the attacker and slithering across the ground toward me. It was as if I was a magnet drawing the rapist's degenerate energy my way.

The angel spoke: “This is what is meant by deliver us from evil,” he said. “Hatred is a virulent infection. Love is both the inoculation and the antidote. Do what must be done to bring justice and to protect the innocent, but do so with love in your heart, else you, yourself, will become contaminated.”

New Moon

2011-05-03T08:06:00.000-07:00

In each, there lies a moon that is new,
a fresh, unsullied bloom,
a child who sings full-throated to the trees.
Bow to this, our endless beginning.

The Work of Our Lives

2011-05-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

“When we have penetrated the illusions of personality and the destructive nature of negativity, we realize that what we are, at our core, is a fountain of love.” - Ambika Wauters, The Angel Oracle

This is the work of our lives, and I emphasize the word work, because it is the hardest and longest lasting work we will ever do – penetrating the illusions of personality and the destructive nature of negativity. How easy it is, inside the soup of personality to forget that this is not my true self! How easy it is, inside the sophisticated caverns of negativity to forget that my core is made in God’s likeness and image, which is pure, unadulterated, proactive and creative love!

Last night the infamous terrorist leader Usama Bin Laden was killed by Navy Seals in Pakistan. All over the world people are celebrating his death. From inside the lens of my personality, I too, felt a sense of victory, relief, and patriotic pride when I heard the news.

But the angels are whispering, and I know I’m being beckoned to delve further, to distinguish more deeply. Bin Laden, the man, is dead, and his soul has moved on to its next evolution. Is that place Hell? The existence of Hell, at least in its literal, visceral, Christian definition, is debated, even among Christians. But let’s say it is true. Would I want to rejoice in Bin Laden receiving eternal, unrelenting torture and suffering? My personality rises up and shouts “retribution,” but what does my core “fountain of love” say?

And if Hell does not exist, and Bin Laden’s soul, now free of his destructive personality, is being welcomed home by the Eternal Light of God, can I release the flinching of my personality at this thought and rejoice in his release?

This is the work. I am right smack in it.

Angels in the Coffee, Angels in the Dishwasher

2011-05-01T09:22:00.000-07:00

As previously noted, I’ve been working with angels of late. Call them a metaphor if it helps this piece make more sense. As much as I fancy myself a writer, the workings of the inner, spiritual process are challenging to capture on paper. What is that old Indian saying, “Do not mistake the finger pointing to the moon for the moon.” My words are the finger.

Angels are on the front burner of my inner awareness right now. They are here because I’ve invited them. I’ve chosen to perceive them again. I want angels in my life, even if that makes me a new-age woo-woo. I want them! I want the sweet whispering to increase. My overly busy, overly worried, pragmatic-to-the-point-of-cynical habits have dried them up, and I miss the juicy, pre-sunrise conversations.

I haven’t written much poetry lately, a direct cause and effect. My ego gets regularly bruised by the lack of validation, which causes me to cover my heart, which blocks the angelic communion, which dries up the inspiration. Duh.

This is what my re-invited angels are whispering about this morning, I think. The ego. I can feel their fluttering wings in my heart, sort of like harnesses. As I try to pull thoughts up into substantiation, the flutterings pull me to the left or right, giving a subtle yank when I veer off mark. In the linearity of prose, I find this practice more challenging. My poetry process is always initiated in uncensored blurts, but I’m being asked to stretch and refine, combine and distill. The spiritual, child-like heart blurts pure truth, often too high to be grasped. The physical ego, in its rightful place in service to the heart, is a translator, a bringer down to earth, whether in the artistic realms or any other. But when the ego usurps the heart’s leadership, which it does regularly, the heart’s truth is distorted or lost in the ether.

This is the purpose of angels, I think. They nudge and bolster the heart, and they wrestle the ego. With our invitation, they help us align our disparate parts and find a coherent signal, so that we can do what we came here to do - point straight to the moon.

So what does this have to do with coffee and dishwashers? You see, that was the original, poetic blurt, the whisperings that got this piece started. I heard them clearly, and now they are reverberating into distillation. In the outer, physical world, the coffee needed to be made. The dishwasher needed to be emptied. And yet the inner world was palpating. But they are not really separate, are they?

One Lucky Dawg

2011-04-30T10:07:00.000-07:00

This morning, as I was drinking my coffee and surveying my patio where the morning’s intense winds had knocked over several flower pots, I was suddenly moved by the thought of all the people down south right now who are surveying the broken foundations of what used to be their homes. I came in, flipped on CNN, and sure enough, that was the story…the aftermath of last week’s deadly tornadoes in Mississippi, Alabama and Tennessee. Story after story and image after image came onto the screen of the shock and trauma so many individuals and communities are in.

One of the stories on the news was a sweet old man, in his early 80’s I would guess, who had thrown himself over his crippled wife and their small dog, and held on with all his aged might, as the tornado tore his house from its foundation and tossed it 50 feet away. The wiry old man who walked with a bent frame, was telling the story in his deep southern twang, and with a big smile on his face, saying, “I’m one lucky dawg.”

A couple of days ago, I had an accident in the kitchen which resulted in me slicing off a small piece of my thumb. I had to go to the emergency room and all that, and am back at home with a bulbous bandage and a limit on my activities. It’s a small thing, really, but it has commanded center-stage of my life for these two days. It has made me realize again just how much we take for granted, and what a gift and a challenge it is to have the freedom of choice in our perceptions of things. Do we focus on the wounded thumb or the nine working digits, the busted patio plants or the house still standing?

What a wonderful way to live, thinking, “I’m one lucky dawg.”

Angels in the Sand

2011-04-29T15:39:00.000-07:00

I just got back from a long weekend at the beach. While walking along the shoreline, I kept noticing little angel shapes glistening up from the sand. They were actually the skeletal remains of crabs eaten by the long-beaked shore birds who walked with me each day.

But what I saw was angels. They whispered a deeply-layered, yet light-hearted message...

God is there in the tiniest of details.
We are never alone.
The circle of life is profound and holy art.

What you seek determines what you find, so if you want to see angels, look for them. Allow them to come into focus. Look in the unexpected places. They will surprise you.

Opening to Angels

2011-04-23T07:45:00.000-07:00

I am being directed toward more "angel" awareness as of late. Both in the inner realms, but also now in the outer, physical realms as well. I woke up early to the sound of beautiful birdsong right outside my window and had the fleeting thought that this bird was an angel singing open my joy. This was my morning meditation. Afterward, I went downstairs to make coffee, allowing the idea of this joyous angel-bird to percolate in my consciousness.

Coming back upstairs and to the computer, I opened Facebook and one of the first posts I saw was this:

"Ever felt an angel's breath in the gentle breeze? A teardrop in the falling rain? Hear a whisper amongst the rustle of leaves? Or been kissed by a lone snowflake? Nature is an angel's favorite hiding place." -- Carrie Latet

How I love a good synchronicity to drive a message home! Happy Easter, everyone.

The Wedge

2011-04-19T08:52:00.000-07:00

When you live
with a knife in your gut
long enough, it becomes
a bone, a muscle, an organ.

Planted pre-memory,
overgrown with tissue,
invisible to the naked eye,
carefully hidden under layered garments
and acceptable mannerisms,

it infects your essence,
your original, innocent essence,
with a shameful deformity,
a jagged wedge

jamming your beacon,
your holy, perfect beacon,
which throbs with all its might, and yet
the signal is skewed.

Surely there is some kind of salvation:
some grace, some mercy, some miracle,
some surgery, some tonic, some rehab,
some mantra, some practice,
some understanding, some forgiveness,
some artistic rendering

that will turn this poisoned water into wine.

© 2011 Angela Hite

Bound/Unbound

2011-03-01T10:05:00.000-08:00

A trembling woman sat gagged and blindfolded, in a small rowboat in the middle of the sea. Her hands were tied behind her, ripped and bleeding from her frantic efforts to free herself. The sea roiled and churned, as did she, still fighting, though her energy and hope were waning.

From my seat in the dark theater I watched the girl onscreen, with the gift of omnipresence. At will, I could move into her body and be her, or move out of her body and watch.

Being out of her body certainly had its advantages. I could taste the thrill of her adventure without having to directly experience her despair. I could delight in the eagle’s perch of the omniscient witness who knew a happy ending was in store. I could be her cheerleader on the sidelines while eating popcorn in a dry, temperature-controlled room.

Her story had been both tragic and heroic, a real tear-jerker. Mistakes had been made at every turn, but with each stumble there had been a lesson and a new scrap of fabric stitched into her banner. It flew now at the helm of her ship, a tattered but colorful wrag.

I loved this girl so much! And I admired her. Just like me, she had once sat in this seat weighing her options. In the end, knowing full well what she would be sacrificing, she had chosen to be in, not out here watching.

And so I made the leap.

© 2011 Angela Hite

The Real Self

2011-01-12T08:08:00.000-08:00

Here’s another elegant passage from Beatrice Bruteau’a Radical Optimism, without lengthy commentary from me. She says it all!

“We have a great deal of personal energy, but most of it is tied up in psychological self-defense, in nurturing and enhancing one’s self-image. If the only existence and being that I think I’ve got is my descriptive being, I’m going to be strongly protective of it and defend it at all costs, because that aspect of me that can be described and categorized is very fragile. It can be injured by other descriptive beings. So it’s very reasonable to be looking out for Number One.

This is why, if we want to be contemplatives and find out the truth, we have to beware of assuming that our identities are tied up in sets of descriptions, beware of supposing that if we lose our beauty, our health, our money, our job, our social role, we are therefore of no account.

Once we see that our deepest self, the real person in us, is not limited to being any one particular image-self but is actually a child of God, one who simply says “I am I, here, now” – once we really grasp that, all need for this elaborate and expensive defense system evaporates. Then we are free to love others, to will abundant being to them, to all. We no longer have to struggle to maintain a favorable balance of trade in our interactions with them in order to keep a good sense of self-feeling. Our sense of feeling good in being ourselves does not come from any kind of contrast or comparison with others. It comes directly and immediately out of our realization of being a creative act of God, simply unique and absolutely precious.”

Listen, Think, Realize

2011-01-10T12:04:00.000-08:00

“The Hindus say we should first listen, then we should think, and then we should realize.” Beatrice Bruteau, Radical Optimism.

What a meditative sentence that is! A few words that have so much revelation!

Bruteau says this as the lead sentence in a discussion about myth – with its significance on our inner world. Though she used the Hindu reference in regard to the study of pre-existing myths, it also applies to the creative process, when we tap into the Infinite for ourselves.

First, we listen. We find the channel that wants to speak inside us, and we learn to receive it. Once it has said all it wants to say, our editor kicks in, and we question, cull, and shape what we have received. And finally, we put it out into the world as something finite and tangible – a piece of writing, an experience.

Today, after reading that section from Bruteau's book, I did a writing exercise. Here’s what came.

I am in a sacred place, a tiny outdoor amphitheatre, set against a mountain. There are tiers of stone seats and trees all around the outer edge, providing a canopy and enclosure. On the theatre floor is an altar encircled by grass, a kneeling area, designed to be soft on the knees. Embers of a fire burn in the altar pit.

It's daytime and I'm here alone, waiting what may come. I kneel before the fire, the cool grass against my skin, and I receive a tender revelation - that Spirit doesn't ask of me bleeding knees. This is the first of several divine messages I am to receive, and I am awash in the sensation of kindness. I am loved. God is not the harsh taskmaster I habitually imagine “Him” to be. I invite a deeper experience of this… that it may penetrate my very essence, cleansing me of the disciplinarian that frequently exudes from me toward myself and my family.

I touch the beautifully manicured grass and admire the precision in its care, the thoughtfulness of its planting, and I receive the second divine message - God's smile travelling on the wind. She is pleased with my recognition of Her goodness. We are in communion.

The memory of Vespers from my childhood summer camp comes to me. I can feel the significance of the word itself, illuminated in my consciousness, along with memories of twilight ceremonies when we would sing acapella in layered, enthusiastic harmonies. My mind fills again with sweetness and nostalgia. And I receive the third of Spirit’s messages – that nostalgia can be used as a portal to the divine. This is the doorway that wants to open to me today.

So I allow. Vespers. Vespers. Vespers. The innocence of my youth, the sweet music at twilight, the comaraderie of blended voices, the reverence in and exuberance of nature. The uncomplicated holiness. In my internal amphitheatre, I continue to kneel and allow myself vespers.

The song that springs to mind is not one we sang at camp, but one we sang many times at church during my childhood:

Shall we gather at the river,

where bright angel feet have trod,

with its crystal tide forever

flowing by the throne of God?

Yes, we'll gather at the river,

the beautiful, the beautiful river;

gather with the saints at the river

that flows by the throne of God.

In the editorial part of my creative reverie, I googled Vespers and found that it originated from the Greek Hesperus (Venus), the evening star. I also, amazingly, stumbled upon this image of the vespers theater of the camp I attended as a child - Camp Garaywa. Nostalgia overflows!

And here is a beautiful acapella rendition of "Shall We Gather At the River" by Take 6. It is far more sophisticated than the homegrown version I heard in my head, but stunningly beautiful, nevertheless. Enjoy.

Subjective Knowing

2011-01-08T08:37:00.000-08:00

It has been a few months since I've posted anything. But this morning, I was so moved by something I read that I thought I should post it somewhere! A couple of paragraphs from one of my favorite wisdom books opened a whole passageway of thought for me this morning. Maybe they will open a channel for you, too.

From Beatrice Bruteau's Practical Optimism:

We do not face Jesus in order to know him, but rather lean back into him. Were we to face him, we would always remain outside him. We do not look at him. You can't see a subject that way. "Looking at" would turn him into an object and you would see only the surface of his being, the outside. To know the subject, you have to enter inside the subject, enter into that subject's own awareness, that is, have that same awareness yourself in your own subjectivity: "Let that mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus" (Philippians 2:5).

It is like receiving the stigmata of the crucified. You do not look at the crucified one; you yourself feel the pain in your own body. You become the crucified. Entering the heart of Jesus is like that. You don't regard the experience of Jesus, you become that experience. You yourself experience it in your subjectivity.

And here is a little verse by Swami Gnanananda, that carries the thought further:

When I reach the depth of thee,
Oh! What will happen to me?
Oh! What will happen to thee?
When I reach the depth of me
There is no longer thee or me!

In Our Nature

2010-09-15T14:51:00.000-07:00

My dear friend Randy passed away last Thursday. I wrote this for him.

In the center of the grief storm,
in the eye of the hurricane,
there is peace, I’m told,
a steadfast beam.
I feel its pull... I think I do,
as I toss about in these outer gravitations
where questions, memories, longings, regrets
pummel and bang,
dissolving into overtones of a bittersweet song.

In this purification,
a collective phantom is whirled out from behind the furniture
and lit up like a Christmas tree in spectacular self-loathing,
a hillbilly, honky-tonk haint on display,
snaggletoothed, doleful, and charming,
its unambiguous otherness a parting gift from the eye
for those of us thus threaded.
The outed ghost bellows its intimate breath
through me, shamefully clinging,
but is vacuumed away, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

A pocket of ease ensues, and pure mourning,
a freedom to breathe deeply... and change,
a now shameless homage to all that was and is
in our nature.
The voice of the never-departing clear eye,
now winking, whispers wryly,

“You’re welcome. Happy to oblige."

Planetary Shift

2010-09-02T08:41:00.001-07:00

My stars are realigning themselves.
My winds are changing.
My maps are being rewritten.
My voice is resonating into the depths of me.
My voice is becoming mine.
I am growing up.

I dream of whales, angels of my innermost sea,
lyrical, behemoth mermaids singing wisdom and grace,
encircling me
as I float on a mattress, riding the shift.

I am guided, as I begin again, create again.
I am celebrated, as I give of myself, receive myself.

The journey is so much less daunting
when taken one port at a time.
I don’t need to see the whole sky.
I can’t navigate the whole sky without distorting its image.

So I trust.
Every storm. Every buoy. Every anchor. Every oar.
I trust myself.

As I ride my little boat,
I allow myself to be taken by the waves.
I can feel lost, and not be lost.
This is important, so I must repeat it another way:
I may feel lost, but I am not lost.
My whales are with me.

For the first time in a very long time,
I have reconnected with the sensation of being
held.
It is wonderful.

© 2010 Angela Hite

Imagination and Spirituality

2010-08-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

I’m one of those folks who likes to make a mess of her books. I underline things, write in the margins, put little asterisks, exclamation points, and question marks there to indicate passages that I want to look at again.

This morning I picked up Radical Optimism by Beatrice Bruteau to read again. That’s another thing about me. I read many books two, three, four times before they are done with me. And I keep them on my shelves for years and years. I don’t loan books, because of the intimate mess I’ve made of them, and because I never know when they might call me back to them, so I need to keep them close. I will buy you a copy of a book I love, but I won’t loan you mine. Anyway, I digress.

Yesterday, Radical Optimism fell off the bookshelf, and I knew Beatrice was calling me back to her. Beatrice Bruteau is a 72-year old Christian mystic, philosopher, mathmetician, and an amazing writer. I don’t remember how I stumbled upon this book; she’s not well-known, as far as I can tell, but boy, oh boy, she packs a punch. The title alone drew me in.

This woman is no Pollyanna in her optimism. She is one of the most cutting-edge thinkers I have read, and she goes deep, deep. As a practicing Catholic with training in Vedanta and eastern religions, as well as holding doctorates in philosophy, mathematics and religion...she’s the real deal, someone I want to know more about, someone I want to study and emulate. It is one of my greatest desires to be a bridge between eastern and western thought in a way that can be relatable to my family and the Christian world, and I think Beatrice Bruteau may be a mentor for me in that quest. She said she was told at the Ramakrishna Mission in New York City that “Catholocism was Vedanta in European dress.”

But I digress again.

What I want to write about this morning is about the power of the imagination, which came to my attention as I opened Bruteau’s book and landed on one of my asterisked pages. In the late 80’s I read a Jungian book called Inner Work: Using Dreams and Active Imagination for Personal Growth by Robert A Johnson. I was studying psychology at Pepperdine University (another tributary down my spiritual river), having intense, archetypal dreams, and wanting to know more. In hindsight, I see that this book was a turning point, in many ways, for me.

This was the first time I really understood the importance of the imagination in spiritual practice. Up until then, my consciousness held the imagination as child’s play, something to be outgrown, unless you were an artist, which I didn’t see myself as, at the time. And I certainly didn’t see the imagination as a force to be harnessed for spiritual purposes. I was yearning for spiritual encounter – the movement of spiritual thought and belief into real experiential phenomenon, the experience of Jesus, for example, not just the belief in and respect of his teachings. But it never occurred to me that the imagination can be a portal to that kind of encounter. As a matter of fact, I held the imagination in disdain with regard to spirituality. People who “dreamed up” their stories about meeting Jesus or being visited by angels (or the devil) were bogus to me, the most dangerous kind of liars.

Johnson, a Jungian scholar, however, introduced me to the therapeutic technique called Active Imagination in which you actively engage with the images that rise up in your mind and dialogue with them. It involves an encounter with the images, and can be amazingly eye-opening. Our imaginations operate in the realm of symbols, and uncovering what those symbols mean can truly be a spiritual experience.

Becoming awake to this idea transformed my life. It opened the door to spiritual encounter for me, drove me to learn more about hypnosis and guided imagery, and directed me toward a more creative and mystical life. Creativity, beauty, mystery and spiritual exploration are co-mingled within me now as a current that directs my life and has provided me with so much more daily juice for living. I am simply bored to distraction with the mechanical surface of things. Take me deep! That’s where the good stuff is!

So here is my asterisked passage from Beatrice Bruteau that is the meditative focus of my day, and that drove me to write all this:

“The imagination is a very important part of us. I don’t know whether it quite gets its full due from us, whether we take it seriously enough. You may be aware that Emil Coue’ (of ‘Every day in every way I’m getting better and better’ fame) said that whenever there is a conflict between the will and the imagination, the imagination always wins. ‘It is,’ he said, ‘an absolute rule that admits of no exceptions. We only cease to be puppets when we have learned to guide our imagination. Every one of our thoughts, good or bad, becomes concrete, materializes and becomes, in short, a reality.’ You may try by sheer willpower to do something or resist something, but if you cannot convert the imagination to the desired position, you will probably not attain what you have willed.”

She goes on to give examples of the truth of this, both in the positive and in the negative, and the phenomenon of the placebo effect, which people toss off as being “all in the mind” without recognizing the powerful mechanics that make the placebo effect so important. And then she makes this summary statement:

“All this is simply to say that the imagination is powerful, and therefore it is important. We live out of our imaginations. We may think or wish that we lived out of our intellect and will, but actually the proximate cause of our behavior is the imagination. It is what lies next door to our contact with the external or public world. Therefore, it is important for us to cultivate the imagination, to take care of it, to feed it properly, protect it, discipline it, train it....We need to become aware of the role of our imagination in our eveyday, inner life. We should spend more time just watching it until we learn what sorts of things it does, and understand how it is connected to our speech, body language, and behavior. We should observe what kind of reveries and fantasies we revolve in our minds when they are free-wheeling. These will accumulate and build on their predecessors until they have constructed a whole world, which for our undiscriminating subconscious mind is indistinguishable from reality.”

In the newly emerging field of evolutionary spirituality (in which Bruteau is one of a handful of leading voices), the belief is that we have reached a unique juncture in evolution, where the next great jump for humanity is in our consciousness, not in our physical structure, and that we must be consciously engaged in the process and direction of our species now. Bruteau calls this:

"...the Grand Option" when we will either choose to go forward "into the creation of higher level unities, or else it will eventually fall back into the dispersed homogeneity of maximal entropy. It all depends," she says, "on what we choose to do."

Creative, positive, active imagination could not be more needed in all of history than now. Hardly child's play.

Miss Priss

2010-07-22T06:41:00.001-07:00

We channeled Harper Lee (To Kill a Mockingbird) in our writing group today. Here's what came for me:

Miss Priss. That’s what she called me, and it wasn’t fair. She didn’t even know me. She could’a called me honey, or darlin’, or sweetie pie, or any of the usual sugary names that people use when they don’t know you and feel a need to talk down to you a little bit but not so much as to hurt your feelings. Or she could’a actually found out my name – Sable Martin Jenkins. I would’a liked to have heard my name spoken out loud by her with her yankee accent. Sable. It might have had a nice ring to it. I said hers – Jabeen Duncan. She might’a liked the way I said it, too, if she’d have just given me a chance.

But no. What I got was Miss Priss. She said it with a little snarl in her voice, a little teeny snarl, like she thought I wouldn’t be smart enough to catch it. But I caught it.

I wondered if she’d ever had to pump water from a well or tote it to the house when the ground was frozen, trying not to slip down and break your neck. I wondered if she’d ever lay under so many quilts that you couldn’t lift your legs up off the bed, but still have your teeth chatter all night. I wondered if she’d ever had a pony die in your arms, his big, sick nostrils drooling into your shirtfront, his big, sad eyes beseeching you for a miracle, or if she ever had to wear boots two sizes too big cuz they was what you were given and you’d better damn well be grateful.

I wasn’t a Miss Priss. Just because I could read a newspaper didn’t mean I knew what it said. I could form the words. I could say the words out loud in a way that made the grownups nod their heads and wink at my mother. I don’t know how I came to be able to do this. I just could.

There weren’t nothing else Miss Priss about me. My face was covered in freckles. My legs were covered in bug bites and scratches. My fingernails were chewed down to the nubs. And as of yesterday my hair was a true bowl cut, my grandmother having put the bowl on my head and cut round the brim, leaving my tangled curls to fall on the floor. She made me sweep them up and throw them in the fire, saying nothing good could come from long red hair.

I imagined Jabeen to be the Miss Priss with her long black hair. I bet she was taking a bath right now in a big old tub with hot water and bubbles, her hair tied up with a little ribbon on top of her head. I bet her pajamas were store-bought with snap closures and eyelet lace trim, with little houseshoes and a housecoat to match. And I bet, for sure, she was thinking about herself and her very fine life, not spending another single minute pondering the hows and wherefores of the little Miss Priss who had accidentally stolen her thunder on their very first day of school.

Woman on the Brink

2010-07-15T10:15:00.001-07:00

There she was, right out on the edge of the pirate’s plank, blindfolded and waiting, the question imprinted on the interior of her eyelids, “What am I willing to surrender now?” She had made a stand…and all hell had broken loose. The energy around her was whirling and volatile.

Her surface thoughts were about what to do next. Should she jump or wait to be pushed? If she were not blindfolded, what would she see waiting? Hungry sharks ready to devour? Some manly savior in a rowboat? They were opposite ends of the same worn rope.

No, this complex God she had fashioned now urged her to simplify, to simply stand still, feel what she felt, let the next step happen of its own accord. It was time to be fully female, an optimistic and courageous vessel, open to receive the gift of where she was and where she’d been, open to trust the gift in what would come next.

So she answered the question. She was willing to surrender her dark imaginings. Perhaps she wasn’t out on a plank at all. Perhaps she was the masthead.

The Invisible Woman

2010-07-01T06:50:00.000-07:00

She sits in the park
in a second-hand sweatsuit,
her face extraordinarily ordinary,
her hands the withered veterans
of seven vigorous decades,

now blowing bubbles
from a dime-store bottle,
her eyes, had they been delved,
the lively couriers
of timeless passion,

amidst a string of passersby
who nod in her direction
with blank and passive smiles,
ignorant to the metaphor,
the deliberate, diaphanous blessing,

the sheer magic in a plastic wand
that could only come
from a formerly visible woman
who had wrestled with that devil
and won.

Power Wear

2010-06-17T07:54:00.000-07:00

Dar Kwan the Ancient sits before the council fire. The ceremony has just begun. Two braves come forward carrying the ceremonial headdress, which is large and heavy, encrusted with river stones, sea shells, and bones, and plumed with tall, shimmering feathers. When the headpiece is placed on the waning Elder’s head, his presence grows massive.

“I am Dar Kwan,” he says, eyes closed, “Leader of the Last Tribe, Elder of the Melting Nations, Servant of the Great Wind that breathes across our world.”

The group responds, “You are Dar Kwan, Brother of the Wind, Singer of the Spirit, Keeper of the Fire.”

Dar Kwan opens his eyes and gazes around the circle, looking deep into the eyes of each council member. The immense headpiece weighs heavily on his head, straining his worn neck, but Dar Kwan holds steady.

Drums are struck and the chanting begins. Dar Kwan waits for the words of spirit to rise up in his throat, but nothing comes. The headpiece grows cumbersome, and Dar Kwan’s great nemesis – Doubt – makes a visit.

“You should not be Elder,” Doubt whispers into Dar Kwan’s ear. “The Elder always knows what to speak. The Elder’s neck should be strong, and not notice the weight of the headdress.”

In his mind, Dar Kwan the Ancient bows to his opponent, then meets his stare, “I honor your presence, worthy Daemon. It has been a long time. As I see you, and as I hear your words, I am shown that I still have work to complete on this earth. My neck must grow stronger, my listening deeper. You bring me great medicine, so I bow and am grateful.”

Dar Kwan again looks around the fire. He hears the guttural chants, the grunts and wails, the pounding of the drums. Smoke fills his nostrils and his eyes take in the firelight. Still, no words come forward. After awhile, the drums and chants begin to wane, as do the leaping flames, and Doubt makes another advance, but Dar Kwan is now well past Doubt’s reach, deep into the listening silence, awaiting the spirit song.

But nothing comes. More time passes and the last embers cool, leaving only moonlight by which to see. It shines on Dar Kwan’s giant head and iron neck, as steady now as they were hours before. The council, too, is hushed and infinitely still, as they receive the song of Dar Kwan’s silence. All are blessed. All are blessed. The Melting World receives what is, and what has been, and what will be forever more.

As the sun begins to rise, Dar Kwan’s Doubt bows before the mighty Elder… and is swept away in the wind.

Nest

2010-05-12T21:40:00.000-07:00

this artifact of twigs and string and mud and spit
the occasional sparkly find, pedestaled
amidst the bric-a-brac
this woven home
is tainted

but i bulge with eggs, consumed with pre-fruition
lost in the belly of what could be
i need to squat and produce
i need to be safe
undivided

this one-wing heaving off
as the other covers my eyes
and keeping everybody fed
is harder than it used to be

The Art of Surrender

2010-02-24T15:31:00.000-08:00

A bud is opening - this stem of possibility,
this stream of nutrition, this breach of the dam,
this willingness to drown, this wild and dangerous spill.

The mammoth sea rouses and words pour out like fish,
like birds, like reptiles, like the subatomic zoo
in a gush of blood.

The heart is a volcano.

This allness is brinking.
This everything takes over.
This small eye is blinded as the Seer looks out.

In the fathomless stillness, this aspirant reaching branch,
wrapped in a cloud, wrapped in a pillow of air and water and love,
dissolves.

Breathing, I am breathed on, breathed in, breathed through,
in the soft art of surrender. I yield to grace.
This naked branch of a winter tree allows itself to bloom.

© 2010 Angela Hite

Depth Charge #3: Interconnectedness

2010-02-03T12:29:00.000-08:00

Depth Charge #3: Interconnectedness from angela hite on Vimeo.

Joy, No Matter What

2010-01-29T08:48:00.000-08:00

I’m writing about joy again today, because sometimes we learn by teaching, and I need to learn this subject. I need to learn it the most when I’m overcome by negative emotions that seem to preclude it: sorrow, fury, and frustration being the three that have me by the neck at the moment.

I had a pretty nasty fight with my daughter this morning. It is too tangled and too personal to go into detail about, but I will say that it was one of those barnburner type of fights, the sort that take a while to bounce back from. Fury and frustration reigned supreme. Though emotions did settle enough for me to say “I love you,” by the time she got out of the car for school, she couldn’t respond in kind. What fifteen-year-old could? She slammed the door and walked away without looking back.

And now that I am here alone in the house trying to sort myself out, I feel sorrow swell up in my throat and extend itself outward to swallow up my whole life and all the things that are currently not right with it. And that list seems really long this morning. Emotions are like that. When they rise up with intensity, they spread out and blanket perception about everything. The whole world looks bleak to me right now.

But right here is the spiritual practice, I can feel it. How can I move from these engulfing negative emotions into a place of joy?

Joy, No Matter What is the title of a book by transpersonal psychologist Carolyn Hobbs. I read an excerpt of it at http://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/, which, along with other articles on the subject of “joy” moved me to make it my current spiritual focus. The title alone hooked me. If I could learn joy in the midst of all the turmoil life has been throwing at me lately, what a powerful gift that would be!

Hobbs quotes Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron:

"Authentic joy is not a euphoric state or a feeling of being high. Rather, it is a state of appreciation that allows us to participate fully in our lives."

So that is the goal. Not the gushing kind of visceral joy I wrote about yesterday. When I can have that, great. (And I still want it!) But today, in this moment, I’m going for the appreciation of being alive, of having emotions, of having relationships, even though they are often messy. I can have the joy of growth, of sitting in this chair working myself out. I can have the joy of recognizing and honoring my own courage and wisdom and tender-heartedness that are there underneath the dark emotions, but are already moving up and above the negative timberline, just by giving my attention to them.

Hobbs says this:

“Joy is always present. No matter what is happening around us, or what feelings are moving through us, Joy is always present. It simply gets covered up by lesser states of mind. Joy is our true nature, our natural birthright. We simply need to access it.”

And there you go. I've given joy my attention and my intention. And I've been met there by grace. Joy has come to me, live, in this writing. I am deeply grateful. Now it is time to pay bills, which will, no doubt, provide me numerous more times to practice.

Gushing with Joy

2010-01-28T09:56:00.000-08:00

I'm working with an affirmation about joy. I need more of it, so I'm thinking about it, opening to it. My affirmation is almost embarrassing, which tells me that it is a good one, one I need to work with: I gush with joy.

There's something visceral about the idea of gushing. And I want it to be visceral. I want to feel joy in my skin and bones. I want joy to pulse through my bloodstream, shiver in my spine. As I stated in my little video about this subject, joy is nourishment, and I need that nourishment right now.

It's amazing to me, though, as I let joy become my spiritual practice, what a loaded concept it is! I can sense a feeling of guilt about wanting joy (not even feeling joy, just wanting to feel joy). That righteous, but somewhat mean-spirited voice in me says, "How dare you seek joy for yourself when so much of the world is suffering?"

I have an innate connection with suffering, though. Always have. The world's suffering pours through me like water. The Haiti devastation has been a ragged tear on my heart. And, of course, that is a good thing. Without the ability to feel another's suffering, compassion is just a mental concept, not a fire that burns in us, activating us to help where we can.

But joy is energy, nourishment, food for the soul. Without the counterbalance of joy in our lives, we are sucked into a dark, downward spiral. It is hard to be of service to the world from that kind of hole.

So I am practicing joy. I am giving my attention to it. I am intending it. I am offering it. I am smiling, laughing, putting myself into a mindset of gratitude and humor. And I'm learning to be receptive to grace sending little doses of joy my way. Here's a quote I happened upon this morning while looking at someone else's blog. It graced me with joy, inspiring me to write this piece.

"I used to wait for a sign,” she said, “before I did anything. Then, one night I had a dream, and an angel in black tights came to me and said, ‘You can start any time now,’ and then I asked, ‘Is this a sign?’ and the angel started laughing, and I woke up. Now, I think the whole world is filled with signs, but if there's no laughter, I know they're not for me." --Brian Andreas

So I send you this blessing. May you, too, be filled with joy, as much as you can hold. And may you be able to hold more each day!

Depth Charge #1: Perspective

2010-01-19T20:24:00.000-08:00

Depth Charge #1: Perspective from angela hite on Vimeo.

Depth Charge #2: Joy

2010-01-19T09:20:00.000-08:00

Depth Charge #2: Joy from angela hite on Vimeo.

Marrow

2010-01-06T06:48:00.000-08:00

What if the homeless, the raped,
the war-torn, the starving
are the shining ones?

What if, from above,
they saw the fiery marrow
and chose its dense instruction?

Wouldn’t our luminaries
seem lost, lackluster, lamentable?
Wouldn’t we bow before the foulest feet?

We are all burned down, one by one.
What if the hardest hit
are nearest release?

© 2009 Angela Hite

Orion's Blessings #19: What Do You Need to Hear Today?

2010-01-04T20:25:00.000-08:00

Cause and effect.
That is the unadorned operation of the universe.
Concern yourself with cause
and witness the poetry of effect.
It is a deceptively simple message,
but there is great depth in the belly of this beast.
Like Jonah,
you must allow yourself to be swallowed up,
inside the cavernous core,
where you will hear the heart of your connection to the world.
There are many voices there,
many intriguing melodies.
Discernment requires stillness
and the planting of your feet
in the staunch position of
I AM.
Listen with the ears of compassion.
You will hear the hungers of the world.
Listen with the ears of wisdom.
You will hear the ancients’ instructions.
Listen with the ears of integrity.
You will know your next step.
Listen with the ears of hope.
You will experience the melt of your long-encrusted sadness
and catch a glimpse of your sparkling future.
The ears of cause.
The melody of effect.
What do you need to hear today?

Orion's Blessings #9

2009-12-31T21:29:00.000-08:00

This seems like an appropriate post for starting the New Year. (See previous Orion's Blessings post below for more information about this series of poems).

Make this day your day.
Where you are should be honored
for there are many who need you,
many to whom a yogi would seem untouchable
or fraudulent.
Continue to climb,
but do not discount your place on the mountain.
There are many who need you!
Hear this!
I AM is with you.
All is well.
Find the opening in your heart to spontaneity
and keep your attention on that pathway,
not on your doubt.
You are ready.
You can serve.
You are needed.
I AM is with you.

© 2003 Angela Hite

Peace

2009-12-23T23:09:00.000-08:00

Orion's Blessings #1

2009-12-22T09:56:00.000-08:00

In October, 2003, I "received" 22 poems in a series of automatic writing exercises, one a day, for 22 days. They were spontaneously written with the left hand. I found them to be truly remarkable, and I use the word "received" because they have a different voice than my voice, and felt as though they were sent to me for my spiritual instruction. I have shared them with only a handful of people, but it feels right to post some of them now. The name, Orion's Blessings was also "received."

I knew nothing about Orion, other than that there was a constellation of stars called Orion's Belt, and that the name Orion referred to a character in Greek mythology who was labeled "the hunter." Just today, as I prepared to put up this post, I did a little bit of research and discovered that each year, around Oct. 21 there is a series of meteor showers originating from Orion, called the Orionids. My first writing was on Oct. 19.

Borne on the wings of bright stars, I bring you tidings.
Gone are the transgressions of old.
Heaped upon you now are the sweet seasons of bliss.
Burn your memories of weakness in the Candlemas
and alight yourselves with joy.

Dust is not death. Be not afraid.
Neither angst nor falter.
Open, as the sun shines across your face,
and accept what comes with confident jubilation.
I AM is with you, bright angel.

Hold not to small images, nor faint with ideas of vain glory.
Deep within and now surfacing is the force of your structure.
It bursts forth at your calling.
We have heard you always.
Now you shall know and manifest great things.
It is your time.

© 2003 Angela Hite

Letting Go

2009-12-17T21:38:00.000-08:00

you don't have to be a hero every minute
head high above the tumult
serene and supreme in the storm

this is a flesh and blood experience
and surgery can't be a happy thing
till the knife is fully out

you can cry if you want to
you can rage and shake your fist
you can curl up into a ball

do whatever you need
and just for a little while
let righteousness be damned

but, try, try to remember
I'm there in the whispers
the ones you take for granted

in this flesh and blood experience
as death gives way to life
you are not alone

© 2009 Angela Hite

Little Happinesses

2009-12-02T11:27:00.001-08:00

Here’s how grace works: a friend sends me a note she has written to herself about experiencing the little happinesses that life has to offer. Somehow, the timing of it, the context within which she tells it, and the fact that she’s a friend whose wisdom I value, make me hear, on a deep level, the simple phrase: little happinesses.

This is not a brand new thought, obviously. How many times have we used the cliché, “Stop and smell the roses,” for example? But that’s where grace comes in. Grace breathes life into the phrase and makes it bold and dynamic in my consciousness, a little catch-phrase that has gotten stuck in repeat mode. A mantra. And an answer to prayer.

I’m going through some stuff. Who isn’t, right? I’m experiencing some mid-life questions about my value and my path, which often feels obscured. I’m overwhelmed by some things: health worries, money worries, family strife. And then there are all those pervasive existential questions about the mess the world is in and whether or not we’ll be able to fix it in time. This is a diffuse blanket of fear that seems to float over many of us sensitive types, tamping down our life force, while simultaneously revving up a kind of desperation to get into action. I get bogged down, clogged up, and seriously anxious. I get depressed. I can’t seem to move or breathe really deeply.

But grace breathes into me, and I discover that little happinesses are doable and prevalent, once I lift my eyes up. Yesterday, after dropping my daughter off at school, I drove down Mulholland Drive and through Las Virgines Canyon just for fun. Fall comes late in Southern California, so we are right now getting those radiant autumn leaves and that golden autumn light. Yesterday was absolutely spectacular. I made a conscious decision to indulge myself for almost two hours just soaking up all that beauty. I took my camera. I shot pictures. I stopped the car at various points and got out to sniff the air. I turned the radio up loud and sang along. It was glorious.

I got the experience through and through that little happinesses are like vitamin pills or adrenaline shots. They provide energy, a frequency boost. I came away from my little outing feeling as though I had been on vacation. My heart was full and my eyes were bright. I felt like my young self again. I felt I could conquer the world. Heck, I could save it single-handedly! The intensity wore off as the day went on, and I became a normal human again rather than a superhero, but I got through the day feeling good. Feeling good! And then, last night, on my way to yoga, I was almost unable to drive, I was so struck by the beauty of the giant full moon.

As I’m writing this, I’m tuned into the awareness that little happinesses are also like stepping stones to the big reveal. One of my creative challenges is that I’m a big idea gal (in case you hadn’t guessed that by the superhero remarks). My dreams are big, big, and we need big idea folks in this world, so I’m happy to be one. But the creative challenge for me is to be able to take my big sky concepts and translate them into small, actionable steps. The devil is truly in the daily details for those of us whose passion is fed by the grand vision. But the grand vision can’t come to fruition without the daily details. And manifestation is the goal, yes? Manifestation is what we are put here to do. We are not meant to be clogged up and bogged down. We are meant to create!

So I’m committing to a daily dose. One little happiness a day. My bills may get paid a tad late. I may not get all the laundry done. I may let some people down, at least in the short term, as they adjust to this new me. And I may have to work at it a little bit, to relearn where the little happinesses are hidden.

But in this moment I’m keenly aware that they are right in front of me and can be felt through a simple decision to feel them. My tea is a little happiness. This speedy computer with all its cool fonts is a little happiness. My cozy socks. Today’s clouds that hold the potential of rain. These are all little happinesses that will feed me if I let them.

Thank you, dear Diana, for being the friend who used that phrase at exactly the right time and in exactly the right way for me to hear it. Thank you, dear God, for filling that phrase with meaning and providing me one small doable action that can change everything. That already has changed everything.

Listening

2009-11-23T05:53:00.000-08:00

“There is guidance for each of us,
And by lowly listening
We shall hear the right word…”

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

I sometimes get lost. (“No, duh,” my daughter would say.)

One of the ways I get lost is forgetting that I have a lighthouse within me. Sometimes the clouds are so heavy and dark that I can’t see the light. A few days (or sometimes even a few minutes) lost in the dark and I forget what the light feels like. If I buy into the belief that I am lost, I begin to doubt that I ever knew where I was going! Such is the confusion that the clouds can bring.

But I want the light so badly! So I go searching everywhere for it. Often, through grace, an outside inspirational source (a book, a piece of art, a conversation with a friend) will mirror back to me the light that is within me, and I will remember it again.

Today, though, I am reminded that when I can’t see the light, I can listen for it. I can quiet myself. I can ask for guidance, and then I can listen inside myself for the answers. It may take a little while to settle the voices of resistance and negativity (those clouds are full of dark thunder). And the answers to my questions may not come in the instantaneous form of that old Magic 8 Ball, with a clear response imprinted upon my consciousness. The answers more often come as a dialogue, a communion with my deepest self. There is a gentle unfolding of wisdom, arising out of humility, an openness, a loving engagement with my spirit. I know for sure (because the clouds have burned away at this moment) that there is an eternal beacon inside me. I have remembered my way again.

© 2009 Angela Hite

The Dog Ate My Homework

2009-11-05T08:31:00.000-08:00

The dog ate my homework
and other such excuses
just won’t cut it today.
Today there is a window into deeper worlds
cocooned in the fog,
and I don’t want to miss it
quibbling over trivia
or splashing about in shallow waters.
I don’t want to get snagged by duty right now.
I want to dive down,
be carried down, down with the currents
into the black dark grappling
where creatures who’ve learned self-luminescence
will teach me, touch me
call forth my brilliance,
call it up and out.
In the dark I can see it, own it,
practice sustaining it,
so that in the light I can rely on it,
wield it with confidence.

© 2009 Angela Hite

My Name is Angela

2009-10-26T08:34:00.000-07:00

Angel-a. Of the angels.
I am a messenger of God.
So I was named, intended into being.
So I have pushed against.
So I have magnetized toward.
Yearned to be. Rejected. Reconsidered.
Chosen.

I have spent half a century wrestling with angels.
Seeking my purpose. Seeking communion.
They whisper to me now,
“We weren’t wrestling, you idiot,
we were dancing.”

Perhaps the message I bring,
the one they have thumped into my head
and I have finally, finally deciphered is this -

Trust your process.
Dance with your angels.
Be who you are.

© 2009 Angela Hite

Activate Your Voice

2009-10-23T11:42:00.000-07:00

Even the darkest heart
has a seed of light
luminescent to its guardians
singing lullabyes in the deep,
calling forth the reflective drum
against which their sound can rise.

In the beginning was the word,
and the word was with God.
And the word was God.

Angels are calling.
Open your throat.
Reverberate their song.
Activate your voice.

© 2009 Angela Hite

Primal Vibrational Healing 2

2009-10-22T14:32:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago I wrote about my experience of vibrational medicine with the Aboriginal healer and musician, Jeremy Donovan (see Friday, August 21 entry). Since then, vibrational healing has become a spiritual path for me, with a variety of insights and encounters that have come about because of it. I want to try to capture some of those experiences and share them, starting with today’s writing about my second meeting with Jeremy.

This session was similar to the first in terms of treatment steps (conversation, then the didgeridoo ceremony and prayer) but with greater intensity and a much more direct focus on purification, including the burning of sage and eucalyptus for their cleansing smoke. I came in with a bit of a cough and sluggishness from having had the flu, as well as some specific emotional concerns I wanted to release, so this emphasis was exactly what I was hoping for.

Deep, sustained breath work is a key component in the healing process of Jeremy’s work. As I began to go into a light trance from the hyperventilation, Jeremy placed some wet Australian clay on my forehead that began to dry and tighten, signifying the drawing out from my body those impurities that were ready to be released. As he played the rumbling didgeridoo, my interior experience became that of a giant pulsing "roto-rooter" working its way head to toe, down through my skin, bones and cells, into the trenches of body/mind, grinding away at deep existential sorrows and personal self-doubts. I began to violently cough. The cough then turned into groans, which continued throughout the session, the sound of them matching the pitch and tempo of Jeremy’s musical phrasing, which made that roto-rooter sensation even more profound and very interactive.

At the end, when the vibrations ceased, this great heaviness lifted from me, and I started giggling hysterically, in long, uncontrollable guffaws. I am something of an empath, having always felt very intensely the suffering of the world, but it is much less common for me to feel this kind of utter joy, so I let it all come out – waves of unabashed euphoria. At one point the thought occurred to me that I might sound a little crazy, maybe a lot crazy, but there was no stopping the laughter! It went on and on.

Now, I know that there are some sexual overtones in the language I’ve used here, and just in case your eyebrows are lifting as you read this, I want to make it clear that this was not a sexual experience, even though there was an orgasmic quality to it, for sure! Aboriginal spirit medicine is earthy and physical, and dear Jeremy is a gentle soul who creates a safe emotional environment for his clients to experience whatever they need, without judgment. We westerners, on the other hand, have such a psychological split from our bodies that we tend to distance our minds from them very puritanically or run completely amok with them hedonistically. For me, a fairly modest, middle-aged woman, letting all decorum fall away and entering into that depth of an organic experience, was so freeing that it is utterly worth the embarrassment of trying to describe it.

This light bulb of body/mind integration is truly revelatory and life-altering.

On Loneliness

2009-10-16T08:18:00.000-07:00

we’re so entwined
that I am you, don’t you see?
every soft thought
is my kiss

make love your breath
in and out and in

isolation is a crucible
a simmering teacher
don’t leap from the stew
till the lesson is complete

© 2009 Angela Hite

Wandering Soul

2009-09-27T12:10:00.000-07:00

Mercy

2009-09-03T15:01:00.000-07:00

There is mercy in every bloom,
in the om of every throbbing thing,
in the dark and in the light,
in gravity.

God All Encompassing understands
mercy's weave, its infinite door,
its natural threshold.
But we particulates must learn.

And eventually we do, by passing through
the hell of our need to receive it.
We face our secret torments,
unearth our deep despair.

We see down the well all the way,
and at last, we look with kind eyes.
We lean into lightning, lions,
and crack wide open, sparrows.

Mercy knits through our fabric,
whispers ancestral into heaving shadows,
lighting up ghosts
with a slow burning candle.

Mercy does, and mercy is.
A holy realm, a home.
And none arrives until we all arrive,
when we learn we all are one.

© 2009 Angela Hite

My Life's Work

2009-08-28T08:25:00.000-07:00

Though I wrote this poem a couple of winters ago, I am posting it today to remind myself of the value of writing poetry. I struggle with it, I will admit. The world we live in is so fast and furious that few really sit with poetry long enough to let it speak...and yet, it has spoken to me so many times - both as writer and as reader. Poetry becomes meditation when we let it. And yet, I resist....

My Life's Work

Another mad morning lurks,
taps my watch face, indignant-
duties’ demands digitized
to the minute.

But I refuse to miss the myst -
the tangled silhouette of winter trees
made brilliant by the backlight
of ardent sky.

This ‘tween-time of the faeries
is still real to me,
and not just real but vital -
my life’s work.

I feel it as a gate tickled open,
concrete giving way to garden,
where weeds need pulling,
seeds need sowing.

I’ve been wrestling with the value
of this pull toward poetry -
what possible worth it has in a
world of soldiers.

It must be about this quiet dwelling,
hidden inside these hollows,
and the winged ones who whisper truce

like breath.

It must be that the method should match
the message - the lyrical flutter of wings,
the subtle call of the hungry bloom
deep behind the walls.

© February 2008 Angela Hite

Primal Vibrational Healing (See Post Below)

2009-08-21T16:17:00.001-07:00

We Are Resonant

2009-08-21T07:47:00.001-07:00

Two days ago I signed up for what might be thought of by the average person as a rather bizarre experience. I went to see a sound healer, an aboriginal, world-class didgeridoo-playing sound healer!

If you’ve seen any movies set in Australia or documentaries of the Australian Outback, you’ve probably heard the low, rumbling, guttural sounds of the didgeridoo. There is something about this sound that is very primal and hypnotic…and I like primal and hypnotic! So I signed up for a 1.5 hour treatment with one of Australia’s most acclaimed digeridoo players, Jeremy Donovan, who just happened to be visiting some of my yoga friends in Woodland Hills.

Here's what happened. We spent the first half-hour or so talking. Jeremy told me some of the wisdom teachings of his culture, as well as his life story and how he came to find his purpose in the world (an inspirational tale that needs to be heard first-hand). Then, for a full hour this master musician played the giant vibrating didgeridoo over my body. I lay on the floor covered in a blanket with my eyes closed, while he played at full blast, using the circular breathing technique necessary to sustain the sound, and rotating the end of the horn in circles just inches away from my skin so that my body absorbed the vibrations. He also played a native American flute and prayed aloud for me in his lilting indigenous language. My body literally quivered for an hour, and my mind went deep into a receptive trance, attuned to the heartfelt, prayerful, focused healing attention Jeremy sent my way. While this may all sound rather radical, it was a gentle, strangely soothing experience, though I heaved with emotions at various times. When it was over, I was a little bit giddy! And my physical exuberance lasted for several days. I still feel it, actually, though it is more like lesser waves now. Everything is settling back down.

Those are the basics of the outer experience. The inner experience (my receptive experience) is much harder to describe, but I want to try. The healing aspects of it are continuing to reveal themselves to me, but I want to make this one point that was literally like a burst of consciousness for me, and it is this: we are resonant beings.

We are resonant beings! If we just meditated on that and let it reveal itself, there is so much to learn and experience! Now, of course, I knew this intellectually already. Our bodies pulse and vibrate. We send and absorb "vibes" every day…and there are certain people and places we feel as though we resonate with, music and art we resonate toward, etc.

But that is all mental knowledge. The experiential knowledge of deliberate, targeted, healing energy has, if you'll pardon the pun, blown my mind. I've been shaken loose. I'm all shook up! I just feel so grateful to be alive, and I'm suddenly wide awake to the desire of nurturing my life force, honoring and caretaking my physical self, and being attuned to the quality of energy in my environment. My thoughts, emotions, abilities, and usefulness to this world are all directly tied to the strength of my life-force, my energy, my resonance.

My yoga teacher, Diana Lang, says the purpose of yoga is to increase the body’s capacity to hold the energy of light. I understand this so much better now. The more we nurture this spiritual energy that resonates through us, the stronger it becomes and the longer we can hold on to it. We become Light Bearers - deliberately, consciously holding light, bringing light into everything we do and to everyone we meet. We are not just seekers of light. We are alive with light!

The next step in my spiritual evolution is to allow the body to play its proper role. Spirituality isn’t just a mind thing. It isn’t just a heart thing. It’s a body thing, too. This may not be that revolutionary of an idea to you. And on an intellectual level, I guess it isn’t to me either.

But on a soul level, the door feels flung open wide.

On the Subject of Dissatisfaction...

2009-08-20T08:03:00.000-07:00

There is such a thing as holy dissatisfaction, I think. That kind of yearning that takes you deeper into your soul to ask questions, to seek greater meaning, to grow.

But there is also “unholy” dissatisfaction – the “grass is always greener over there” mentality that will not allow you to enjoy and appreciate where you are.

This is one of those basic paradoxes of life that we can get pretty tangled up in, but is also an enormous spiritual passage. How can I love where I am while continuing to look to the horizon?

The Calling

2009-08-18T21:48:00.000-07:00

In the wee morning hours
I hear The Calling,
made indecipherable, alas,
by the garbled warble
of ego’s bugle.

But there in the background,
felt as a hum of remembrance,
a palm-frond whisper,
a soft hand on the wall waiting,
beats the alternate universe
of freedom.

And I, the prisoner-general,
breathe out from fear’s post to
kneeling novitiate inward,
out and in, in and out,
surrendering,
surrendering,
surrendering more,
allowing the concrete to crumble as it will.

© 2007 Angela Hite

Meditative Spaces

2009-08-16T09:36:00.001-07:00

August 3, 2009
Descanso Gardens
La Canada, California

Ranting

2009-08-15T09:03:00.000-07:00

Ranting is a superficial activity.
Ranters are illusionists,

escape artists pretending to participate.
Real change comes when we stay.
When we sit down at the dirty table.
When we bow.
When we quietly and steadfastly

roll up our sleeves.

Reflectors

2009-07-27T21:56:00.000-07:00

Darkness descended and all candles died out. A few dogged optimists sat in huddles and talked light, remembered light, imagined light. They laughed purposefully and protractedly so the light would eek out from their mouths. Moths encircled them.

Eventually, embers grew and the stars relit. The age-old question, “does a falling tree make a sound if there’s no one to hear it?” was finally resolved.

With bright eyes those silly fools brought back the sun.

When the Tide Is Out

2009-07-26T08:47:00.000-07:00

when the tide is out
and the sand is
lonely

when I am not yet me
breaking onto shore
with the latest report

but me sniffing brine
yearning toward the horizon
hungry for the catch

I must remember I am
at every peak and bobble
participant

roiling silent inside the deep
frothing white-capped for the masthead
cargo giddy in the sparkling shallows

I must remember I am
at every peak and bobble
I am

© 2009 Angela Hite

2009-07-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

i found god in myself
and i loved her.
i loved her fiercely.

--poet Ntozake Shange

My Date With Grace

2009-07-23T06:01:00.000-07:00

Grace awaits
In the morning mist, ready to be inhaled.
Grace awaits
In my honeyed tea, ready to be swallowed.
Grace awaits
In the caw of the backyard birds,
In the whiff of orange blossoms and cut grass,
In the feel of this old dog’s coat, my Angel, who
Nuzzles close as I write.
Grace awaits me.
So I come and kneel,
Tangled, laden and aquiver.
She licks clean my coltish skin.
I unclench.

…And a deeper medicine is poured.

She tells me she reveals herself
In the images I will accept.
Pretty ones.
Lofty ones.
Yet now I must embrace
The sand and the smoke,
The murky waters, the darkest dream,
For in these, too, she lives.
I clench.
I don’t want her dirty fingernails
And her tattered black dress!
I want her to lift me up
And set me on a hill!
But Grace has her way with me.
Softly and tenderly,
Softly and tenderly,
Softly and tenderly,
She chews me up and spits me out.
And in this throbbing puddle
There remains a fragile openness
Out of which I can rise,
And crawl,
And walk,
And climb.

© 2008 Angela Hite

Made Maid

2009-06-22T07:06:00.000-07:00

As summer gets underway and the daily routine adjusts, I discover all over again, that just because my daughter has vacation time...it doesn't mean I do!

I am a maid.
Not a maiden, a maid.
And I made myself thus -
mustering the muscle to
muck through the mundane,
mop up the messes,
manage the minutia,
in exchange for
the meaty morsels of motherhood.

I make beds.
I make lists.
I make little sack lunches.
I make braids.
I make ballgames.
I make booboos go away.

Is this the mark I am to make?

I’ll admit there are moments
I’ve imagined I’ve made
a mistake.
I’ll admit there are moments
I miss the maelstrom of maidenhood,
The me-ness.
I’ll admit there are moments
this moniker’s made
mincemeat of me.

But mostly I make the most of it.
I make it mean something.
For I only have moments,
just a few measly moments
to make this mark matter.

Meanwhile, I must go make dinner.

© 2008 Angela Hite

Compassion Meditation

2009-06-17T08:18:00.000-07:00

Today I want to share a meditation on compassion (to continue with yesterday's theme). It is taken from Jack Kornfield's book THE WISE HEART.

"To cultivate compassion, let yourself sit in a centered and quiet way. In this traditional form of practice you will combine a repeated inner intention with visualization and the evocation of the feeling of compassion. As you first sit, breathe softly and feel your body, your heartbeat, the life within you. Feel how you treasure your own life, how you guard yourself in the face of your sorrows. After some time, bring to mind someone close to you whom you dearly love. Picture them and feel your natural caring for them. Notice how you hold them in your heart. Then let yourself be aware of their measure of sorrows, their suffering in life. Feel how your heart opens to wish them well, to extend comfort, to share in their pain and meet it with compassion. This is the natural response of the heart. Inwardly recite these phrases:

May you be held in compassion.
May your pain and sorrow be eased.
May you be at peace.

Continue reciting all the while you are holding that person in your heart. You can modify these phrases in any way that makes them true to your heart's intention. After a few minutes, turn your compassion toward yourself and the measure of sorrows you carry. Recite the same phrases:

May I be held in compassion
May my pain and sorrow be eased.
May I be at peace.

After a time, begin to extend compassion to others you know. Picture loved ones, one after another. Hold the image of each in your heart, be aware of that person's difficulties, and wish him or her well with the same phrases.

Then you can open your compassion further, a step at a time, to the suffering of your friends, to your neighbors, to your community, to all who suffer, to difficult people, to your enemies, and finally to the brotherhood and sisterhood of all beings. Sense your tenderhearted connection with all life and its creatures.

Work with compassion practice intuitively. At times it may feel difficult, as though you might be overwhelmed by the pain. Remember, you are not trying to "fix" the pain of the world, only to hold it with a compassionate heart. As you practice again and again, relax and be gentle. Breathe. Let your breath and heart rest naturally, as a center of compassion in the midst of the world."

When I am able to do this, I do feel my heart soften. Sometimes it is easy for me to do. Other times, it is extremely difficult, especially if I am feeling angry. This is the time I need it the most, of course.

A Beautiful Message About Growing Old

2009-06-16T13:25:00.000-07:00

Well, crap.

Now I forgot what it was...

My friend Karen sent this to me. Love it!

On Bitterness

2009-06-16T07:27:00.000-07:00

"Overcome any bitterness because you were not up to the magnitude of the pain entrusted to you… Like the mother of the world who carries the pain of the world in her heart, you are sharing in the totality of this pain and are called upon to meet it in compassion and joy instead of self-pity." --Sufi master Pir Vilayat Khan

"Never succumb to the temptation of becoming bitter. As you press for justice, be sure to move with dignity and discipline using only the instruments of love." --Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Compassion brings us back to life." --Jack Kornfield

One of the challenges of aging is fending off bitterness. It creeps in insidiously and seeds itself around the eyes, the mouth, and the heart. It creeps in, in response to pain.

Women are particularly vulnerable to bitterness as we age. I just had this discussion with a male friend the other day. Why, he asked, do so many women become so bitter? The answer seems obvious to me. Women are feeling creatures. With enough years under our belts, a lot of pain is endured. A lot.

Just recently one of my good friends had to bury her young husband and is now discovering the extreme financial mess he left her in. Another one, out of the blue, was told by her husband of 20 years that he had rented a condo and was moving out. Two more, both single and "of a certain age", are wrestling with the reality that their dreams of motherhood and family are not going to be fulfilled. I could go on and on: illnesses, the sufferings of our children, our financial struggles, losses and betrayals of all kinds, the multitude of global crises of potentially catastrophic proportions…..

If we close off to all this pain, we become dead inside. But if we feel all this pain, we are vulnerable to excruciating suffering. What is the answer? We must develop compassion. Otherwise, all this feeling is just torture. Compassion practice expands the capacity of the heart. And it is a practice, an ongoing process, a daily meditation. By sitting with suffering without denial, but with honesty, tenderness, softness, and faith, I eventually can feel my heart expand to hold it. In some mysterious way, then, I find relief and the strength to make decisions, to be of use.

There is much more I want to explore around this topic. But for today, I simply offer this prayer for all of us:

Bless all women today. And men, too. Bless each of us, that we may be courageous enough to keep our hearts open, despite the pain. That we may be wise and tender with ourselves in response to the pain. That we may devote time for joy as countermeasure, so that we may be able to experience life fully, and so that we may be of value to this wounded planet.

Why I Write Poetry

2009-06-12T08:07:00.000-07:00

I write poetry because it gets me very quickly into my soul. I am all about soul. When I write prose, I have to work much harder to get down underneath the surface of things. I can do it. I have done it. But for me, writing poetry is a bullet train straight to the heart.

The process is a form of meditation.….It begins with an intention and a compass setting of what I call “going vertical,” aiming deep into the dark inner caverns of soul, with the flashlight of my awareness (and pen or keyboard). Then I let my stream of consciousness run amok.

It feels like tuning in to a particular radio station. I don’t know what today’s subject matter is supposed to be or where it is on the dial, but I know it when I land on it. I start to hear a certain language, conversation, narrator or even dialect that feels illuminated. Some inner ignition will get triggered. But first I must sift through the channels, pass through all the blather. It can take awhile. Sometimes I don’t have the patience. Sometimes I don’t have the self-esteem. Sometimes I don’t have the courage.

There is initially a feeling of serious discomfort – that age-old fear of the unknown….what will pop out and present itself? Will it be scary? Will it be mean? Will it be shameful or embarrassing, or worst of all, dull, stupid? These are the initial thrusts of ego’s resistance, attempting to dissuade me from my path. Sometimes, (often, actually) I fail to recognize its sly and slippery voice, and it does me in. I’m defeated before I even begin. But I’ve been down this road quite a few times now. (What is that saying - "It ain't my first time at the rodeo" - I love that!) I’ve faced down a lot of scary, embarrassing, dull, mean thoughts along the vertical path and lived to strut another day.

There comes a point, though, when an alchemy happens and my yearning is transmuted into a blessing. I experience my own holiness, my connection to the divine. This has nothing to do with the artistic merit of the writing, as it might be judged in the world. (I have no idea about that.) It is, rather, a deeply personal sense of mystery and magic and sweetness, even if the subject matter is painful, which it often is. There is a little book published by a Zen monastery in Northern California whose title captures this concept so succinctly: THAT WHICH YOU ARE SEEKING IS CAUSING YOU TO SEEK.

So that is why I write. I am compelled to. Of course, I hope that it is meaningful to others, too. I put so much effort into it, that I want it to be read and appreciated. I have my ambitions. But who knows what is supposed to happen next? I show up. I do my best. I let go. The magic and mystery take over.

Rock On

2009-06-11T08:38:00.000-07:00

“Strength and energy fail as time moves on, but the spirit continues to produce great things.”
--Marion Morris, Bacteriologist/Immunologist, Quoted in her eighties

Today, my daughter graduates from Middle School. Yesterday, driving her and several of her friends to a graduation party, I made the mistake of inserting my opinion into one of their lively conversations. Fourteen year old Kieran was saying that he liked American Idol Chris Allen’s version of the song “Heartless” better than the original version by hip-hop artist Kanye West.

I agreed. "Chris Allen rocks," was my exact, inane wording.

Then there was a dull thud of silence in the car, as if everyone was confused as to how to respond. In my head I imagined their thoughts, “Does this old lady even know who Kanye West is? And if she likes Chris Allen’s version better, maybe I shouldn’t? Maybe, it’s lame?”

When conversation resumed, it was like I had never spoken. They went on with each other and erased me and my insertion from their world, a world in which I was relevant only as chauffer. I counted my blessings that my daughter had the grace not to chastise me out loud, which would have dug the knife even deeper.

Today’s Meditation-As-Antidote for this “irrelevant old lady” mental lapse is the following excerpt, taken from Mary C. Morrison’s Let Evening Come: Reflections on Aging:

“The difficulties of aging give us the arena in which we can take up this old-age challenge of finding out who we are. Dealing with these difficulties, we can grow in self-knowledge. We can even become wise. We can learn how to live into old age well, how to move on gracefully, how to go with the flow of life … In order to learn who we are, we need to look at our attitudes, watch them day by day, notice how we approach life. More than ever, the old saying becomes true: it is not what happens to us but what we make of it that counts. This takes vigilance.”

So I am vigilantly reminding myself that I AM still relevant, that there is plenty of life left in this old girl. And that I DO know who Kanye West is. And I DO like Chris Allen’s version better. But neither of them can hold a candle to Sting or Neil Young or The Beatles. So there! :)

Awakening

2009-06-03T08:44:00.000-07:00

My yoga teacher Diana Lang reminded me last night of this poem, which I wrote about a year ago while attending her class The Divine Feminine. The poem is about the masculine ego, the feminine soul, and the spiritual energy of the body, called kundalini.

There are horses in my belly
trampling through the desert,
kicking up thunder,
calling down rain.

The stagecoach is reeling,
toppling, careening,
and the damsel back there is watching,
but interestingly,
not so much in distress.

The driver, on the other hand…
he’s lost control. He doesn’t know what to do.
His job’s in jeopardy and maybe even his life.
He’s got a decision coming -
either cut the reins or summon
some unnatural strength.
But at the moment he’s simply
in awe of these raging beauties he thought he had
whipped to death.

The real story, though, at least right now,
isn’t about the driver or the damsel.
Its all about the horses,
up close and pounding away.

Can you feel them?
The fire that has awakened?
The rumbling, the snorting,
the crackling aliveness?
Their hooves pulse in my ears.
I can smell their sweat.

I’ve grown used to praying for their freedom,
imagining it out there in the distance,
and now, right now,
in the here and now,
they’ve crashed the stable doors.

© 2008 Angela Hite

Jason's Last Gasp

2009-05-28T08:46:00.000-07:00

Recently, a dear friend of mine, who was far too young to die, died of cancer. Two weeks prior to his passing, I had to put down our family dog. I have also, as noted in earlier posts, been dealing with "breath" issues of my own. This poem came about from a very Jungian dream, teaching me one of the many lessons death has to offer.

It was the end,
and it was wrong,
but way too late for resistance.
Someone else
could debate the why’s.

As his lungs collapsed,
he was frantic to drink
one last gulp of the life
he had disdained.
He was finally awake.

He grabbed the girl and kissed her.
He turned a flip.
He pinched his skin, stomped his foot.
He let his eyes sink deep
into the trees.

As it all went away,
he got it all.
He understood.
His last thought was this:
Thank you. Thank you.

© 2009 Angela Hite

Hunters and Gatherers

2009-05-28T07:56:00.000-07:00

I wrote this a year or so ago, but I feel it really strongly today.

I used to be a gatherer.
My life was measured
by my basket’s fill.
And though it spilled over,
I continued to hoard.
It’s what I was taught.
The American Way.

Even in charity,
I handed out baskets
and taught how to fill them,
how to judge one’s success
by the size of one’s silo.
It’s what I was taught,
so I passed it on.

But the price of gathering
is a life of management,
a life of protection.
These are tedious gigs,
I can tell you firsthand,
all this dusting and defending.

Now I’m yearning for the prowl,
the live taste of engagement,
the precious and holy
made so by its fleet.
There is no storing to experience later.
There is now.
Only now.

Simple Blessings

2009-05-10T08:08:00.001-07:00

Yesterday morning I had a pre-Mother’s Day breakfast with my friend Deborah at the Malibu Pier Café right on the water in Malibu. The beautiful Pacific Ocean is only 30 minutes from my house. And I have friends, like Deborah, that I can share my deepest heart with. How blessed am I?

Feeling the Mystery Today

2009-05-07T09:10:00.000-07:00

How do you decide what is merely coincidence and what is a mystical connection?

My friend Tara and I discovered, many years ago, that we have what we deemed to be a mystical connection. Her birthday falls one day before mine. Nothing amazingly special about that, but listen to this - her mother's birthday is one day before my mother's, and her father's birthday is one day before my father's. That qualifies as "mystical" to me.

Yesterday, on Facebook, she took one of it's silly quizzes. This one was "What kind of soul are you?" The answer she received was "Raven." I took the quiz and the answer I received was "Raven" as well. The results of those quizzes usually strike me as just superficial entertainment, but there is something about this one that is staying with me.

Here's what it said:

"This is a very interesting path for a being. I suppose the most important thing to remember about a person's life when they are under the Raven's wing would be, you have been here before... you know all about this stuff and what you don't know you are about to find out. There is really nothing too surprising or amazing to a Raven person...new things, sure, but as they have been witness to so many massive shifts over the miriad of lifetimes required to lead a Raven life, there are virtually no real surprises. The danger for a raven soul is landing in an area where there are no other ravens and no real competition for them. A Raven needs some powerful reflection and only another Raven can do that for them as they know that they are the only ones who really understand. Being an old soul does not protect a person from falling into a trap of getting too comfortable and growing lazy. (My underlining for emphasis). Laziness is deadly for a Raven, they need the power of their wings to carry their great bodies high above the world so that they can gain the perspective they so need in order to fulfill their ultimate destinies here on earth. For each Raven has a particular mission to complete their earth cycle. Find out what it is to be Raven. You may be comfortable and unshaken, but are you alert and fulfilling your vision?"

This speaks to me, what can I say?

I see Tara beginning to blossom again. I wouldn't say that she has been "lazy" per se (as described above). A more accurate phrase, in my mind, would be that she has been "caught in a trap." But she is breaking free, starting to fly again. I can feel and see it happening. Her soul is waking up. It is an awesome thing to witness. I can just imagine what might be ahead for her.

Now if I make the leap that her soul's connection to mine has to do with this "one day ahead of me" thing, then I could assume that I have some great awakening coming, too. It makes me happy to think this. So I choose to believe it.

Fly, beautiful Tara.

Downtown LA

2009-05-05T12:17:00.000-07:00

Here are a few photos from downtown LA with my artist-date buddy Korbin. Our first stop was the new and somewhat controversial Catholic Cathedral Our Lady of the Angels. From there we walked down to the Disney Concert Hall, through the Bradbury Building (where Bladerunner was filmed), through Central Market, and ended up at the Nickel Diner for lunch. I'm learning so much from these photography dates...how to find the beauty in everything....how to strengthen my sense of attention to detail. Korbin took those beautiful angel photos, by the way. I want to give credit where its due!

The Dump

2009-05-05T11:24:00.000-07:00

This is an experimental short story inspired by the title of a Deena Metzger novella called "The Woman Who Slept With Men to Take the War Out of Them."

He had turned up the thermostat, and thank Jesus, ‘cuz it was cold out - coonass cold - the kind that makes your bones brittle and your heart hard. I looked out the window and felt bad for them whores on the corner.

He said I could stay all night if I wanted to. I hadn’t decided yet, but I was gonna go into the bathroom and soak in a really hot tub of water once I was sure he was unconscious. The bathroom door had a lock on it, but I asked myself why that mattered. Hell, he’d already done everything to me that could be done, except kill me, I guess, and somehow I weren’t particularly worried about that. Still, privacy was privacy, and it sounded kind’a good to me, so I locked the door.

The tub was pristine white and sittin’ up on what looked like lions’ feet. The towels were whiter’n fresh snow and smelled like lemon blossoms. And the floor, also white, was cleaner than I had been in two months. I didn’t want to leave this room, ever. I’d just move into this nice, white 6x6 world and be happy as a peach.

As the hot water filled the tub I surveyed my body in the full-length mirror. My bottom lip was torn and messy. My left eye was swollen and there were bruises on my butt and knees. All in all, not too bad. There had been worse.

What is it that makes a man so ornery? That’s a question I ask every day. They got it better’n women do, so why all the meanness?

He rattled the door handle. “Girl, what are you up to in there?"

“I’m takin’ a bath," I answered.

“Well, open the goddamned door, I gotta piss,” he bellowed.

I opened it, and he staggered in and peed. Maybe half of it landed in the toilet. The rest splattered on the lid, the pristine floor, and my feet.

“You got it hotter’n horse piss in here,” he whined as he walked out and fell back across the bed, snoring in minutes.

I couldn’t get it hot enough to warm my insides, though. And there was no bath that could clean me. But I take my pleasures where I can, so I locked the door again, climbed into the tub, and soaked for what seemed like an hour, melting away the outer grime. I took a cold cloth and rested it on my eye, rolled up another one and put it under my neck and dropped a third one, one of the large bath towels, into the tub and put it under my wounded ass. I scraped my fingernails and toenails across the soap bar, and I rubbed my skin until it was red with a soapy cloth. I wanted to wash my hair, but I knew better’n goin’ out with it wet in this cold, and I dared not wake him again by using the hairdryer. It wasn’t worth it.

I closed my eyes and saw my grandparents’ farm and the rickety old bathroom there. As a kid I’d sit in front of the furnace to dry my hair, while Granny would churn butter and Pappy would roll cigarettes and listen to the radio.

I pulled a pack of Vantages from my purse on the back of the toilet and lit one. Pappy had taught me how to smoke, among other things. Smoke was a comforter. I breathed it in and felt it soothe my soul. I could see Pappy’s fingers - his small, wiry hands, rolling them stogies and stroking my wet hair.

Pappy used to tell me stories about the dump, without a lick of shame at working there. It had been a second job for years till the farm loan was paid down to manageable. He always said, “It ain’t what you do, it’s what you bring to it.”

That old farmhouse was full of stuff he’d found at the dump and brought home. He’d either figured out how to fix a thing, or turn it into something else. It wasn’t like he made art or nothing. He just made something. Most things, he said, just oughten’d be thrown away. We throw too much away.

Pappy always ended his stories with a serenade on a beat-up old banjo he’d recovered. He knew one song only, a song that made no sense to me, and he played pretty bad, but he played with heart:

“Old Pompie is dead and a lyin’ in the grave
A lyin’ in the grave, a lyin’ in the grave
Old Pompie is dead and a lyin’ in the grave
Singin’ tra la la la la.”

The bath water was starting to chill, so I transported myself back from Pappy’s knee and got out of the tub. It was almost sunrise, and I needed to get out before this one woke again. I looked in on him sleeping peaceful as a puppy there sprawled out butt-naked on the bed. His face looked downright sweet. Right radically different to what he was like before I got a hold of him.

I put on my grimy dress, checked my purse for my $100.00, and slipped out the door, singin’ tra la la la la.

© 2009 Angela Hite

My Beautiful Sorrow

2009-04-27T11:44:00.000-07:00

I’m learning to stay, my darling.
I know you don’t trust me. Why should you,
after all? But I’m learning.
I want to hear your song. I don’t want to run away,
my beautiful, beautiful sorrow.

I’ve come on bended knee to be
your champion, but I won’t take over.
I’m learning. I’ll not clean you up, paint your face.
You’re perfect as you are,
my beautiful, beautiful sorrow.

I accept the double-edge
of your tenderness, how fragile you are.
I know the light can burn. We can take it slow.
I'll wait right here. See? I’m learning…
my beautiful, beautiful sorrow.

What a shame, this shame that casts
aspersions, as if joy could exist
without its rightful match,
its holy, beloved match,
my beautiful, beautiful sorrow.

© 2009 Angela Hite

Waiting For Wings

2009-04-22T17:25:00.001-07:00

Deep Bloom

2009-04-19T08:56:00.000-07:00

Can I withstand this deep bloom?

The coming loose, the stripping down,

the dogged burrow, up

through all those frosty sheets

of gravity’s superior negation, up

through all those wilting leaves

of entropy’s seductive ennui, up

past all the knee-jerk creature conditioning
of fight/flight to pulsate the supernatural yes

arching ageless in my core…

Can I passionately, wholeheartedly
wane?

I want to live right through to the end in full frontal

engagement, awake to everything.

I missed so much of the rise...

let me taste every bite of the fall.

Let me hold my focus, shout out to the ebbing,

"You’re beautiful! You’re the moon at sunrise!"

For it takes a certain eye,

a stubborn, subversive eye,

to see through skin and bone and time

to the heart of the heart of the heart

where rosebuds burst

and oceans spill over

and life gushes effervescent,

eternal.

Love Song to My Body

2009-04-19T08:53:00.001-07:00

This is a love song to my body
a wedding vow
made not with the swagger
of budding vitality
but from bent and crippled knee

This is a love song to my body
made not with the virgin assumption
of happily ever after
but with a plea for forgiveness
an admission of abandonment so
profoundly gashed
that healing may not fully come

This is a love song to my body
that calls down angels
a beggarly beseeching
of emperors’ wisdom and warriors’ resolve
to relinquish this parasitic resistance
this flypaper skin

This is a love song to my body
kindling a new kindness
flaming finally inward
forged from a fresh burn of recognition
that my body loves
me

© 2008 Angela Hite

In Buddha's Lap

2009-04-10T15:43:00.001-07:00

This is a "dream" I experienced during a self-induced hypnotic trance. I put on headphones and listened to a CD of African tribal drumming, while asking for guidance from my Higher Source. The scene below played out in my imagination. When I came out of hypnosis, I wrote it down.

I dreamed I was cutting my way through an overgrown jungle where great cinematic shafts of sunlight pushed through the tree branches, when I came upon a giant Buddha-like statue, sitting in lotus position. I climbed into the statue’s lap, and it came alive.

Suddenly, we were playing a video game, this big Buddha and I, a virtual reality game. His arms and my arms were connected, and the movements of my hands and fingers held his power. My mind was connected to his thoughts.

Out in front of us, as if on a giant 3-D screen, “evil” spirits -little spark-like ghosts - began to fly toward us. The Buddha told me to lift my hand and gently touch the spirits with my finger…and at the same time, touch them with my mind. When I did, the ghosts dissolved. I could merely touch them with his help, and make them disappear!

At first this was great fun, this feeling of power over all these little imps of negative energy. They seemed tiny and meaningless against us. As in any good game, however, the difficulty soon notched up, and now hundreds of little sparks poured forth and adapted, swirling away from my touch. My skills grew to match the difficulty, however, and I learned that I didn’t have to touch each one individually; I could wave my hand and wipe away legions of them at a time! But again, the game got harder. Now thousands and thousands more poured forward, and they mutated into larger, more terrifying creatures. Still, with each advance, I continued to learn new maneuvers to outsmart and zap them into oblivion.

After quite awhile though, I began to tire. My arms ached, and I felt overwhelmed. I started to lose my resolve. Would the game ever be over? Would I have to fight like this forever? Then the Buddha whispered,

“You can fight this way, if you want, feeling the light fly off your fingertips and keeping your eye on the enemy. But as you see, you’ll grow weary. There is another way. You can turn your attention to the source of your power, the Kingdom Within, right here in the core of your being. When you focus your attention here, grow your brilliance from your heart outward, you won’t need to fight. Your Light will disperse unwanted energy without battle, without stress. The question is: are you willing to pull your eyes from the fight, and put them on the Light?”

I woke and wrote down this question. I re-ask it every day.

© 2008 Angela Hite

Angels

2009-04-10T08:30:00.001-07:00

In faint first light,
the fleeting ‘tween,
soft wings stroke.

Lullabye blessings
purr
through the caverns

sowing seeds in deep
tissue, the propagation
of sweets.

In faint first light,
and probably all night,
I am caressed.

Let me remember, always,
to lie down
in simple kindness,

the alchemical summoning
of angels.

© 2009 Angela Hite

Sweet Theresa

2009-03-28T07:13:00.000-07:00

She slapped Mrs. Singleton.
There, it’s out. Her dirty little secret.
Forty years ago on a Saturday afternoon
in a dank Baptist social hall
with ten sponge-curlered witnesses
reciting the Psalms and
making paper dolls of Jesus,
she committed a mortification that launched
a forty-year trajectory.

Her father’s volcanic DNA rose up
her prepubescent arm and
popped her teacher in the face
for a transgression
that was barely a bump on the radar.

Bad Theresa. Bad, bad Theresa.

She knew what this demon could do:
The belt and the fist.
The breaking of doors.
The screaming.
The hiding.
The begging for mercy.
The sniveling aftermath.
The pitiful forgiveness.

Yes, she knew what this demon could do.
So she locked it down that day.
Chained that devil to the basement wall.
Kicked it unconscious and covered its head.

She became Sweet Theresa.

Who does the right thing.
Who puts others first.
Who goes the extra mile.
Walks the mile in your shoes.
Does everything possible, every possible thing,
to keep the peace.

And everyone loves her!
This amazing woman!
This wonderful friend!
What a cook! What a mom!
What a wife! What a pro!
And so very wise!
And so very kind!
Yes, everyone loves her,
Our sweet, sweet Theresa.

Everyone, that is, but Theresa.

© 2009 Angela Hite

Beautiful Discard

2009-03-27T14:36:00.000-07:00

My friend Korbin and I found this old truck sitting out in a field near Lancaster along with a bunch of other scrapped farm equipment. Something about it struck a chord in us. We pulled out our cameras and spent awhile taking pictures of it. The truck, in its heyday, was utilitarian; now abandoned and dilapidated, it seemed like art, its melancholy beauty in the eye of this aging beholder.