Meditation for January 1

The new year has dawned across the world; the explosions of fireworks, the dance music, and the traditional year-end tribute of "AULD LANG SYNE" have faded from the ears and are rapidly fading from memory, but people are out and about wishing everyone a happy new year. 

HYPOCRITES! 

They so often express joy, laughter, good wishes, and yet they go home and instead of spreading peace, contentment and joy, they begin the same things of the previous year, instigating strife, hatred, pain and sorrow. And they wonder why nothing has changed!

We cannot spread peace unless we, ourselves, are at peace. We cannot spread joy unless we, ourselves, are joyful. We cannot spread love unless we love ourselves. And while we cannot completely eliminate strife and contention, do we even try to bring it down? Probably not.

But hatred, true hatred is very rare. More often, it is a combination of greed, envy and poverty. Not poverty of the flesh, mind you, which is exceedingly common, but poverty of the spirit, the soul. People deny such poverty; they deny they have it, they deny it even exists. But it does, and the people are unhappy. They seek solace in things, in religion, in hobbies, but everything leaves them cold and bitter. They just do not acknowledge it.

I pray for all, those who cannot acknowledge their own poverty of spirit. I recognize mine, I still work to overcome it. Acceptance of our own spiritual poverty is not apathy toward it. People so often treat it that way. Rather, it must be a catalyst, a burning desire to eliminate it.

For the few of you out there who truly know peace and love, may you have the most blessed of New Years. For the rest, I wish the courage to fight on, to be able to find true peace, joy and contentment. May the freedom that comes from our creator find you, grant release from the burdens which you do not even know you carry.

May the new year bring bountiful blessings to you, and may you have the eyes to see them when they arrive.

Thought for December 15th

 Autumn attempts to gather her strength for another assault on the southern lands. It will be her last try; she has felt winter stir within her womb and recognizes it is soon time for her long sleep which will, ultimately, result in her reincarnation 9 months in the future. The movement within her has caused her to begin a thoughtful, sad soliloquy, commemorating her victories and defeats. Her voice is a mournful melody, and gently nudges the sky into an impromptu light show, while the Maker releases a torrent of tears upon the dry ground. The Orchestra stirs, woodwinds beginning to play quietly, and prompting the trees into a bit of unrehearsed choreography to their tune.

Autumn’s victory in the north has upstaged her defeats in the south; she is pleased by the wins, but realized that she has, once again, lost the war which she waged upon the south. She sighs.

Our own lives are this way, as well. But all too often, we allow our defeats to take forefront in our lives, rather than focusing on our victories. But shouldn't we put the defeats behind? Do we look at them and mourn, or do we allow the wins to give us fresh eyes with which we can see new paths, new options?

The past is behind us; we must learn the lessons it has taught and slog ahead, through the muck and mire of the future, paving the way for those to come. Yet, even they will not follow the same paths. They will choose different turns, make a wrong turn here and there. It is part of the human experience.

We can only live life to the fullest. We need to be able to look back and say, “I have done my best. I have experienced life, joy, love.” If we cannot do that, we have failed.

Friday 13th Meditation

Yesterday, here south of the Mason-Dixon line, in the Sunshine state...I experienced the type of day about which people often dream, but very seldom see; they're either working or otherwise occupied, so they miss out on a "no-single-adjective-description" day.  I have racked my brain, scoured the dictionary trying to find a single world that can describe such a day,  but there is no single descriptive word that fits yesterday's remarkable mixtures.

It was warm, yet cool.  The sky shaded from pale blue to deep-sea blue across the immense rotunda that stretched from horizon to horizon.  There wasn't a cloud to be seen.

It was a day that produced conflicting desires, but wouldn't berate your choice.  No matter what you did, it would be the right choice.  Let me explain.

It was warm enough in the sun to dress lightly, yet if you walked into the shade, you might want to pull on a sweater.

It was a day that invigorated, and yet relaxed the people. 

It was a day that would make you want to get out, do something, work in the yard...but at the same time it was saying, "it's not a rush-job.  Take your time, enjoy it.  Don't worry about finishing; there is always later."

It was the kind of day that made you want to sing an aria to a rock tune, or do a hymn to a rap beat. 

It was the kind of day that would make a bass sing soprano, and allow eyes long closed to the evil of the world to see beauty for the first time; a sense of wonder of the newborn for those of ancient vision, and first sounds for those whose ears have long since turned to tin.

It was a day when a whisper would be heard above the din, when shouts would be muted...and the mute would be heard easily.  Yes, THAT type of day.

This type of day defies one-word definition, and yet I search for one in vain.  The day, however, whispered to me while I slept last night.  Her words, true, were a simple "I love you.."

Perhaps, this defines it.  I wish you all an "I love you" type of day.

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Meditation for 11-28

As November sits down to a vast banquet full of all the goodies imaginable, she feels a twinge of pain. She does her level best to ignore it; the feast is what she has desired for a long time. But the pain becomes unbearable as the banquet progresses; she knows what it is, but she does not want to admit it. The guests are concerned with her appearance. They wonder why she is so wan. But November knows; the pangs of her travail have come upon her, too early, much too early. A prolonged labor is not desirable, but it is here.

She knows not whether she will survive the birthing, she knows not whether it will be natural or if she will have to undergo a Cesarean. All she know is that it hurts now...

She knows her family history, however; the birth always results in death. Hastily, she pens a final directive, instructions for her people and for her child.

She scrawls the following words: "My child, I may never see you. I wish you to be named December. May your life be filled with glory and the wonder which I have not known. Be kind to the people. I was not as kind as I could have been. It was an enormous error on my behalf. If I do not get to see you, I beg you to be happy, to love those around you, and to live every day as though it were your last. Fill your heart with love, as love never dies. I love you, my child."

Now, she waits for dusk...and for the darkness to settle.


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Thought for the day

I have, today, wanted to take the sky in my arms to comfort her. For the last week she has worn widow’s weaves, shedding them only briefly, as if for a shower...or simply to change from one set of garments to another. I have wanted to reach out, assure her that all is okay, and remove the darkness from her soul. It seems wrong, the constant gray, like clothes on a Venus di Milo, or a blanket over a flowerbed on a hot summer’s day.

The sky has wept over the week; today more than others. Is a memory of a hurt 50 years ago? Is it a wrong more recent? Or are they tears of anguish of times to come? Or are they tears of joy, for a love with whom she was reunited, or a parent whose suffering has ended?

Her tears perform tasks, however. They replenish the lakes and rivers. They give plants a drink, and allow the same plants to get food more easily. They flatten hillsides, filling holes, settling dust and dirt, washing the world. Maybe the sky merely needs to wash her garments for the next fashion show. I am incapable of comprehending the majesty and reason behind the rain.

Are we like the sky in this manner? Do our tears cleanse or our souls, wash the wounds, heal the hurt?
Have we taken someone in our arms, saying nothing, just being a comforting presence in a time of sorrow? Or have we ignored hurt and pain, like the priests of the story of the good Samaritan? Have we passed by on the other side of the road to avoid hurt and pain, keeping to ourselves, instead of offering our own assistance, even at great cost?

We cannot change what we have done in the past in such a matter. But we can learn compassion. Or we can be the vulture who feeds on the remains of hurt and misdeed. The choice is ours. The reward is eternity. We may not see it today—but if we don’t see it, does that mean it isn’t real? Or does it mean that we are simply blind, waiting for our eyes to be opened by the compassionate man who happens by? Or will we call out, only to be ignored?

No, this isn’t the law of the jungle. It is the law of love.