Winter Moonlight

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8 Jan 14
4:00 a.m. Moon shadows stretch across the side yard from the waning gibbous moon, a bright ninety percent illumination. The missing ten percent a glow reflected by snow dust. Tree branches, moon sketched dark, cast mirror images sprawled beneath their leafless canopies. Stars glitter in the clear seven degree air. The wind advisory ceased, suspended, frozen into silence. Nothing perceptible moves–the moon’s arc across the night invisible.

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A Slow Internet

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7 Jan 14

Small stone: The Internet is slow today, weighted with snow falling, dense, fog thick.

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These Thoughts Don’t Mean Anything
Lesson 4 – A Course In Miracles

A different observation prompt, today: To watch my thoughts for a minute like passing clouds outside a second-story window. Some are a puffy cumulus, cotton floating with rounded with towers. Others are strung high, a tattered cirrus across the mind’s sky. An occasional nimbus cloud, ominous, dark, thunderous moves in, moody with lightening flickers. Other thoughts envelope the entire psyche, bruise it like stratus, everything feels gray, low and fog like.

The message is to let them all pass the way nature does, without an attempt to give them importance or relevance or keep them suspended in space.

This is training to recognize the difference between what has meaning (my inward environment) and what doesn’t, my outward environment.

This distinction is a major part of the course, important. I’m not expected to be proficient in the accomplishment. I’m a beginner, expected to falter.

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Enlightenment

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6 Jan 15
I Don’t Understand Anything I See
Lesson 3 – A Course in Miracles

I’ve replayed the lesson. Paused the recording. Jotted notes, fragmented bits of grappled comprehension. My dead mother’s in the background offering encouragement. “Third grade is the hardest for children.”

The objective: set aside all value judgements and simply see. At first, I understood that as perception. Then, as the brief–less than two minutes–lesson continued, two statements. Clear, eliminate thoughts of judgement and emotion towards anything within my sight line. Just view each as it appears.

Interpretation: Default to my master naturalist training, the field notes’ lessons in observed actions. Don’t include any words that contain or indicate human feelings. Show. Don’t tell. Example: The bird rapidly bobbed its head. Not: the bird is angry.

Everything ordinary, per lesson three, is open to study. Recalled: a creative writing lesson that everything ordinary is extraordinary. Plus, a revelation in noticing, what Satya Robin calls writing small stones, also descriptive, similar to other posts I’ve done over last year in this blog. Except I gave them a name–prose poems, tiny lyric essays. And, I attached intention: document my observations of the natural world, what captured my attention on an autodidactic journey into noticing, close objective seeing, with eloquent, clear, and vivid writing.

The labyrinth I’ve circled to this point is to the center of “I Am.” And what I am is the Eye of God. The credit to my understanding that goes to the U.S. Andersen book I read two years ago, Three Magic Words.

Conclusion to date: To see with godlike vision is an impossibility because of my lack of comprehension into Divine purpose; and my lack of understanding of the whole, the “big picture,” a default cliché. However, if I set aside judgement and emotion, I create an opening for understanding The Creator’s vision for the world. Enlightenment.

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Awareness: An Epiphany

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5 Jan 14
Awareness: An Epiphany –
Lesson 2, A Course in Miracles

In my childhood home our non perishables were kept in a tall metal cupboard on a small landing three steps down from our galley-sized kitchen, the mud room. Often I was sent to collect some tin-canned item: soup, peaches, corn. Invariably this occurred: “We don’t have it.” “We do. We just bought it.” I’d look again, still not see it, and say so. One of my parents would hand it to me. “Here. Right where I said.”

This not seeing has occurred through adulthood. Yesterday, I wanted duct tape to secure plastic storage totes packed with Christmas decorations and linens, an attempt to protect against mice and dampness. My husband said he’d placed it in the garage, on a shelf, by the entry door.

I scanned the three well-organized shelves for five minutes. Paint and wood stain cans. Garden supplies: saw, pruners, hose nozzle, Preen, Miracle Grow plant starter, a small terrarium, a Mantis tiller blade, a red plastic watering can, a snowman bird feeder. Automotive necessities: antifreeze, motor oil, a container of carwash soap, and a few tools: a black tray for screw drivers, a rechargeable drill minus its charger, a hand drill plus a bulk-sized refill bottle of floor cleaner. No duct tape. Just as he arrived in the doorway, I saw it sitting on top of the Woodscapes paint can.

Lying in bed, listening to the wind as it circled the house in the predawn, I recognized the meaning of awareness, the idea that everyone brings into existence what they want to see. It’s not that the object isn’t tangible or without life, without existence. It’s an ability and the desire or wish to see. To believe. Like a drape has been pulled open to let the sun inside.

Once awareness or recognition occurs, the item or the belief can be seen, viewed. Sight and belief are individual occurrences, a magic that happens in each of us all of the time. It renewal or manifestation is on-going.

Which lead me to the thought, the epiphany, that inventions, innovations, and discoveries aren’t new. They’re the swiping away of darkness. This revelation became a clarity and a question, an enquiry. What else in the natural world haven’t I seen? What is camouflaged, hidden in plain sight?

This revelation came, became, how I understood the second lesson in the Course of Miracles: “I have given everything I see, in this room, all the meaning it has for me.” The lesson’s brief commentary was a divine challenge. Could I see everything and give it the same value, a non biased acceptance? Could I see, understand and accept, the concept that every object, every occurrence, every idea and thought, every person, is equal in worth? Would I, with insight, implement the lesson?

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Nothing I See Means Anything

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4 Jan 15

I signed up for a year long course, A Course in Miracles. The music intrigued me. It’s not surprising the universe would capture my attention in that way. I listen to music selected for its power to bring serenity, any song, ‘though it’s usually instrumental, that soothes, regardless of cultural origin.

The opening Miracle lesson is a chorus heavenly sung by a male choir, a mantra: “Nothing I See Means Anything. Not the tangible objects in the room. Not the objects outside.
Nothing.” And I find that profoundly sad. It hurts my core deep enough that tears well and spill.

Why create dawn’s beauty, the breathtaking vistas of the natural environment, or the melodic notes from a bird or an insect’s song, if it means nothing? Why create anything, including life, at all?

I can understand and apply the concept as a reason to ease human suffering, as a release into acceptance from physical, mental, and emotional pain, but I’m not grasping that everything is nothing. What’s the purpose?

Perhaps the statement’s meaning will become acceptable, clear, as the lessons arrive. Maybe diminishment will become the vehicle to spiritual expansion. But, right now, in this moment where its’s raining outside in liquid, life-giving song, I don’t want to become or feel indifferent. I don’t want the miracle I see in “I Am” as a disengagement to the throbbing life that vibrates around me. Perhaps all learning begins with resistance.

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Choosing Words The Resolution

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1 Jan 15

The intention to choose words with all its hopes, dreams and core desired feelings meant to actually be, do, feel, reflect and write Active, to become a better, more purposeful life participant, an observant writer, a documenter, a creative traveler and transcriber, a noticer of life, of nature, of self and synchronistic moments, this coming year, this 2015.

A word pillow enfolded, meaning lies bunched under my head. My new year’s beginning into Active has begun with little change. Lethargic from another poor night’s sleep, wrapped in a fluffy faux throw, dozing as a draft creeps around the sitting room. The back door slipped its latch, has blown open. Tea sits cold on the coffee table.

The clouds cast a leaden gray twilight. A solitary seagull tilts as it wings past. The wind knocks a planter box against the back of the house, bends bare branches in a cold dance. The ground has hardened, frost has sunken beneath the grass.

“We fall and get up. We fall and get up. We fall and get up.” The divine universe has answered through music emitted from a Bose speaker, the lyrical refrain from a movie sound track. The Good Lie.

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Snow Fall

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29 Dec 14
After a green Christmas with temperatures in the high fifties, it’s snowing, the slow peaceful kind. Large, lazy flakes silently, steadily, gather. A quiet congregation has begun to accumulate on the mulched raised gardens, on the brown tree branches, in the grass. A few birds, goldfinch now dull gold, cardinals and chickadees, flit through the drifting flakes to the feeder. The squirrels are gone. Blue jays call from the field. Soon, they will swarm the others, as raucous as teenagers.

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