I am writing this sitting in my hammock "office," under the papaya, oak and palm. (The photo shows the view I see when looking up). I am also in reaching distance of the pigeon pea tree, its nearest branch with one pod ready to pick and others still ripening. Here I am, in deep bounty and grace.
This is such an intense time where we are stopped short, having left (the illusion of) normal, having gone through all the energetic portals to this other world, the one not yet formed or clarified. So many in fear, discomfort, untethered. Heart open to the seismic changes, the earth seemingly breaking apart at people’s feet. Without a long treatise about any of it, and with the caveat that I am hardly Pollyanna—I know just how much disruption lies ahead, how huge this shift really is—I remind us to never lose sight of joy. In the midst of it all, remember it. Help others remember it. Proclaim it.
“Stay joyous” is what I plan to use as my new signature (a stronger phrase than “stay well.”) Turn your attention to the energies of connection; firmly put your energy in dreaming and embodying the reality you want to live in. Be firm about it. Acknowledge the fear, but don’t stay there; turn to the trees or the breeze or flowing water, even in the kitchen sink (and right there is a miracle: clean water coming out of a pipe at the turn of a wrist!). Am I preaching? It must seem so. There are people dying (as there always are) and there are so many now out of work and so forth. Yes. And. There are also countless people living, in their hearts, helping one another. There are new ways of connecting. And there is all the powerful energy of the earth, and there are the spring flowers and the taste of raspberries and so much more. Yes. And.
My own inner guidance is unequivocally clear right now: turn to joy. Put your focus there, even if you are making or sanitizing masks or feeling the collective fear at the grocery store, even if you’re seeing the literal barriers that keep people apart. Help others remember joy, brightness, not-suffering. There's always a spark of that, and we can fan its flames. That’s where I stand; that's my post. Lift the spirits, keep lifting, and then lift again. I know some will turn away from this message, dismiss it, looking back to their worries, their pain. I know some will think I’m cold-hearted or foolish or even sadly duped. But that’s my post. The herald, the town crier, who says it: Remember joy. Choose joy. Be joy. Be joyous, inside it all. I invite you to drink a cup of joy with me (as Allaudin’s Sufi song says, “fill your cup, drink it up…”). If you can’t handle the whole cup, take a taste, a drop on the tongue—like a homeopathic flower essence, it will affect you.
I offer joyous things today--things that I am blessedly able to fill my cup with. May you catch the wave!
First some images of scenes on my land--my sequester delights.
And here below, the pigs are flying! (we never thought pigs would fly, but the impossible becomes possible...) This is a detail of a giant purple flying pig that is a sculpture in my front yard. It was part of the property when we bought it.
(Remember you can click on the small images for the full view).
And next, some images that come from my recent art play (it isn't really art work..) The first two capture something of the feel of this odd corona virus time we are living through. To the right here is an altered or enhanced view of something very ordinary--can you guess? (It's actually a view of looking down at my pants legs) I like the image for its colors and textures, but also because it holds the feeling of rupture, of the kind of seismic parting I alluded to above. Our societies and realities have been so bifurcated, so two-camped. We may hope that will change now, but the bifurcation and pulling apart of the earth feels very real.
The second captures the jaggedness and burning quality many are feeling now--the on-edge terror that underlies the experience of fear. At the same time, it seems to hold the enormous sense of aliveness that is in the energy around us, the great sense of waking up or awake-ness. The image is taken from a photograph of tufts of a low-growing grass, taken on a walk in a nearby preserve.
And finally, a few images from what I think of as my "Crossing Over" series. I had this theme in my mind for quite some time now--people on boats, in transition, crossing from one place to another. In the passage, on the way, moving across. It makes even more sense with the energetic shift I and so many others are attuning to now; we are in the collapse stage, when the caterpillar has to essentially melt and re-emerge in its new form. We're on the journey.