Spring: A Time for Planting

Last week the buds on my pear tree burst open, the silent harbingers of Spring. The little boy finches at the bird feeder flitter in resplendent yellow and ruby, dressed for a fling with the shy girl finches in their drab dresses. From an open window the smell of vibrancy—new beginnings, promise, hope—floods the room.

Time to awaken. My winter dreams are ready for planting. I sort through the seeds for the one that will grow under tenuous conditions, the one that can survive my enthusiasm one day and my fear the next.

Dream planting is a process of believing in my worth, my purpose. Some days I need courage for the journey. My dream is wrapped in pieces of myself that have lain fallow for too long, the collateral damage of living in a rigid world of barren fields, deep ruts, and rocky outcroppings.

I water the hearty seed with my hope, mulch with faith, add a sprinkle of stardust and a cup of moonlight. An intention from the deepest depths of my soul is taking root. Will I keep it alive, hold it in highest esteem as a pattern for building my life’s purpose?

To myself, the gardener, I say, “Know yourself!” And so I dig in the warming soil of my own Spring, excavating treasures I have kept buried, bringing my unique attributes into the light. I place each gem around the dream seed, investing myself in my purpose.

Spring. A time for planting. Won’t you join me?

Sacred Expression

Art is surrender to creative inspiration, which I believe to be the Holy Spirit. In the thrall of Holy Spirit we express nothing but our truth. Our art becomes the voice of who we are, a divine soul created in the image of God.

“The Father and I are One.” John 10:30

Art is One. Art invites harmony, balance, oneness.

To be an artist is to take on an heroic journey. We leap aboard the great white steed of creative inspiration and allow it to take us where our truth lies. We are without armor, vulnerable. I ride in fear of the dragons waiting to devour me and my truth. I pray for the courage to express what I often know may not achieve oneness but, rather, separation from my loved ones who perceive me molded in their image. But, I am seeking to express God’s image as it is manifested through me. I am not a perfect vessel. I am a lowly creature crawling out of darkness to follow the Light, the Word. My truth is beautiful and horrid; saintly and sordid.

Still, I am loved by my Creator, unconditionally. In my Father’s eyes, I am His princess. I was created to express the truth I was created to experience. Whatever words are needed to tell my truth are sacred. My art—my voice—is sacred testament.

Mystic Dreamer

How many mysteries join us to one another--we, the souls of a vast Universe that always was and ever will be, held by invisible threads in a web of galaxies.

Author Robert J. Grant tells us to say aloud, every day: “I am dreaming; and, I know I am dreaming.” Every time the words leave my lips, I am struck by the thought that I do not like everything in this dream. I want to change; but, I feel bound to the dream, caught up in the mystery of how I got myself to this place, these circumstances that reflect little of my deepest desires.

Breaking out of the web takes effort and clear intention. It requires lucid dreaming, an awareness that we can direct the flow of the drama or the comedy in which we play a starring role.

Grasp the mystery! Create a new dream, a new world, the fulfillment of who we truly are.

Mystic Mama

She flies while sitting still.

She soars while others bemoan the world's woes.

Her soul expands to fill the Universe at a moment's notice.

Her world is Light that feeds the poet's page,
sings symphonies, thrusts color, line and form
onto canvas or into thin air.

Need we add she is misunderstood?

Her ideas are too far-reaching, too ahead of time?

She lives in no time, in no space.

She dances with angels.

She embraces her love, Christ within.

She is awash in sacred joy,
a befuddlement to every one she meets.

The Mystical Camera

The photos on this blog--as of this moment--were taken during my pilgrimage from Santiago di Compostella in Spain, through France, to Rosslyn Chapel in Scotland in 2006, visiting cathedrals built by the Knights Templar. I brought along a brand-new digital camera. It had a powerful zoom function that I didn't realize was very sensitive to movement. Hence, the blurred image of the saint in a stained glass window that has a more mystical fascination than if it were perfectly focused.

The golden banner photo is part of the intricately carved ceiling at Roslyn Chapel. The ceiling is actually gray in color. However, an incandescent light was projected onto it and the flash on my camera didn't go off. Thus, the image picks up the glow of lightbulbs, which lend a sepia tint. Again, a much better, more lyrical photo than if I had captured the stone in its natural hue.

When I remember my time in Rosslyn Chapel, my most vivid memory is of the moment when the group I was with gathered in a small room above a vault where it is suspected the treasures sought in The Da Vinci Code are hidden. We formed a circle to pray. A young woman we didn't know asked to join us and together we prayed for peace in the words of all the world's major religions. It was a very moving moment. When we were done, the young woman was in tears and expressed her gratitude at being allowed to join us. She said she had lived in Roslyn for years and had never visited the chapel until today, when she felt compelled to come. We felt blessed by her presence and by the moment of special communion.

The cathedrals on this pilgrimage are hundreds of years old. They stand as soaring testaments to faith and belief in a mystery we know in our bones, our hearts, our souls. The stones of these amazing edifices remember us, I am sure. Collectively, they hold all our hopes and prayers in a sacred place where each generation picks up the last line of the song and sings its praises to God. I hope you can visit these beautiful places some day. I hope I can return, soon.

My Shadow

Out of the haze of bewilderment,
A shadow appears,
The image of a strong woman,
With wise eyes, a knowing look.

She seems to be watching.
But no, she is beckoning me,
Telling me I am seeing myself.

"Remember who you are."
She smiles, turns,
Runs across an open field,
Up a hill, into the forest.

Wild. Free. Assured.
Me.