Samain and the Summer’s End Moon

Thursday gratefuls: Alan. Ablations scheduled. Radiation approved, but not scheduled. Hip injection scheduled. Soft collar orthotics in. My medical October has bled far into November. Tom and his telehealth today. Shadow. Her vitality. Sheet pan meals. Cooking again. Canceling Cook Unity. Tara. Aurora Borealis in Colorado. The Edmund Fitzgerald. Lake Superior. Wolf 21.

Sparks of Joy and Awe: a day of rest

Life Kavannah: Wu Wei

Week Kavannah:  Chesed.  Loving Kindness.        “Kindness is the language the deaf can hear and the blind see.”  Mark Twain

Tarot: Being a metaPhysician

One brief shining: The Aurora, shining shimmering curtains of green and red that dance, flow, shift, grow and fade, took them for granted in Andover where for most of the twenty years, I could go out on our front porch and watch them, that placed against the wonder of Coloradans seeing them, many for the first time after these latest, massive coronal ejections.

 

Mother Earth, Great Sol. Yin and yang. Visible when the protective magnetic field of our Mother receives bursts of highly charged particles released during a coronal mass ejection.

Awe. Wonder. Desire. That is, desire to remain here, by this Pond, clothed in the majesty of existence by all that’s holy and sacred.

Another moment, in looking back, when the sacred oneness revealed itself, said look here, can you not understand that the Largemouth Bass, the Goats on the farm, the Trees in the wood lot, Judy, yourself also dance, whirling like dervishes endowed with the holy, connected and interdependent for all time?

Each time I drive home from Evergreen, I drive by Kate’s Valley and her Stream, and further on, past the Upper Maxwell Falls trailhead, the spot where the Elk Bull appeared to me drenched in the Rainy Night, standing on the Forest’s edge. In both places I nod, see them in their apparently mundane clothing, the light of Day suggesting nothing special to see here. A small Mountain Valley, a stand of Aspens along Black Mountain Drive.

Yet. I know. These places revealed their sacred nature to me when I turned over the Bresnahan urn with its flame signatures glazed in earthy, russet colors and spilled into the clear Mountain Stream the final remains of my love, my wife, my soulmate. As that Bull Elk did on a Rainy May night.

They have taught me, in their every day appearance, that no the sacred is not only there in moments of heightened emotion or sudden clarity. Rather, her Stream runs sacred in the light of a November morning, no more and no less sacred than the White Pines and Lodgepoles that line its banks along with the holy Wild Strawberries, the sacred Raspberry. The Water. The Rocks. And the Sky above them. All sacred, all one, for all time.