Where I am is where I'm at.

To be a discoverer you hold close whatever you find and after awhile you decide what it is and then, secure in where you have been, you turn to the open sea and let go. William Stafford

Maureen of Writing without Paper wrote the above quote on, Waiting at the Crosswalk, a blog by Diane Walker at Contemplative Photography. Diane's blog, and Stafford's quote resonated with my psyche. I'm in that place of finding balance in the tension between all things. Of searching for stillness in the midst of chaos. Of holding on... to nothing... but the moment... passing through.

It has been a disquieting place.

In the busy-ness of Christmas, the doing ups and goings on, I have lost my sense of balance. I have quit doing the things I know nurture my soul, nourish my spirit, and feed my internal flame. I have given only cursory consideration to my morning meditations, hurrying myself along with thoughts of, "I'll settle for five minutes grace and be done with it."

Finding grace in being done with it quickly is an oxymoron.

I have been living my own contradictions. I have let go of doing the things I know are good for me and giving into the things I know un-quieten me: eating the wrong foods, not going for walks, avoiding taking care of the little things in my life, falling into mind-chatter filled silence...

This morning, as I settled into a considered meditation, I let go of hurry and sank into that space within where I connect with peace, inside and out. I drifted down into that deep sensation of being at One with God within and God without. Of being the Yin/Yang of my creation. The dark/light of my essence. I settled into myself and awoke to the calling of my spirit's voice.

It was a wake up call. A reminder that no matter how busy the world around me, when I take time to nurture my eternal flame within, I create space to hear my inner wisdom speaking up, speaking for, speaking with my spirit's calling. I become conscious of my doings that are undermining my being my highest good -- those things that lead me into my goings on that devalue my greatest being.

Ahhhh.......

There is no one in this world who can create happiness within me. That's my job. My responsibility. I am 100% accountable for my goings on, doing ups and falling downs. I am 100% responsible for my words, actions, thoughts, deeds. I am accountable for me, myself and I.

No matter how much or how hard I attempt to abdicate my responsibility, when I'm feeling out of sorts, out of sync, off balance, off center -- it's me pulling me in whatever direction I'm going.

It's me keeping me from being where I'm at.

I breathe.

and sink

into that space

where I connect

to my eternal flame

burning up

the chaos

without

holding on

to my need

to be

anything

anyone

anywhere

other than

where and who I am.

I breathe

and find myself

again

where I began

at the centre

of my being

all I'm meant to be

when I let go

of being

anyone

other than

who I am.

The question is: Are you avoiding doing the things that nurture you? Feed you? Nourish your spirit and calm your being? When will you decide to stop?

The Charter for Compassion

This just in from my friend Joyce's blog: Go here to read up and learn about the Charter for Compassion. Sign it and be part of creating a more compassionate world. I did.

The Perfect Christmas

There’s no secret to balance. You just have to feel the waves. Frank Herbert

Like a wave washing over me, I float on the joy and sadness of another Christmas, come and gone. It was a Christmas of firsts, some of which will, hopefully, never become seconds. Alexis came home from having moved 'away'. Amidst the flurry and clutter of her arrival the house became a busy zone of people calling, dropping by. Of gift wrapping and decorating (I didn't want to put the tree up until she came home).

Work at the shelter was busier than ever with media calling on a daily basis for updates on our preparations and Christmas WishList gifts and queries creating a constant thrum of activity. Presentations. School visits. Tours and just the daily plethora of things to do to keep all the balls in the air, and all the wheels turning smoothly. It was a busy time.

Christmas Eve arrived and I was still plugging up a few more holes, filling in a couple of blanks for Christmas at the shelter before turning my sites to Christmas at home. In a flurry of one more thing to buy, one more gift to get, I left for the mall mid-afternoon to grab a couple more stocking stuffer, oh no, make that 3 as I balanced out what was for Alexis and Liseanne and C.C.s daughter too. I raced to the grocery store to grab a few more items and still forgot to pick up that one necessary ingredient -- you know that one essential item that adds every ounce of flavour to a dish because without it, the entire meal will be flat and unmemorable!

Fortunately, C.Cs son T. sprang to the rescue and took off in my car to pick up fresh berries -- only to call me an hour later from his third grocery store where fresh berries had long since left for other Christmas tables. Scratch the berry dish from the menu and replace with.... OMG what can I bake in a couple of hours that doesn't contain gluten, meat by-products and dairy? Oh right. I've already made the chocolate brownies with rice flour. They'll work if I just thaw some.....

Another kitchen catastrophe averted, I raced for a shower, flinging my body between water drops in a bare minimum of time as I got ready to join C.C. at friends for a Polish Christmas Eve. Stop! I have to make the caviar pie. My one contribution to the meal. In a frenzy of chopping egg and onion, mashing avocado, I prepare my 'world famous' dish, race out the door only to send C.C. back for the tub of caviar chilling in the fridge. Caviar pie just wouldn't cut it without the main ingredient.

A joyful evening of friendship, tradition, laughter, great food, good wine and guitar playing and singing and music and joy and home again to wrap up presents and stuff stockings. The girls arrived home from Christmas Eve at their father's to find me surrounded by a mountain of unwrapped gifts and bows and crinkly paper. I hustled them out of the living room -- wait! I'm not ready yet.

Finally, just past midnight, the last bow affixed upon a box, I head to bed only to stop when I hear footsteps coming up from downstairs. It's Alexis and she's in tears. "Liseanne's sick and won't let me sleep with her," she sobs.

Since they were little girls, Alexis and Liseanne have slept together every Christmas Eve. Even last year when Alexis had moved out to live with her boyfriend of four years, she came home on Christmas Eve to sleep with her sister. It is their tradition. Their favourite thing to do Christmas Eve. They curl up in bed, watch their favourite Christmas flick, which has long been Love Actually, and giggle and laugh as they cuddle together in their new Christmas pajamas -- the one gift they can open before heading to bed Christmas Eve.

But this year, Liseanne is sick and doesn't want to share her bed, nor her germs, with her sister. Devestated, Alexis cries and I hug her. I even offer to sleep with her but, my generosity of spirit, not to mention my sense of humour, is lost on her broken heart. "That's not the same, mum," she cries. Fortunately, she knows it is her own tiredness which is making her cry and she heads to bed, alone and lonely on Christmas Eve as I too crawl off to take my "long winter's nap". But wait! What's that clatter? It's....

The ringing of the phone.

My heart beats frantically. For a moment I try to assess what's happening. My first thought -- something's happened to the girls, only to remember, they are both asleep under our roof. I leap from my bed to see what's the matter...

It's Liseanne from her downstairs bedroom.

"Can you bring me a bowl and some ginger ale please?"

I race to the kitchen grab a bowl and GA and race to her room. She's not just feeling sick. She's really sick. All night long. Every hour on the hour.

It was a long night. But! There was a blessing! I was way more organized than usual on Christmas Day. As I couldn't sleep between racing up and down the stairs, I spent the Night before Christmas, preparing, chopping, dicing and cooking, in between tending to Liseanne's needs. When our guests arrived Christmas Evening for dinner, I hadn't forgotten to make the trifle. I hadn't forgotten to put the chopped celery into the stuffing and I didn't have a frenzy of last minute prep to take care of -- I even had time for a shower and to put on some make-up!

When the fifteen of us, minus one as Liseanne spent the entire event lying on the living room couch wrapped up in a blanket, sat down to dinner, there was nothing missing. The cranberry salsa was chilled. The cranberry sauce jelled to perfection. The turkey was moist and hot. The roast potatoes, candied yams, sweet potato puree, turnip puff, brussel sprouts and..... and the counteless other dishes I'd prepared in my burst of midnight oil turned to kitchen energy were hot and ready to go all at the same time! The table was dressed to perfection. The picture frame place cards I'd decorated with jewels and flowers and glitter shone and sparkled in the candlelight. The tiny birds and angel cards scattered amongst the daisies of my centrepiece added a whimsical touch and the linen serviettes were even pressed!

Nobody went away hungry and nobody didn't have something they loved on their plate. And everyone got to take their picture frame home.

Oh. But I did forget to take any pictures and we did forget to open some gifts!

But it wasn't the gifts that made the evening. The evening was made up in the memories we created. It started with all the guests, along with Alexis, C.C., and his daughter going to the shelter to serve dinner to homeless clients before arriving home to enjoy our meal together. That's where the spirit of Christmas was created. In the sharing of what we had to ensure others had too.

And then, once dinner was over, it was the guitars and piano, the singing and laughing and dancing that truly made the evening a night to remember. In Alexis and Liseanne (whose spirits had started to perk up as the evening progressed) tradition, they dressed up not just one but two male guests as Marilyn Monroe, and convinced them to entertain us with lip-synching and dancing to "Santa Baby". It was divine! And funny! And part of a tradition that they started six years ago -- who knows why or how!

Our friends AJ and CS arrived for dessert with their four kids in tow and another friend arrived and then T's friends and a few others and suddenly, we had an entire jamboree going on!

It was fun and crazy and high-spirited and...

The perfect Christmas.

Now, to find me some of that balance. Where did I hide it in all the Christmas frenzy? Perhaps it got tied up in a bow and left beneath the Christmas tree.... Must go look. In the meantime....

Happy Holidays everyone. May your season be jolly and bright.

It's what we do.

I wrote the following piece after Rob, one of our counsellors, came into my office to tell me about the most remarkable evening he'd had the night before. Intriqued with his story, I found 'the star' and asked her if I could share it. She smiled and said, Please do.

I share it with you this morning. A Christmas Gift from the human condition.

Like Good King Wenslaus of yore leading his page through the storm, Google Maps led the travelers through the deep and blowing snow towards the animal shelter. It was the second animal hospital they had tried that night of the storm. With Google Map in hand, they found the first one only to be informed they handled animals of the four legged kind, dogs and cats. Definitely not birds.

Their patient was a bird. A pigeon with a broken wing. She had fallen onto the smoke deck on the second floor of the shelter where I work. “She landed right in front of me,” Bernice said, her round face wreathed in a beautiful smile. “I couldn’t just leave her lying there. It was pretty obvious she was wounded. I had to save her.”

Bernice tucked the wounded bird under her vest where it snuggled into her armpit. “And then staff found out.” She chuckled. “It was the second time I was caught with a bird. The first one was a baby sparrow. They wouldn’t let me keep her. I was so scared for her. I let her go over by the trees along the river.” Pause. A sigh. “I hope she survived.”

When informed the pigeon would have to be put outside Bernice insisted she would go with it. “It won’t survive out in the cold,” she exclaimed. “I’ll go with it.”

Staff Carrie was persistent. ‘You can’t sleep outside Bernice. It’s too cold.”

But Bernice was not to be dissuaded. Finally, Carrie and another staff member, Jordan, convinced Bernice to allow them to take the pigeon, whom she now called ‘Little Bernie’ to the animal hospital. The floor was busy, the shelter crowded as it has been every night for months. Carrie and Jordan couldn’t leave the floor so staff Rob, a counselor on the fourth floor, leaped to the rescue.

“I’ll drive,” he said. And Bernice promptly announced she was going with him. She was not prepared to let the little bird go. And by this point, the bird was not prepared to let go of Bernice. It snuggled into her neck, nipping at her throat, burrowing deeply into her sweater.

“It was so amazing,” said Rob. “To watch Carrie caring for Bernice. Bernice caring for ‘Little Bernie’. It was a beautiful moment.”

With imminent death by cold weather averted, Bernice and Rob set out only to return, bird still in hand, to search again for another shelter that would take a pigeon.

“It’s sort of like our clients,” said Rob. “They don’t fit in or they’re intoxicated and the only place they can come to is the shelter. Driving Bernice and ‘Little Bernie’, I felt a real connection to the plight of our clients. Snow was blowing. We were lost. What were we to do to save this little bird?” He shakes his head. Clears his throat.

“At one point the pigeon was puffing and Bernice said, ‘It’s thirsty.’”

He pauses to let the emotion of the moment settle. “She let saliva collect on her tongue and drip into the pigeon’s mouth. And the pigeon opened its beak to receive her gift. Bernice was so scared it would die and there we were in a snowstorm, no visibility, no hope we’d find our way, even with Google Maps and there she was feeding the bird the only water we had, her saliva.”

He shakes his head again. “Finally, we were so lost, we realized we’d have to go back to the shelter and then, there we were." He laughs. "I was turning around in a parking lot to head back to the shelter, looked up and saw this big red cross glowing in the dark, snowy night. We were in front of the animal shelter.”

They took the bird inside and released it to the staff of the animal hospital. It didn't want to let go of Bernice. Bernice didn't want to let go of it but was finally convinced it would be best to let them care for it.

“It’s what a momma bird would have done for its child,” Bernice says. “Anything to keep it alive.”

It is like that at the shelter. ‘Anything to stay alive.’ “I just wanted to help it out,” says Bernice. ‘You know. Be its family while it needed care. It’s a small creature. A being. Just like us. We gotta take care of each other.”

Taking care. It was someone else’s lack of care that landed Bernice at the shelter six years ago. She was a construction worker. “I was cribbing,” she tells me, pride straightening her shoulders. “My co-worker up above loosened a bolt on some scaffolding and it crashed down upon me.”

That crash landed her a ride in an ambulance and time in hospital. “My back has never been the same. My shoulders were dislocated. My knees were already shot and now,” she shrugs and smiles, touches her long black hair. "There was a dent in my hard hat but it missed my head." Another pause. “I miss working. When I see the logo for the company I used to work for, I want to go back so bad. I miss working.”

“And I miss my kids,” she adds quietly.

And then she laughs. “But, it’s one day at a time. Calgary’s my home now. I’ve been here six years. This is my home.” She pauses. “I was just trying to help a little bitty bird. That’s what we do here. Help each other. We share. Laughter. Friendship. It keeps the spirits up.”

Keeping spirits lifted – it’s what we do here. No matter the weather. No matter the storm.

The Miracle of Christmas

This is Christmas morning and I send to each of you my traditional Christmas message. Joy to the world. May your hearts be filled with love.

Over 2000 years ago, a mother and father huddled together in a tiny stable and witnessed the birth of their child. The story of the Christ child’s birth has lived throughout the years. It touches all our hearts, Christian and non-Christian, believer and non-believer. No matter if we believe He came to earth to ‘save our souls from Satan’s power’, or if he was simply a powerful prophet, or just a great man whose story has survived the ages, His birth represents the power of love to create peace in the world. The celebration of His birth every Dec 25 restores our spirits as we celebrate the miracle of life.

Christmas is a time to celebrate. To rejoice. To be joyful. A time when we are connected in love to the miracle of one child’s birth long ago that reminds us, every year, that we too are miracles of life inspired by the act of love that ignites our journey of life – in all its limitless possibilities.

Last night, as I wrapped presents and reflected on the meaning of Christmas, my spirit lifted. Sitting in my cozy living room, surrounded by twinkling lights and festive bows and crinkly wrapping paper, I felt connected to the millions of other parents, grandparents, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers, friends and lovers who wrapped and taped and lovingly placed gifts beneath a twinkling tree – a tree that we had decorated together with those we love as we shared in the joy of hanging each ornament, old and new, upon its fragrant boughs.

As I wrapped and hummed a Christmas melody (and sipped a glass of cheer!), I felt the power of Christmas surround me. As I placed a pretty bow upon each gift I thought about the person to whom I was giving and my heart was filled with love. In that love lay the true meaning of Christmas. It wasn’t in the gifts, or the giving. It didn’t lay in colourful disarray piled beneath the tree, but in the love that filled my heart as I thought about my daughters, family and friends whom I love so dearly and who mean the world to me and who create such meaning in my world.
What a miracle Christmas is! 2000 years ago a child was born and from His birth has grown this night where the world stops, and takes a collective breath as we join in a song of love, faith, hope and joy. 2000 years ago a child’s birth gave birth to my evening last night. I sat alone and felt the power of that moment touch me.

I took a deep breath and felt my heart expand in love. In that breath, I was connected by the circle of love into which I was born and which encircled my daughters as I embraced the miracle of their lives changing my life. For just as the Christchild was a gift of love for his parents, and ultimately the world, with my daughters' births I was given the greatest gift of all -- the awesome reminder that life is a miracle and each birth a precious gift of love; powerful, enduring, everlasting.

This Christmas, as I reflect upon my life, I am reminded, once again, of the power of love to heal, to make peace and to create miracles.

And that is the true meaning of Christmas for me. A celebration of birth, of life, of love. A healing. An awakening. A miracle that wraps us all in a never-ending circle of love.

Whatever your celebration -- Christmas, Hanukkah, Winter Solstice, Bodi day, the Fast of Ramadan, the ancient Sabbath - or a family-centered gathering, a Blessed Holiday to each and everyone of you. May your spirits be light, your hearts full of love and may your world be filled with the limitless possibilities of the miracle of your life as you live each moment, filled with love, gratitude and joy.

Peace. Love and Joy.

Christmas Eve. The world awaits with anticipation the Christ Child's arrival.

Peace. Love and Joy.

Angels sing on high in heavenly chorus of exaltation. Alleluia. Alleluia.

And we wait.

Stars shine brightly. Bells jingle jangle. Children's laughter fills the air. Santa Claus is coming tonight.

The secular and the sacred align. The earth moves and the flame of hope is lit in the hearts of all mankind.

Hope for an end to war. An end to strife and pain and sorrow. Hope. For prosperity and abundance. For an end to hunger. An end to poverty. For new beginnings. For holy communion of spirit and heart. For Heavenly gifts reigning from on high.

Peace. Love and Joy.

We await.

The Christ Child's arrival. For Peace. Love and Joy to descend upon us.

Breathe deep into the night. Breathe deep into the beauty and the wonder of this season of hope.
No matter our faith, be it Baha'i, Judaism, Orthodox, Islamic, nontheist or Taoism, we await the wonder and the glory of a world of Peace. Love and Joy.


Alleluia. Alleluia. Alleluia.

*

My friend Maureen, over on her blog, Writing without Paper, posted a beautiful video this morning of Jan Richardson, artist, writer, spectacular human being. Inspired by medieval illuminated Books of Hours, she created a joyful Christmas story along with singer/songwriter Garrison Coles. Please take a few moments today to treat yourself to a quiet little moment where you can ground yourself in the wonder and the mystery of Christmas in An Illuminated Joy.

One of my favourite Christmas stories is Christmas in the Trenches. John McCutcheon sings his powerful song in this video below. It is a moving story of what can happen when we put down the guns of war and reach out with arms of peace. It is a true story. In a concert he was performing in Denmark, he once met survivors of this event. They came because they'd heard his song on the radio and wanted to hear the story, that none of their family believed, sung out loud. It is a story of Peace. Love and Joy appearing in the most unexpected places at the most unexpected times.




May your day be filled with the quiet joy of peace descending in a world of love.

This is Love.

It has been a year of wonder. A year of sorrow. A year of joy. A year in which to grow, to bend, to lean into fear, to turn into the wind and take gusts of adversity on the cheek. A year to face tough times head on, never bending beneath the weight of life’s daily grind pounding away at our fortitude and commitment to making a difference.

It has been a year to leap for joy at unexpected moments cascading down upon our heads in rainbows of living colour. A year to laugh and shout and live out loud. It has been a year to embrace challenge and release regret. A year to welcome help from unexpected quarters, to walk away from disorder, chaos, pain. To stand firm on the shifting grounds of the world around us. A year to surrender anger and fall into love.

As we move into this season of faith, hope and joy let us embrace this time to heal, to forgive, to surrender. Let us begin again, renewed by our commitment to stand together in this season of peace on earth and goodwill amongst men.

In every season a little rain must fall.

And, as it does in northern climes, a little snow too!

This year we are promised a white Christmas. A Christmas where the sound of sleigh bells ringing on city streets is drowned out by the thrumming roar of snowplows clearing pavement for safe winter passage.

How the time's they do change.

Horses never had to worry about 360s and sliding into a snow drift while dashing through the snow .

How the time's they are a changing.

On Monday, my sister and I went to listen to my mother's hand bell choir at the lodge where she lives. About twelve seniors sat behind music stands positioned on the white table cloth in front of them and treated their audience of family members and friends and other residents to a flurry of Christmas Carols on their bells.

It took me back to my daughters' annual Christmas concerts and dance productions. Those special times when with eager anticipation we, their family and friends, waited for the lights to dim around us as the stage lights came up and there, before us, shiny and bright, stood our sons and daughters. Dancing. Singing. Acting. Reading poetry and Christmas tales, they graced us with the wonder of their magical beings here on earth.

Those were special times. Times I waited for almost as eagerly as my daughters. Sugar plum fairies and Santa's helpers, Alexis and Liseanne shone in the light of adoration -- not to mention they were the best one's on stage too! Okay. Just kidding. All the little girls and boys were spectacular. (My daughters just happened to be extra gifted! -- at least in my loving eyes.)

And that's the thing about Christmas concerts. We their beholders sit in wonder as we watch almost as intently as the performers sharing their lines, dancing their steps, singing their song. We watch for every nuance. Gasp with every high note hit. Sigh with relief for every line crossed off with grace and ease.

We sit in awe of our children standing on stage sharing their hearts so effortlessly and freely with us, their adoring audience.

On Monday, awe descended as I watched my mother, a tiny birdlike woman of eight-seven years of age, sit with rapt intent, reading the music, watching the choir master and ringing her bells.

The twelve members of the choirs sat with Santa hats firmly planted on their heads, facing the audience. The choir master stood at the front of the choir, her back to us. She motioned for C's and F sharps and B minors to be played. Her arms floated through the air with the grace of a dove in flight. Her head bobbed up and down in time to the music. The bell ringers' heads bobbed up and down. A foot tapped here and there. A hand played music on the table top. As the choir master motioned each player lifted her bell or pressed down on the stock and melodious sounds floated up into the air. Each face was a vision of concentration. Each hand poised in silent anticipation for that one motion, that one note that they needed to contribute to make the music ring forth in harmony.

And, like every choir, there was that one participant who played or sang or danced to the beat of a different drummer. That one person who couldn't quite get into the rhythm and left it up to the heaven's to find the harmony in their notes. With over-eager gusto, they lifted their bell and rang it whenever the spirit moved them.

And a joyous sound rang forth.

When my daughters were small some of my favourite times were those times in the quiet anticipation of the show about to begin. The lights would dim and there in front me they stood on stage. In the darkness of my audience seat I sat and watched without ever taking my eyes off them. Which, given that they used to think I was weird for wanting to just sit and watch them in awe, it was nice to have a legitimate excuse to just sit and watch!

There was no judgement in my watching. No looking for mistakes. Watching out for hidden meaning or slights of hand. I simply watched in awe.

My mother is frail and aged. It has been a long time since I sat and watched my mother with awe. I wonder where the awe went? I remember a time as a child when I watched her hands when she talked and thought, "How beautiful. They're like tiny birds in flight." I actually remember thinking, "I want my hands to move like that." And I learned to speak with my hands, just like my mother.

I don't spend a lot of time with mother these days. I still speak with my hands but I don't spend a lot of time speaking with her. My sister, Jackie, is her primary care giver. Jackie has the patience I lack. The compassionate heart and tender mercies needed to attend to my mother's needs with grace and ease.

For my mother and I, distance keeps us safe from harmful words that rend the harmony between us. I love my mother. But somewhere in the journey from childhood awe to adulthood, I've lost that special place to be at peace in her company. To sit in awe of her company.

Sitting in the audience though, I got to watch her without fear. I got to see her beauty. Her gentle spirit. Her lightness of being. I got to sit and watch in awe as she rang her bell and made beautiful music.

It was a magical moment. A moment of good tidings and joy. For wrapped up in that moment was the memory of all those special times when I could watch my daughters without fear of getting caught in adoration.

May we all be filled with adoration today. May we all know that special awe of sitting in silent wonder of those we love dancing and singing and joyfully expressing all that is beautiful and wondrous about them. May we see their wonder and know, This is Love.