Wake The Sleeping Giant

This is a poem written by my friend, Ruth, on her marvelous blog Synch-ro-ni-zing, posted on November 24 and entitled: What To Do On Thanksgiving. If you like great poetry, check out hers.

Take

the torch

down from the wall

and bravely wake

the sleeping giant

of your soul

Stir

dormant magnificence

out of her crouching

fraction of light

Strengthen

hibernating

hips arms and legs

into stomp

and thunder

on the dance floor of

your particular praise!

This great poem and call to action mobilized me mightily, got me meditating and writing for hours. To write in answer seemed to be a way to find my vision at this time, my dreams for the future. Ruth's poem contains two important questions:

1. Who is this sleeping giant of my soul? 

2. What do I thunder in particular praise of? 

When I was 19 years old, on a week long retreat, I had a vivid vision (not the seeing kind of vision) while praying. I tried to put it in words but it left me speechless. It was a sweeping, certain kind of  knowing that we are all one. Humans in our totality and diversity, animals as fellow creatures, protectors, and guides, all things living - trees, plants and flowers, all things in nature - mountains, land, sea and sky. All. One. And that this is the divine, the sacred, the whole, the holy. The priest on that retreat said it was heresy when I told him, but I've held that vision in my heart as a gift given to me.
It was the only vision of my life but it was enough, it's the ground of my being.

I thunder in praise of this vision. 

Other things I thunder in praise of:

- Knowing what makes me come alive and doing it. 

- Mining the wisdom of elders, of grandmothers, in association with other grandmothers who bring their voices to the issues of the day, who say what they see, who are the solution we're looking for.

- Working to increase real respect for women and children, to make the world better, healthier and happier for our grandchildren. Love is the way.

- The beauty of art and being near artists who present what is beautiful and true.

Who is my sleeping giant? She likes:

- To move, to hike, to run, and to live in a beautiful place.

- To read and have some people with whom to discuss what I read.

- To write and be in community with other writers, including poets, who like to share their work.

- To raise plants, care for them, propagate them and learn more about local ones.

- To eat local food raised organically and sustainably while living lightly on the land.

- To walk a spiritual path in fellowship with other seekers and to find ways to be of service.

- To gather the young women of my family yearly to foster deepening bonds, family healing and remain a part of the lives of these amazing Dear Ones.

- To love John in new ways and enjoy the company of others in long-term committed relationships who share and encourage one another.

- To live in a community of people who are awake, aware, alive. A community characterized by respect, kindness, attention and courage, who share resources in some way, and where individual strengths are enhanced. A diverse community, multi-racial, multi-cultural, men and women, old and young (lots of kids), gay and straight. A creative community.

- To have more contact with Kelly, Carl and the grands. To live in community with them. To have their strengths, skills and perspectives in my community. To help home school the grands.


Some of what emerged surprised me (like the last two), some is familiar but comes together in a new way. I'll sit with it and let it percolate some more. I've summarized here but there are pages of writing. My friend, Nancy, over at Life in the Second Half who agrees the revolution is love, has been asking for awhile about drawing together a community and I was intrigued but didn't feel the tug toward it until now. I have no idea how this will manifest but the energy is flowing.
What if we all woke our sleeping giant and stirred our dormant magnificence?                                                        

100 Word Story: January Child

I've been reading 100 word stories at Mr. London Street this week and was inspired to offer this:

Mother napped me on the porch to be toughened 

by the gales of winter, to cut teeth on New England nor'easters 

and fight the undeclared war against girls. 

Middle child, only girl, small for my age.

I grew to a storm wintered warrior child, 

sight practiced on bare lilac thicket, schooled by wind 

in how the world sounds, cries accompanied 

by jays and blackbirds, layered against the elements.

Perhaps my skirmishes were attempts to win 

that unwinable war but I fought with the fury of calling,

battered brothers' enemies, marshaled anger from hidden fronts 

as I gave birth to myself.

(photo from all-free-download.com)

Where I'm From

I wanted to explore this topic and found this format as a means to say "Where I'm From" in a more specific, tangible way. It has taken many weeks to finish but I deeply appreciated the process.

I'm from a balcony in Italy these days, from a land where south and west horizon meets in mountains frosted with clouds, and the sea beckons from the east with its sunrise sparkled water, a balcony of lavender that scents the air and reminds me of embroidered pillows my mother gave me to perfume dresser drawers and forever encode that fragrance with her.

From an apartment scaled to cocoon that wraps me, but spiced with the reds and golds of this peppery land, a home faced south with granite tiles that cool my feet in summer and warm them in winter when sun slants in. Books flood this home, sorted into topics that tell my story: celtic lore, poetry, women's studies, travel books, children's tales, indigenous spirituality, historical novels; words that witness a journey.

I'm from begonias, a terrestrial species that collude with this warm climate to grow showy flowers of pink and scarlet in the perennial cycle of thriving, dying and waking back that plots my course, too.

From McLellan's and Harvey's, Tierney's and Donovan's, Scottish and Irish who forged strong women, made  strawberry-rhubarb, mince meat and apple pies, grew tomatoes, rhubarb and concord grapes for jelly and jam, read, argued and held strong opinions.  

          I'm from the bossy that struts in when strong is expected in a child, from you don't air 

         your dirty linen in public, from good girls don't get angry, from staunch Catholics on 

         both sides, awash in Catholic doctrine, from family secrets, subliminal, not yet understood.
         I'm from Massachusetts, from corned beef and cabbage, potatoes and turnips.

From the aloneness of grandmother's first born with raging fever at ten months on a remote farm in Nova Scotia while grandfather was out at sea. He felt a strange heaviness in his arms, unable to row, said to his friends that he must go back. The baby boy died in his mother's arms before her husband reached. Grandfather carried the tiny, white casket in his arms for the funeral, the weight just as he had felt it.

From the grandmother born in Irish South Boston who found and married the only protestant around and converted him. From the great grandmother who came from Ireland, lived with her daughter, doted on her only grandson, wanted only to dance at his wedding and died two days later.

I'm from boxes of photos kept on the shelf of mother's bedroom closet, taken down at holidays to remind us of our family story, photos I fought to claim after she died to pass on to my daughter and grandchildren, the record of  ancestors, all who existed to produce these two Dear Ones. 

250th Blog Post

This is my 250th blog post and I'm sitting here amazed. When I started this blog to attempt to stay aware  on my journey as an elder, I really didn't think of how many posts I would write or for how long or if I could continue to write. I just wrote a post and another day I wrote a post and another day I wrote a post and so on until today when I write my 250th. In the meanwhile, I've made new and wonderful friends in the blogosphere, been inspired by them, and shared in significant ways with them. Writing has become deeply important to me. My world has expanded in ways I couldn't have predicted.

Running is similar. I started to run in my 60's. After the initial process of getting used to it, working through the kinks, hating it and wanting to stop and eventually, loving it, and not being able to think of my life without it. Now, I run three times a week, every week. At some point my Nike + iPod announced that I had run 250 miles since I started to wear their chip that keeps track of my runs. Then, a while ago, it announced that I had run 500 kilometers and I was surprised. One step at a time. In the meanwhile, I've run races for good causes that matter to me, met fascinating people who are vital and healthy and I have a way to stay fit. Running has become deeply important to me.  My life has been enriched in ways I couldn't have predicted.

Maybe a lot of life IS about showing up. Doing what we say we will do. Doing what we know to be good for us or important or what we love. Until we find that we're writing our 250th blog post or running our 500th kilometer or, in some other significant way, celebrating a milestone that's important to us. And feeling good about ourselves. More in love with our lives. With richer, fuller lives than we could have imagined.

In Search of Self

I sit here on my balcony. It's 82 degrees and the breeze flaps the awning. I listen to Sarah Brightman on the iPod as she sings "Nella Fantasia" in her high, clear voice that lingers on those lilting Italian words. In front of me the Majella Mountains are dimmed by the heat haze to a blue outline jutting into the sky. The clouds, too, are indistinct, a white gauze against the lightened sky. The Adriatic has lost its two toned aqua/turquoise summer coloring and is a single shade of blue more intense than today's sky. Next to me, new stalks of lavender shoot up in defiance of September's date and sweeten the air with their characteristic scent. I feel a vague restless yearning that I want to put into words to better understand it. And so I write.

I retired two years ago. At that time I thought I would provide some kind of grand service to humanity, then undefined but important none-the-less. I presumed it would appear, this new vocation, and I would grab hold of it, dig in and never look back. Only it didn't and I haven't. Instead, I sometimes feel uneasy that I don't do enough or don't do that thing that I'm meant to do at this life stage.

These days, I read and study Italian daily, write most days, run three times a week, travel with my husband to explore Europe, talk with him and foster our relationship in new ways, currently by exploring some different ways to enjoy sex at our age. I stay in touch with my daughter, my grandchildren and close friends and plan for the yearly gathering of the young women in our family with me and my sister-in-law. I used to write poetry but the inspiration for poems that I had years ago seems gone. It leaves me bereft.

Well, that popped up unexpectedly! Like my hand knew something my mind didn't. Bereft at losing poetry? Hmmm. But wait, I read "A Year With Rilke" every day. I'm eager for new poems by Ruth at "Synch-ro-ni-zng" and read them again and again to feel her words in my mouth and hear them as she (online) or I read them out loud and they sing around the room while I melt in admiration. I haven't told her that. I'm so envious. I haven't told myself that. Writing poetry is so elusive now. I feel inadequate to the task of crafting such exact descriptions that I say: "Yes, yes, that's how it is; that's what I want to say."

Poetry, where are you? I miss you. You make my heart beat faster. I invite you back. I will listen.