Tag Archives: beginnings

Coming Full Circle: prayer flag #12

5 Feb

wallHonoring Diversity.

A dozen prayer flags in as many days.  (The 12th follows) So beginning left to right,  Freedom of Speech, The Sacred Hoop, Encouragement, Transformation, Freedom from Persecution, Metta, Standing Firm, Honoring Diversity (above), Into the Stillness, Holding Truth and Warrior Women

Today’s releaser-of-prayers marks the end of a series–the end of an effort that has traveled full circle.  There may be more.  Or not.   Their mission has been accomplished and eco printing calls.

Although externally nothing has changed, internally I am more centered.  (I was going to say “on solid ground” but still reaching for that place.)   But I find myself better able now to stand and face the is-ness of #45 without totally losing my center–or my mind.


Today’s flag Coming Full Circle started as usual with no name and no real plan.  Handling scraps.  I came across the body–a pure white woven rectangle and the process began.   Initially I thought about purity.  Cleansing.  So they are embedded in this irrepressible sprite who refuses to be boxed in–thus the opening in the sky—a passageway–a portal for transcending.  She begged for color and before I knew it, her headdress and heart were  in place.  And a light-hearted cosmic dance was underway.

Hand dyed indigo backing.  full

Thank you for accompanying me on this journey.

A road trip to Amma–and the strong medicine of Flicker

6 Jul

I am going on a road trip. Today at noon. For three days. I’m going to Washington, DC to spend time in satsang with Amma. The trip is a gift. A gift from the universe via two very generous friends. Room paid for. Gas paid for. I just need money for food. That’s all. Money for food and a willingness to simply show up with open heart and awareness. I don’t know what to expect. I said yesterday, “Maybe a miracle will happen.” And I was reminded that the miracle had already happened. The miracle of this gift to go. So yes, I’m paying attention. Now.

This was a week of rain. Monsoon rain. Flash flooding. Drumming. Constant drumming of rain on roof. A lulling rhythm. Like a heartbeat. I have been transported by the sound and now, this morning, it is quiet and all I hear are the birds outside and some thing else. My own breath when I remember to REALLY breathe. And I’m going to see Amma.

But back to this week. First. There have been moments of such clarity. When I looked at my surroundings and felt–what was it? A sense that things are shifting and rearranging themselves. Becoming whole. Together. In place. On some level, nothing has changed. On another–every thing. I looked at my work space and see what would appear to be chaos to an observer–but to me the chaos means something is happening. For me, a neat workspace just means I’m in between. In that gap. Waiting for some thing. I don’t love the gap but I’m getting more patient with it. This–the chaos. This, I love.
view of my room

Outside my work space window. view from my room

This was where I saw things the other night. Exciting things. Two flickers digging. Throwing dirt over their heads. A squirrel sitting near by watching. A chipmunk darting around in between birds and squirrel. And it went on for a long time. For a while I’ve wondered where were the birds? Where were the chipmunks?–the squirrels–well they’ve been present all along. But suddenly the bird population–numbers and variety–is exploding. Everything feels different because of it. But the one bird, the bird I have always loved so much–the first bird I learned as a child. The flicker.

Remembering a nest. An abandoned nest with babies. High in the branches of a Kentucky Bean Tree. The nest of a flicker. The mother had broken her neck flying into the “picture window” on the backside of our house. I found the mother. I found the nest. With the babies. And watched it for a few days. Then intervened and brought it down. It was a lesson in the indiscriminate realities of nature. The babies were too young. I was so very young. Tried in the manner of a five year old to feed the babies. They were my secret. I loved them with a primal passion. I thought they would live. But in the end I could only watch. And that’s what I did until there was no thing left to watch. The babies I buried in a shoe box at the base of the tree. And the tree is still there, the Kentucky Bean Tree.

To this day, I’m still in love with flickers. Simply–they move me deeply. I mentioned to a friend that flickers were now gracing this yard. She said, “Good medicine. Look it up.” And so I did and this is what I discovered.

“Flicker demonstrates a new rhythm and cycle of growth. She shows the importance of healing love and the power of forgiveness. Insights and intuitions are activated and perceptions are changing. She teaches us how to connect with the earth and how to ground ourselves in nature with a vibrate vitality. Flicker aids in our ability to find deeper meanings and hidden qualities of patterns and coincidences. She teaches balance and harmony in the spiritual and mental realms. Flicker shows tenacity, patience and straightforward actions to accomplish endeavors at this time. Listen carefully to Flicker medicine for she will guide in perfect timing.”

Perfect. Could it be more perfect? Such teachers. Teaching the importance of healing love. Changing perceptions. Balance. Harmony. Patience. Straightforward action. I am in love with flickers. Started a flicker cloth. And although I usually don’t reveal a cloth at this stage–for reasons I’m not certain why–here is just the very beginning of a flicker medicine cloth. Just the beginning. It will travel with me to DC. And home again.

Giving thanks to the garden– the cucumbers, zucchini and french green beans–coming on so strong. first cukes and zukes

My “body of expression” — waiting. cloth to photographYesterday a friend who is also a professional photographer–shot every thing and will be providing me with good images–sharp, correct color, good lighting. My camera is a junker. It just barely does the job. But I made the decision to put my work online–to create a website linked to my blog. It’s not up and running yet but I’m putting it “out there.” To the universe. The need to sell a few pieces each month. Just a few. And Tuesday it started. Three pieces in one day. Just like that. Money for food. Money for obligations. An exchange. Cloth for services. A barter. Reassuring me again that the universe is bountiful. And in my life, right now and from now on, there is no room for fear.

Off now. To see Amma. Stitching flicker cloth as I go.

Primordial Soup

24 Feb

There’s a certain kind of day in early early spring–a day like today–when it’s absolutely IMPOSSIBLE to stay out of the dirt. The feeling is ancient, primordial. The need. To feel the cold soil. To smell the earth. To cradle seeds in the palm before sowing.  I’m in a different planting zone now, here in NC, but I trust that instinct that arises and says NOW. Do this NOW. And so today mulch was pulled back and beet and spinach seeds entered the earth.  And the snow peas are UP.   Today.  The beginning of another growing season.

And I’ve started a new piece. Wanting to use some of the fabric I dyed last summer and fall.  Fabrics are mostly linen–except for the found cotton used on the birds–and dyes were from pomegranate/indigo/rust/black walnut–and I think that’s it.  My record keeping is non-existent.  I keep telling myself I’ll remember what I used, what I did–ha.  Maybe this year I’ll write stuff down?   So anyway.  Today.  Another beginning.    No idea where it’s going but I’m calling it Primordial Soup.


the start of some THING

11 Dec

For most of my life I’ve carried a book around.  Reading when I have down time.   But now I’m finding that I want some THING to come out of down time.  I want to SEE it.  Sort of like tracks in the snow.  To look and see and be able to say, YES, that was when I waited for…what ever it was.   This is the beginning of some THING.    I stitch on it every day while waiting to pick up grandson from kindergarten.  I arrive early when I can.  It’s a good time to sit and let the pieces of the day sift down and settle in some way  I can understand.   It may become a quilt that I’ll give him to honor his journey as well.

a start

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