A Rain of Leaves

The falling leaves of autumn teach me about letting go and passing away. I like to stand in the deep woods and watch the leaves rain down. Some seem to fall gladly and willingly, while others need to be shaken free by the wind. What I especially notice as I watch the leaves is just how easy it seems. One second the leaf is attached to the branch… the next second it is falling. The letting go seems effortless, and the descent is often slow and gentle. Watching this fills me with a sense of peace. I am quite sure that this is how I want to die. So I watch, and pay attention, every year. Trying to absorb the ease with which this happens and trying to take in just how easy letting go can be.

A friend recently asked “what do you do when things are hopeless?” (As a life coach people imagine I have the answer to questions like this). After some hemming and hawing I asked “what advice does your higher self have?” The response: Let go. Immediately followed by the question… but how do I do that? This is why I watch the rain of leaves every year.

While people typically connect the return of the light to the winter solstice, for me the light returns when the leaves fall. Living surrounded by woods, I see the light streaming through the branches as the canopy empties. The sun, sky, clouds and stars become visible in places they were hidden all summer. If you are contemplating letting go, look around to see where the light is streaming in. What is being illuminated? What is revealed that was once hidden?

My feet are crunching the leaves now when I walk through the woods. A thick layer of leaves is being laid down, providing a blanket of protection against the cold of winter and nourishment for next spring’s growth. This is the cycle of living and of dying. I imagine the leaves falling with a sense of relief and excitement… relieved that this part of their journey has come to an end and now they can rest. Excited about the transformation that will allow them to support the growth of the forest in a new and different way. In what ways do your experiences fertilize the ground for your next project or job, or just for tomorrow?

Wounds, Healing and Inspiration

In the movie Dolphin Tale, the dolphin Winter loses her tail after getting tangled in a crab trap. She is rescued, and healed, by a group of committed and loving people. Successfully fitted with a prosthetic tail, she has become an inspiration to many.

Since seeing the movie, I've been thinking about the link between wounds and inspiration. Losing a tail was a real tragedy and Winter was pretty depressed about it.They thought she might give up and die. But, with the help of people that cared she hung in there and look what happened. There is something about the storyline of tragedy, healing, and sharing that touches us, and this is something Hollywood is very good at delivering. Of course, people suffer grievous wounds every day, recover, and move into the world in ways that are awe-inspiring. This year a double amputee might qualify to run in the 2012 Olympics. Parents dedicate themselves to promoting anti-bullying initiatives after their child has committed suicide. People battle illness and beat the odds.

So now I'm looking at my life and my wounds, and wondering "What can I do? How can I take my personal struggles and triumphs and share them in a way that touches others?" In all of the examples I just gave, the wound is visible and obvious. Not all wounds are. Mine are deep inside, well hidden from view.So what can I do with that? How can the healing be made visible? Today, I have no answers, only questions. Those I can share.

The Joy of Parachuting

One day, back in 1978, I looked “parachuting” up in the Yellow Pages, found a local “school”, and signed myself and a friend up for a Saturday morning expedition. This would be the fulfillment of a long-held dream.

Growing up in a town with a flying club, I expected to find a hanger, a few planes, and a tarmac runway. As we rattled up a dirt road to the address given, we were greeted with a 3-bay garage, a large expanse of grass, and a single airplane, reminding me of Sky King (which reference only children of the 50’s and 60’s are likely to appreciate). A scraggly looking fellow sauntered out to greet us. Some part of me was beginning to think this was not such a good idea. Being told that the primary training for flinging myself out of an airplane was to jump off this fellow’s workbench did nothing to allay my growing anxiety. Lynn, on the other hand, seemed to grow more excited with every moment.

My dread increased as we piled in the plane and headed toward the sky. Lynn was eager to go, so she was in the front seat, chatting and laughing. I sat in the back, trying not to be sick as my heart bounced like a drunken basketball between my throat and the pit of my stomach. When the time came, she stepped out on the wing, assumed the position, then jumped and did a perfect swan dive. Then she was out of sight. The pilot was circling as I moved into the front seat. Too humiliated to suggest we just turn around and go back, I went through the motions. Let me tell you what this involved.

The plane was a 4-seater, with wings atop the cockpit. Outside the passenger door there was a steel plate, about one foot square, which served as the step into – and out of – the plane. A strut began at the bottom of the plane and ran diagonally upward, attaching to the wing about four feet from the door.  First, you turn in your seat so your feet are on the steel plate outside the door and you are looking along the length of the wing. Next you reach out and grab the low end of the strut with your left hand. Then you haul yourself out of the plane, pivoting toward the front of the plane while grabbing the upper part of the strut with your right hand. (Remember, the plane is high up and moving.) Finally, you lift your right foot in the air and turn your head to the left so you can see the pilot and hear his direction to JUMP. It was at this point that it occurred to me that the pilot was going to have to land this plane with me standing out there.

JUMP! Such was the force of the command that I let go, and jumped backward, stepping off into empty space. After a moment the parachute opened and I had the opportunity to take a moment and look around. I felt like a milkweed seed, floating gently in space. The compelling experience was of total and complete silence. I fiddled with the controls on the chute to turn myself around and enjoy the landscape. Too quickly, the earth came up to greet me and I landed (with exactly the force of jumping off that workbench).  I was relieved and satisfied.

When the pilot landed the plane he came over and allowed as how he got a good laugh over my departure from the wing. “Your legs started going like you were running”, he chuckled. “You’re damn right, I was trying to get the @#$% back on that airplane”.

Clearly, there is a death-defying element to parachuting, and this experience taught me a lot about the gift of life. It is also perhaps my best example of moving through fear to achieve a desired goal. But most importantly it gave me a story to tell, one that has left people doubled over with laughter, especially when I act out the process of getting myself out of that darned plane. Do you have a story that you can share today?

This I Believe

The world would be a better place if people knew where the creatures around their home lived. This spring a pair of mallards has been paddling in the ditch by my country road. Why they would choose the ditch over the nearby lake or pond is somewhat of a puzzle to me. Are they eccentric vagabonds? Are they introverts, seeking an escape from the hustle and bustle of their comrades? Perhaps the ditch simply provides the shortest and most direct route to my neighbor’s house, where there is a daily buffet of corn and birdseed. Noticing the homes and habits of birds and animals has always given me a special delight.

A few years ago I purchased a pair of binoculars after taking the Spring Field Ornithology program at Cornell’s Lab of Ornithology. When I got home I took a walk in my woods in the late afternoon and, spotting a woodpecker hole high up in a tree, I trained my binoculars on it. To my surprise there was a squirrel curled up in the hole, gazing quietly out into the dusk. I still recall the wonder of that picture – it was a moment of absolute contentment… for both of us. I tiptoed away.

Just the other day I saw a red squirrel dart into the narrow hollow of a tree. Looking carefully it was hard for me to believe that it fit through that small gap, but I could see it in there. How many times have I walked past that tree without imagining the shelter it provided to little animals? It gives me a warm feeling to know that there are safe and dry places for these small creatures… even when the winter scuffling in the wall of my bedroom leads me to believe they are making a home in my home. (We don’t need to talk about how I spent Christmas day this year trapping and carrying half a dozen mice out of my kitchen.)

Walking in the park I spotted a large pile of sawdust next to a rotting tree. The ants were carving a home in the trunk, and an ant (or two or three, all ants look alike to me) was making a continuous round. It would disappear into the trunk and pick up a piece of sawdust in its jaws. Then it appeared in the opening, balanced at the edge and dropped the tiny grain of wood over the side. Back it went to get another grain which it carried to the lip of the opening and dropped onto the pile below. By the time I noticed this activity the pile of sawdust on the ground was about six inches high. Clearly the ants had been doing this a long time. Do you think they were complaining? “Boy, I’ve about had it with this. I am bored to death. Let’s go out for a smoke.” Or can you imagine they were doing this job with pride and dignity, or perhaps something like joy?

Noticing that animals have homes is tremendously reassuring to me. The instinct to nest, and to find shelter, to settle in for a good night’s sleep and to contemplate the events of the day is not limited to humans. We are a part of a larger community, all going about their daily work and returning home at the end of the day. When I have the privilege of looking in the windows of some of these homes I am filled with a quiet satisfaction and contentment. I can’t help but believe that if more people paid attention to this, they too might experience the stillness of knowing that, for the moment, all is right with the world.

A duplex beaver lodge

Lighting the Way

This is the season when adults who attended summer camp long ago begin to hum silly and soulful songs, reach out to old camp friends, and imagine packing our bags to head out for just one more summer lived out-of-doors. The foundation that camp provided still sustains me, forty years later. It gave me an understanding of the cycle of learning and forged my deeply rooted connection to the earth.

Those of us who grew up in the Camp Fire Girl tradition progressed through three ranks: Wood Gatherer, Fire Maker, and Torch Bearer. As Wood Gatherers we acquired basic skills and information, and established a context for our future endeavors. For instance, we learned how to be safe around fire, what types of fuel a fire needed, and how to organize the woodpile so that it would be easy to grab wood of the appropriate size when building and feeding the fire. The art of fire-building was practiced by the Fire Makers. We refined our skill at camp craft cookery, perfecting our one-pot meals and baking cobblers in reflector ovens. At night we warmed ourselves body and soul as we sang around our evening campfires, told stories, and listened to the trees whisper in the wind.

Torch Bearers played an important role in the ceremonial and spiritual aspects of camp. Having gained the mastery of fire, we planned and prepared the council fire at the end of each camp session. Paper sacks were stuffed with sand and candles, and then set to line the procession route. Torches were created by winding mouse mattresses (shhh! sanitary napkins) around poles and dipping them in paraffin. Oh, how we used to chuckle at this! On some level we delighted in the idea of our feminine products being used for such a sacred purpose... and we clearly took joy in the burning of these contrivances that were the source of so much discomfort and dismay.

As night descended, we lit our torches and led the campers to the sacred ground of the council fire ring. We come, we come to our council fire, with measured tread and slow, to light the fire of our desire…We stood at the four sides of our log cabin fire, invoked the four directions, and set the torches to the tinder. We reflected on our experiences and accomplishments, we expressed our gratitude, we laughed and we cried as our personal cycle of adventure, fun and learning for the camp season came to an end.

 

What is the tie that binds us together, friends of the long trail? Just this – we have shared the weather, we have slumbered side by side, and friends who have camped together shall never again divide.

How strong is your foundation?
What sustains you?
How do you honor the sacred?

How can you take your light out into the world and share it with others?

As a life coach in Ithaca, I provide a safe place for people to explore their deeper self and experiment with new ways of being in the world. If you want to feel more positive about what you are doing, and move forward with greater confidence, contact me. I offer visualization techniques and creativity tools to help you tap into your intuition and inner knowing so you can see the way more clearly.

Photo courtesy of Susan Neal. Check out her video/article on campfire cooking
This will have folks scurrying for onions, oranges, eggs, and gingerbread mix!