The Pine Reel

One Sierra mountain night,

just a few hours before dawn,

(after I had bid the dance hall adieu and

started the slow walk up the trail toward sleep)

there was this moment...

(how do you 
say, “silhouette” in your language?)

when the sky glowed as silver as smooth abalone, and

a solstice moon, through pale gauze clouds,

became back-light to four ancient pine trees.

I was stopped by the beauty of it all:

the perfect relief of form from darkness, and

the Milky Way’s delicate swath high overhead,

stretching across indigo velvet.

I was stopped and so awed that I held my breath

for fear that even the smallest
 disturbance
might wrinkle the night air around me.

And in that moment of reverence,

that one breathless point in time,

I heard an audible sigh from the evergreen quartet.

Mountain air pushed aside the wine,

poured across my face and stung my eyes

as, I stared willfully

into the shadows, and gained clarity just in time

to watch long lacy lower boughs of

those four ancient folk, lift and tremble

in the pearly light.

Back down the hill, music continued filling pockets of night.

Dreams wrapped themselves on blissful pipes,

strokes of bow against strings and laughing drums,

carried more songs of weary but willing revelers.

While out inside the silhouette,

out in the fierce breathe of dawn and miracle,

the trees had joined the reel!

Each strong branch began to bend and bow in rhythm.

What once was rigid, became supple.

What once lived rooted, was set free,
and with silent grace, 
their needled-skirt hems rose over the ground
and four solid trunks were revealed -

shaking off earth and swaying into a motion

that none upon the dance floor would witness,

yet was happening before my eyes with the surety of the sun’s arrival.

Life’s sharp joy pressed against my heart like a prayer,

like a song, and like one trembling, breathless dance
at the glowing edge of moonlight and dawn -

where all things are possible.

2010 © martha lee phelps

"Much More Than Just Sports"

Susan Casey said "Sports remain a great metaphor for life's more difficult lessons. It was through athletics that many of us first came to understand that fear can be tamed; that on a team the whole is more than the sum of its parts; and that the ability to be heroic lies, to a surprising degree, within." With this wisdom in mind, I'm honored to share the words of a guest poet this morning ~

Much More Than Just Sports

It is my escape.

My outlet.

My breakaway.

It is where I go, 

when it all becomes too much.

When insecurities come knocking

and school trips me up.

The adrenaline.

The energy.

The unimaginable passion.

That is where I turn.

Some call it sports,

but to me

it is so much more.

It is heart pounding

muscles tensing

mind quieting. 

It is running

jumping

kicking 

pushing

stepping

shoving

sweating.

When I start to play

all else fades.

And there I stand. 

The field 

The track

The pool

The gym

It all lays before me,

as I step out onto my stage.

It’s game time.

by Sarah Grace Cotton-Honeywell

Feeling First

The only time I have ever heard someone say “I don’t make you feel that, you choose to feel that way” has been when the speaker was defending themselves, or trying to let him or herself off the hook for words or behaviors that created an outcome that was uncomfortable for them. In other words, they used it as an excuse and a foil rather than accepting responsibility for their part in a situation that evoked emotion.

Human beings, especially those who are in touch with their feelings in a mature and healthy way, tend to respond to outside forces and situations with their emotions first, and their minds and intellectual reasoning step in soon thereafter. Those who, for a myriad of reasons, are very private or guarded in their reactions, can often adeptly go from step A (feelings) to step B (thoughts) in seconds. Note the distinction: “mature and healthy.” I don’t consider someone who flies into a rage or into hysterics at the drop of a pin to fit this description.

When my son was initially diagnosed with cancer, I supposed I could’ve “chosen to feel” something other than shock and grief, but in my human condition, I went directly to the place that any mother who loves her child would go. It was through time, necessity and giving myself opportunity to process some fairly raw emotions in safe and supported ways - that I stepped into the second phase of both the emotional and cognitive journey.  His process has been different, of course - influenced by age, life experience and his uncanny ability to stay in the now. I think that life threatening illness or loss are extreme examples here, because when we grieve it takes longer to go from initial reactions to consciously “choosing how to feel.”

On a day to day level; however, there are many instances. When your playful cat does something silly and you laugh at his antics, you don’t stop - make a carefully thought out choice - and then “feel joy.” You simply feel joy. Now. It’s a beautiful and spontaneous synergy. When you are listening to exquisite music and the sound and vibration of inspiration, tone, rhythm and harmonies evoke deep sadness and tears, you don’t pause - considered your emotional options - and then select “weep.” You just surrender. Now.

I could offer example upon example of situations and experiences where perfectly intelligent and sensible people DO NOT stop to hold a consult in their mind, rather they allow themselves to fully FEEL FIRST. And thank god that we can do such a thing. Thank god that we can trust the deep knowing of our hearts on occasion as it is with our hearts that we can often see and understand most clearly.

So here’s the deal: What we have DO HAVE A CHOICE IN -- is determining how - after we’ve felt the laughter, cried the tears, burned through the fury or known the heart ache  - how and who we will BE NEXT.

If you’ve been one of those folks who likes to say “Oh, you’re choosing to feel that way.” I would strongly urge you to stop saying this. Stop sidestepping the reality of the human spirit, for to feel is to know that you are alive! Stop placating your own fears by shutting out emotions, and stop disrespecting the heartfelt (not “mind” felt) spontaneous joys and sorrows experienced by others.

No matter how messy or weird or too real it may appear to the nay sayers, those who know the emotional landscape of their inner selves also know that if they allow their feelings to surface, they can then begin choosing what comes next in a nourishing way. For me these are the choices that matter so very much and may actually make me a better person. This writer’s now-open heart, despite my mind’s desperate attempts to make it choose occasionally less messy responses, has the first and last say.

Khaki-colored Halo

I was lying by the pool at the Furnace Creek Ranch in Death Valley, California. The dry heat felt wonderful against my skin and combined with the the lazy conversations unfolding around me, I was being lulled to sleep.  Sound snippets of children laughing in the water, mothers calling out and friends engaged in small talk floated past me. I heard a deep baritone voice behind me inquisitively address someone in my vicinity, “I see that you are journaling. Is that something you do daily, or is it an exercise for this trip?” “Well,” came the response from my left, “if you assure me that you’ll keep this to yourself, I’ll tell you.” 

‘Hmmm, secret journals?’ I pondered with eyes closed. I pulled my consciousness forward and slightly turned my head to squint at the second speaker. The journaler was sitting in the shade of the pool deck veranda.”You see, Diane goes away for three weeks each summer to a work conference,” he began, (I’m thinking about who Diane might be - his wife? Co-worker? Friend?) “and she misses the kids and I terribly each year when she goes. She can hardly sleep at night. Last year, I had the kids writing her letters constantly, which I sent off every other day.”  

I felt myself smile at the image of kids bent over lined paper writing sweet kid-like descriptions of summer activities, and I inwardly nodded with approval at how I imagined it would feel to receive such a letter from a child of my own. 

     “Well, I found this old journal of hers that was empty, and I thought that this year I would take time to write in the journal every day until she has to leave, and then I’ll slip it into her suitcase before she goes -- so that when she unpacks, she’ll be surprised by it, and - you know - have something to read from home.”
    “How nice of you, “ observed the friend who had climbed out of the pool by this point and was drying off with a towel as he listened to journal-man’s story.
    “It’s just bits and pieces about the kids and their adventures, stories about special times I remember, and of course - some sharing about my feelings for her. Just that sort of thing.”

By now I had turned my entire head and was using my hat as a sunshade. I gazed at this unusual man. Now, I wanted to look at this person. I wanted to see with my own eyes, what outward appearance is worn by someone who clearly has such a large, tender and giving heart?

Nope. There were no outer visible signs on this average looking, slightly overweight middle-aged man wearing a navy-blue short-sleeved shirt and crumpled khaki trousers. There was no special birthmark, tattoo or unusual tribal marking. There was no halo or sign inscribed with the words: “I pay attention to my beloved. I care when she is lonely. I practice compassion. I observe the small but beautiful acts of daily life in my family and make note. I am willing to give of my time, care, creativity and present moment for the benefit of others - especially those whom I love.”

    “Wow,” I said under my breath and turned my face back toward the sky. On my right, my daughter heard my single word. Something about the short exclamation made her look up from the book she was reading,  “What?” she pondered. So I quietly described the conversation I had just overheard.

As I explained this man’s journal to my daughter, I felt a welling of emotion. Whereas the details of his life story were minimal, who he was inherently was largely apparent and very impressive. He was a good man and a loving person. The situation reminded me of times I’d read literary passages to students and asked them to tell me what they’d learned about the main characters based - not on their physical descriptions - but on the character’s very actions and dialogue.

What do our actions reveal about us? What, among the day to day exchanges that we have, might be considered “small” on the surface, but are actually very big? What little things do you do that can ease another’s heart? Which simple acts demonstrate steady and reliable devotion and kindness?  What secret journal are you keeping that whispers “I love you” in it’s quiet reflections and might forever change a reader’s life?

Too Revealing

People keep saying I should be writing all "this" down. "This" being the vague euphemistic reference to the fact that my eldest child was diagnosed with leukemia last September.

While I've been diligent in semi regular communications about Reid's health status via a blog created on his behalf, it's the more personal and in depth that are being called for: the experience of being a family with cancer, how it feels to be a mother dealing with a child's cancer, and how I'm a woman who's world has been turned on tilt (by a number of things).

"Why don't you do it?" Asked one old friend, and I told her that I felt as though I was sparing others by not sharing all the dirty details. It's my version of "what you don't know - can't hurt you, " and after seeing the people I love hurt so deeply by cancer - why would I want to add to their pain?

Writing the reality feels raw, uncomfortable, too revealing. So why am I here today?

Because I've realized that to be revealing may be the most honest way to embrace life.