Tea Bag Fortune
Getting It
I grind coffee in the dark while my family sleeps. This is my routine.
In this ritual with splashing water and spoons, I sift the inner recesses for inspiration. If the Archives are chronicles of the everyday, what does the muse have for this morning?
All is well. There is half and half in the refrigerator, this summer’s mango harvest is stacked in the freezer. Life is stocked. But this morning draws a blank.
Until that ever-so-quiet whisper. Read the Jan Frazier…
Gifted to me two months ago, and still yet to be read, the ebook “Opening the Door – Jan Frazier Teachings on Awakening” was finally unearthed from my neglected email inbox last night.
Following a lead this morning – what the heck – I open the PDF and find it randomly positioned to page 16. What follows are some excerpts from the chapter “Where is the Beloved?”.
The words are a cosmic wink, with the joke all on me. I get it, because I just don’t yet get it.
I’m waiting for that deep, full-knowing belly laugh. But until then, maybe I’ll just try softening. Rest my head.
“Put your head down, and don’t fall asleep. Just lie with your eyes closed and see if you can feel what it would feel like to have nothing weighing on you, to know that you would never again have to strain at anything, or worry, or wonder if you’ll ever be happy. See if you can feel what relief there would be if you knew, absolutely knew, that the rest of your life would be effortless. That all was radically well, and would be, even though bad things would keep happening. That somehow, for the rest of forever, you would be soft and peaceful and laughing inside, no matter what hand you were dealt. Feel it, feel it. You owe this to yourself. If you never let yourself sink into the deliciousness of what seems so impossible, how will longing ever get a chance to start up?
This is not a fairy tale. This possible thing is as real as a tree, as real as politics, as the roots that hold the tree to the ground, as real as the newspaper and its stories…What do I need to do to get this across? It is as real as gravity, as the orbits of the planets, as lightning, as photosynthesis, as grime in a bathtub, as a car accident, real as the crown of a bloody baby’s head pressing against its mother’s tearing flesh.
The truth is, it is more real than these things, and yet it is hardly seen, hardly felt, let alone directly known.
It is emptiness. It is nothing, but it is everything, it is all, and these are just words. What good are they? Will they make a bridge across which feet can walk? Will they make a trapdoor through which a body can drop? A soft place for a head to sink to?
How maddening it is for one to know this, to know it is there, it is real, and yet it cannot be found. How I want to lay my coat over every mud puddle, lace my fingers into a stirrup to hoist a tired foot over the wall, how I want to operate on every pair of eyes to make them finally see, to see what is right in front of them, of us all, everywhere and always. How I want to put my hands on every single head and gently turn it, direct the attention toward this, this and nothing but this. There is nothing else to look for, nothing else to care about, nothing else to believe in…
It is not so awfully hard. Truly. Once you know this, you will marvel that you ever could have supposed it was otherwise.
Life is short.”
Follow the Grain
We are looking for a gift. The Bohemian and I want to find something that can express our gratitude to someone that has helped us tremendously.
I’m sensing wood. Some kind of bowl, maybe. Hand-carved. So I follow the feeling.
Soon, there we are. In the distance, Kalalea mountain stands at sentry. At the base of this mountain lies the garden oasis where the Bohemian and I were married. Not far from the river crossing, lives the Garden Caretaker who tends this tucked-away paradise. And we are in his living room, his collection of carved wood work splayed before us.
There was this inkling of a recollection. Something about him mentioning that he carved wood. But that was nearly a year ago. Was I dreaming it? When I call to ask him, he tries to send me to the museum. Yes, he carves wood and stone, but he hasn’t been doing much lately. He doesn’t sell his work.
I tell him that the Bohemian and I are looking for a special gift, something that can show our appreciation. We would love something that he has made.
It has been his hands that shaped the foliage that held our wedding vows. It feels as though any art from him reflects the heart of our connection. He is listening.
Well, okay. I’ve got a few bowls. Come on over.
What we find is his humble presentation of incredible works of art. The Bohemian and I, we’ve been to the local stores. We’ve seen what’s for sale to the masses. We have seen nothing that compares to the Garden Caretaker’s work.
We spend hours in his living room, talking and listening to his stories. We pass huge pieces of carved wood between us. Koa, Monkeypod, Milo. Our hands run over smoothed curves, each piece unique and solid.
It’s a show and tell. Stringed instruments come out of cases. A guitar made by a man just down the road. A harp gifted from a man from Europe. The Garden Caretaker hands it to the Bohemian and he plucks the harp strings like he’s been raised in the angel choir. I listen to the notes while my finger tips trace wood grains.
“I just let the wood tell me.” This is what the Garden Caretaker says.
“I don’t know what it’s going to be. I just go with what it tells me. And it tells you.”
I reflect on how my instincts led me to that living room. An inkling of an idea that whispered in the background. Now, I was surrounded by wood carvings, listening to the tinkling of a harp, holding a ten-pound, double-sided platter in my hand.
So often we don’t know where our path is leading. We may have a general idea, but the details are yet to be revealed. One moment into the next, things begin to take shape.
“And I tell people, ‘there’s no mistake.’ You don’t ever make a mistake.”
The Garden Caretaker is talking about wood carving.
“It’s meant to be like that. You just work with that. You let the wood show you. And it will show you.”
By late afternoon the harp’s been put away, many stories have been shared, and the Garden Caretaker lets us choose a piece that speaks to us. The Bohemian and I both know the one. And though he doesn’t usually sell his work, he accepts our offering and lets us take it home.
Over the course of the next days, we absolutely fall in love with this curving piece of Monkeypod. We swoon at the varied hues, oiling the blacks and golds.
All of our love makes it that much more enjoyable to be able to gift it along, hoping that our friend will feel the magic too.
There’s solid wisdom here from the man whose hands carved this masterpiece.
Open to being shown the way.
There are no mistakes.
Listen. You’ll be guided.
Then share it.
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