Relaxed Grip

Feeling currents swooping about me in swift and rapid swirls, I seek that center point of balance where I can rest in solid calm.

It’s a lifelong dance I haven’t mastered.

But I keep trying. These days you’ll find me gripping the wheel as I drive the two-lane highway, listening to Eckhart Tolle in my Toyota. The passenger seat may be filled with a laptop computer, a stack of someone else’s mail, a jar full of water with a squeeze of lemon, and a bag of some kind of portable lunch snack (granola bar, carrot sticks, maybe Jeb’s junky Chex mix if I’m desperate).

The dash needs to be dusted. Shells are scattered in the cup holders. Meher Baba‘s image is propped to look at me in his youthful beardedness with the quote “Search for God within, the only treasure worth finding.”

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Text messages may be coming in through my iPhone. Voicemail messages stacked. I’ll be slowing down where they’re doing the road work to make a new turn lane, easing through the aim of radar guns.

Who knows what I’m mulling over as I drive. My reckless, active mind on auto-pilot. Thinking thoughts a-plenty, while all the while the Albatrosses soar. The whales are making their way through the Pacific back to our shores. The mango tree in my yard is blooming.

Where am I as Eckhart’s voice, clear and calm with that indistinguishable foreign accent, is reminding me through car speakers that time is an illusion? That all that ever exists is now. Right now. Here. In the exquisite, unfathomable existence of being.

He says our minds resist. Persist. They’re locked in a timeline that does not exist. We are everywhere but here.

Eckhart Tolle

My heart knows this is true while my bull-headed mind quips, “Oh, yes, give me Now! But don’t forget to add first grade spelling tests and that after-school dental appointment.”

That’s me trying to be witty as I dance toward the balance, skipping steps and squashing toes as I go.

Playing with timelines (only momentarily, Eckhart) I look back at these Archives to this same time last year. (Was I still here in WordPress-land 365 days ago, asking questions and typing out my heart?)

The thread still seems the same. Then. Now. I’m practicing. Trying my best to flow with the current of life. Then, “Best Laid Plans” was dealing with a broken down washing machine but finding Venus and the moon through the detour of my plan.

Now, “Mystery Tour on the Road Less Traveled” draws on the curiosity of the future.

In one year, so much has changed, and yet, these basic truths remain. I’m still right here, right now. Sifting in the amorphous sphere of movement. Breathing somewhere between past and future. Susceptible to gentle or explosive changes in a plan.

It’s here I seek some loose parameters. Try to keep Jeb’s teeth clean. Make sure I eat my vegetables. Return phone calls within a day or two. Don’t text while driving. Hold the steering wheel but keep my grip relaxed.

Let Eckhart remind me of the power of the Now.

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Being With It

I had made other plans for today.

But you know about plans…

Jeb wakes with wild gestures to his throat, signing that he doesn’t feel well enough for school. My inquiry as to whether we need to take him to the doctor is met with strong head shakes in a definitive ‘no’.

I don’t really think he’s that sick. A little congestion, a little scratchy throat. I could push it and make him go. Maybe some would say that’s what a good mother would do. But I don’t have ‘some’ standing in my kitchen. And I’m not feeling like pushing a tide.

Meher Baba

So, I acquiesce. Call the school. Set Jeb up on the couch with a fresh sheet and a magazine. Try to justify this day off from school as a learning opportunity, as he plays the saint-taking-silence and writes notes to me on notebook paper. He’s practicing his spelling and writing skills, right? He’s communicating. He’s telling me his dreams.

“Mom this is the darngris part win I go to sleep I amagin me in a checrs game and win ever I move a checkr stuff comes up in to my nose This is y I think as a sicnst I think I need mor water”

This morning I guess he’s the scientist-saint, slash, medical intuitive, slash, dream interpreter.  Some may say he should be at school studying his spelling.  But I quell that scrutiny as best I can.  Try to silence the judging thoughts.

Taking cues from everything I know and trying to apply it to this curveball in my day, I soften. I do not resist.

I send the necessary emails to the appropriate people, restructuring my schedule as best I can. I choose not to react with stress about this turn of events. I decide I’ll stay calm.

Meher Baba

I come to WordPress, ever committed to posting my daily chronicle. Offer you a glimpse into my impromptu morning. Upload pictures of Meher Baba, which somehow always make me feel better. The man was silent for 30 years. Take a look at his face. He knows something.

Man, I hope I’m starting to get it.

Meher Baba

Living the Bridge

It can be hard to bridge the realms.

Yesterday I stood with headphones and a microphone in the studio of Kauai Community Radio asking every listener to make a phone call and donate money to the station.  Across the board from me was the host of an eclectic show that features music, musings, poetry and inspired words to enlighten.

This DJ is ringing bells and calling in the angels while I’ll repeat the phone number to call.  Usually, this radio show is stretching toward the realms of the Divine.  Today, I’m grounding the conversation in tallies and cold hard cash, making requests for thousands of dollars.

The host reads Hafiz, reminding listeners of the The Friend.  When the poem is complete, he mentions that inside the book jacket, the translator, Daniel Ladinsky, has made a dedication to avatar, Meher Baba.  As we’re live, on the air, he hands me the 1937 photograph of the guru, standing in Cannes, France.  He is by a tree, smiling in white, hair flowing.   So often when I gaze upon photos of this man, waves of sensation run through my body.  A visceral reaction that defies rationalization, one I have never fully understood.

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I stand looking at the saint, reverberating in the high prose of Hafiz, and I repeat into the mic that the radio station has less than two hours to reach its goal of $50,000.  I announce the phone number again.  I mention the tax-deductible aspect of their donation.  I try to bridge the worlds of the practical and the ethereal as the host rings those om-engraved chimes one more time.

He cuts to music and I stand with Meher Baba, black and white, in France.  The phones are ringing in the studio and volunteers are bustling about.  What is it about this man?

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Rex had been staying at his ashram in India for months before landing back on the island into my arms, so many years ago.  Like many devotees, he carried multiple photographs of his guide and I was surrounded by pictures of the man that gazed at me through the rose and sandalwood incense Rex burned in his honor.

On Rex’s second day back home, the day we conceived Jeb, it was Meher Baba that gazed at me from a necklace around his neck, smiling in unconditional love as spermatozoa met ovum.

The phone rings again in the KKCR studios and this time I answer.  A woman with the last name of Amsterdam calls to say that she wants to donate to the station because we mentioned Meher Baba’s name.  I take down her address, phone number, email and the amount of money she wants to give, filling out the appropriate form.  Is this what it looks like to bridge the worlds?

At high noon, the radio station’s fund drive has officially come to a close and in about 2 hours we’ve raised over $2,000.  Peter Gabriel is singing that in this moment he “feels so connected” and the program host’s spirits are soaring as he lip syncs along, rejoicing in the accomplishment.

Next week it will be back to Persian poetry and excerpts from the We’Moon Calendar.  He can gaze upon the face of Meher Baba or any other saint with no need to mention monetary sums.

As for me, I’m usually at home with Jeb on Sundays.  Not always listening to the radio.  Often cleaning the bathroom or building Legos.  Making bridges of my own between that ecstatic day of conception – March 13, 2003 – and all of the practicals necessitated to live the fruit it bore.  One of Meher Baba’s more well-known quotes comes to mind as I ponder living this link.

Don’t worry, be happy.