All too often we forget about the presence of magic in our lives, making our every day heavier than it needs to be. So as much for you as for myself, this blog is meant to remind us that magic, in all shapes and sizes, is very much alive--and that sometimes all we have to do is just tweak our vision a bit to recognize it.
She likes to stand on the edge of the estuary, that place
where the water eddies and twirls and makes funny patterns, that place where
the birds like to land and catch fish and puff up their feathers, singing
little lullabies to the mouth of the sea. She likes to feel the wind as it
rises up off the ocean catching bits of salt and sand, to feel that wind with
her arms stretched wide and her fingers twiddling gently in the breeze. She
watches as the sun warms a drop of dew, giving it glisten, and as the moon
lights up a wild rose, giving it voice. She watches and she learns. She listens
and she smiles. She sees and she is happy.
She stands there for days on end, for weeks that turn into
years, and every day that comes, brings something new. The wind brings new gifts, the
birds sing new songs, the plants grow new life, and the sea, oh yes the sea,
she brings new secrets, new hopes, new dreams. The birds might land on her, the plants might tickle her
skin, and on windy days the sea might even kiss her with its spray. And while
she takes those gifts as one might accept love, she doesn’t need to be told she
is loved, she doesn’t need to be told she is beautiful. She just knows that she is.
The River Birch standing on the edge of the estuary, that which marks the place I most like to write, is beautiful. I tell her so every day. And
yet, I know it does not matter to her, it does not change what she is. For she
is beautiful whether I tell her so or not. She is beautiful not because she
thinks she should be. She is beautiful because she is herself. You see, somewhere
deep beneath that peeling white bark, in a place we might call soul, she knows
that she is who she was meant to be and being who you are meant to be can only ever be ... Beautiful.
* * *
This week my Wish is that you take the time to remember who
you are. When you peel off all the requirements and all the expectations, who
are you? Are you a dreamer? Are you a lover? Are you someone who grows wings
when you step outside, when you let the gentle gifts of nature soothe your
modern-rushed wounds? What feeds you? What calms you back to the place you
recognize as soul?
When you find that place that is who you are, that feels
like soul, swim there, dive there, dwell there for as long as you possibly can. And then when you finally decide to rise your head from the depths of your Self,
from the depths of your soul, you will surely see a very special gift, a gift that you
have carried with you all along. Whether you are a bird or a fish or a River
Birch that stands tall along the edge of the sea, whether you are big or small
or rich or poor, or hobbling on one foot or two, a stranger in your own sea, when
you are who you are meant to be, you are nothing less than ... Beautiful.
When the last bit of sleep has fallen from your eyes, and
the last dew of morning has risen to the sky, gaze up to the widest part of
blue, where the clouds fluff up like puffer fish and the wind catches dreams to
guide them home. And when you do, dare to pluck that dream that floats
unattached, that one dream that’s ridden on the back of a moonbeam just for
you, yes you and only you, the only one it has ever longed for, the only one it
has ever needed, the only one who could ever set it free. Yes, you.
Did you know it has sung your name for years upon years on
end? And did you know that you forgot you heard your name as it soared across
the treetops, between the gusts and among the birds who tried to guide it home?
It was there when you denied your feelings in favor of
something else, someone else, feelings very far and out of touch with your
soul. It was there when you pushed yourself to do something you didn’t want to
do, something that felt bad but you did it anyway, something you thought you
ought to do. It was there when you kept quiet. When you held your tongue and
silenced your heart. When you cried into your pillow and sobbed in the shower,
hoping the soap would wash it all away. It was always there. Your dream,
dreaming for you, calling your name, begging you back home to the pulse that
ached to give you a breath of fresh life.
How then, can you be sure to hear it now? How then can you
know your ears are working and your heart will finally follow suit? Where is the key?
And how will you now open that door?
Begin small. Even tiny. How does the grass feel beneath your
bare feet? And a lily as you brush it against your cheek? Weave a branch of
rosemary, a sprig of thyme, and a leaf of basil or two around your fingers and
your wrists. How do they smell? What do they say? How do you … feel? Let nature
invite those forsaken feelings to feel welcome again, safe enough to be heard.
Find the tenderness you tucked away and even if just for a little while, dare
to honor it once again. For your feelings, yes those, no matter what and how
formed, are threads connected to your soul, tendrils leading you home.
* * *
We forsake our dreams when we deny ourselves, when we deny
our feelings. Life gets busy. Kids get needy. Partners get caught up in things
we think we ought to solve. Our friends fall down. Our parents crumble. We prop
them all up. And forget … ourselves.
This week my Wish is that you free your dream back home,
that you find those tendrils, those threads connected to your soul and that you
honor them, that you love them, that you guide yourSelf back home. Take your
own hand with tenderness, cradle your own heart with love, give yourself what
you give so many others, bring your dream back home.
There were nuts and fruit and bread dipped in honey and
everything set as a feast not only for the appetite but for the eyes as well.
Mirrors caught the candlelight, music softened the air still more, and the
bells, oh the bells, they kept tinkling as she danced.
man over there?” whispered Tia.
with the beard?”
then sipped her wine. “See his eyes? See how they protrude a bit? See
how his eyes set him apart from the other men around him?”
cocked her head ever so slightly, taking it all in. “Why is that?”
unsafe most of the time. He must watch carefully to protect himself, to protect
his feelings and his spirit …more so
than his body. If he felt unsafe in his body, his soul would reflect that in different
ways. He would stand tighter with his shoulders higher or his hands clasped in
fists. But he doesn’t. Do you see that? His body is loose.”
does he feel unsafe? Did something happen to him or was he born that way?”
take the time to uncover the ‘why’s’ or you can just gently, lovingly meet him where he is. Either way, you free him if you speak to him in the language of
took a sip of her wine, letting her eyes wander with a little more confidence.
“What about that man over there?”
with the leather boots on? Yes. I see him. But what do you see?” Tia brushed a
few dark curls from her eyes, her fingers laden with rings.
“I see his
soul speaking through his neck.”
Tia was intrigued.
gets stuck. Not because he doesn’t know what his truth is but because he
struggles to voice it.”
“So he is
on his neck, the creases that cross his skin like rivers, they tell me he longs
to be heard but does not let himself speak. Not enough.”
you meet him?”
invite him to tell me his story. I will beg to listen to the melody of his
voice and I will show him how beautiful that voice is.”
will free him.” Tia smiled. Knowingly. “Because you know how listen to the
voice of the soul. You know how to see. And that seeing will only grow with
time, Isabella. Like a fine wine, your gift will continue to grow in quality
smiled a soft smile, feeling wisdom infuse her being. “And me?”
you, my dear?”
you see when you see me, dear Tia?”
try seeing yourself? What does your soul say to those of us who see you, lovely
Isabella? Pray tell, my dear.”
set her wine glass on the table and closed her eyes. She let the music seduce
her, she let it seep into her skin, soaking her to her core, moving her,
rhythmically, to its entrancing sounds. Eyes still closed, she slipped off her
shoes. She raised her arms to her waist, let her fingers play the air, and
without another thought, began to bring her body alive. It was a gentle sway at first, beginning with her hips and emanating from her
elbows to her wrists, to her fingertips. Then it moved up to her
stomach, to her breasts, to her shoulders, neck and head, and down through her
legs, to her ankles and her tiny boned feet. She let her body speak. Because it felt invited to, because it felt safe to, and because she knew it must. Isabella's soul needed to be heard.
Tia watched in admiration. Isabella was even more graceful, elegant, beautiful than she
realized. She was unlike any other woman Tia had ever met. Free. In nearly
every way. And it appeared the rest of the room thought so too, with all eyes
taken by her unusual freedom, her exotic sensuality. Whispers began to spread like virus and soon the
house went hush. Ears tickled, bodies awakened, and Tia’s breath caught in her
chest as she watched Isabella sway with the spirit of an enchanted butterfly.
she?” whispered one to another, not knowing he had spoken loud enough for many
Mariposa,” said Tia without thinking, matching the mesmerized tone of his
inquiry. “The butterfly of Venice.”
* * *
Awaken your body. Enliven your skin. Set your spirit free.
Let the voice of your soul sing. Through your body. With feeling, with
sensuality, with an expression that only you have and only your body can share.
We live in a mind-centered world
And forget that our bodies speak
Without the mind
with the voice of our souls.
What does your body say? What messages are you sharing with
the world? What if your body were to say, ‘I am alive. I am beautiful. I love being me!’ How would that look? How would those feelings manifest themselves? Why not try it and see?