Moonstruck

When I look outside,
Beyond my window,
Across the alley,
Above the neighbor’s garage --
I see darkness reaching
Beyond my imagination,
Flecked with non-darkness like possibilities scattered
Across a lifetime.

Above stars and earthly haze,
My attention attaches to a single silver sphere,
Perfect in its stillness,
Wordlessly expressive,
A wisdom always
Nearby,
Nearly realized,
Nearly born --
All the possibilities of the universe
In one luminous bubble,
My own Child Self,
Eternally safe in amniotic space.

When I look inside,
Beyond my memories,
Across my dreams,
Above my fears......
I see the moon.

In 1995, I wrote a poem about the moon. I loved its constancy. Every night, it always showed up. Whether clear or hazy, I knew where in the sky to look for it. Even as it changed its shape, its outward appearance, as most things will do, its essence never really changed. If it wasn’t full, I was content thinking that it was taking a much deserved exhale, or was in the process of becoming full again. The moon always seems to help me believe in possibilities. It is always perfect and always in the process of becoming.

And again, fifteen years after I wrote my ode to the moon, I feel the same. I am filled with a quiet delight when I am driving east into the city from the suburbs, on a fall evening, when the air is crisp and I am becoming aware that the night’s darkness is arriving earlier and earlier. I might be very tired from the day, but I am re-energized when I spy the moon rise.

I saw it last night. I went out to dinner with my friend Holly. We had just parked the car and started walking down Broadway to a small Ethiopian storefront restaurant. I announced that the moon was supposed to be full that evening. We both stared up and looked at a swatch of sky and waited for the moon to become visible for us. As if on cue, a cluster of clouds seemed to split apart and the silvery white disc came into focus as if at the end of a tunnel.

I saw the moon last night; full and silent and unashamed, rising above the city skyline…and I felt happy.

Being reminded of possibility and perfection is no small thing.

Freddy Krueger Must Be Their Decorator

A few days ago, I took a walk around my neighborhood. It would be an understatement to say that I saw it as if for the first time. I didn’t recognize a lot of the stately two-story bricks or porch-fronted frame houses that I would typically see every time I walked to my health club. Many of the houses on my block were in disguise.

My neighbors, it seems, have come down with a bad case of Halloween fever. I’m delighted.

Not even two blocks away, there’s a new McMansion that has a purple spider crawling up its face. These days, I walk to the store or library in a slightly amped up state of awareness, almost anticipation. Who knows what new graveyard got constructed on someone’s front lawn last night, or what shape of green-eyed gremlin is hanging from the gable of the house on the corner?

There is yellow crime scene tape aplenty, cordoning off bungalows and two flats, printed with appropriate warnings like “Beware -- Haunted House,” or “Do not enter, unless you DARE.” Between Melrose and School Street, we have a great assortment of pumpkins; some carved into jack-o-lanterns, others looking like innocent refugees from Cinderella, and several of the blow-up variety that can practically fill a porch. All this wonderland of frightfulness has been wrapped in miles and miles of white “web” material, stretched between fence posts and trees.

When I walk down the street, I know there’s going to be a surprise every thirty feet. Some are spooky; others more clever. Some are glaringly in your face, and other displays you have to look for.

On the side of a nearby house, where the reddish brick meets the sidewalk, two skinny legs, in white and magenta striped leggings and blocky black shoes, stick out as if the body they’re attached to was lost under the structure. I can almost hear the witch from the Wizard of Oz cackle, “Now be gone — before someone drops a house on you, too!”

So much creativity and the spirit of play are infused in my neighborhood’s haunted houses. A lot of time, a lot of planning, and probably a good measure of give and take between family members over where to hang the bats – so many people have made my short errands more like adventures for me.

I love the feeling that I don’t know what I’ll see next. And, all this stuff has brought the neighbors out. I haven’t talked with so many of my neighbors since our block party two months ago. And everyone is excited too. We all want to share our discoveries.

“Did you see Pete and Kathy’s house?” Tom and Marilyn asked me, eager to endorse another neighbor’s handiwork. “Great witch. You’ve got to see it!”

Seeing so many grown-ups act like children is no small thing.

The Ears Have It

Most Sunday mornings, I go to a meditation center where I join a small circle of people in chanting and meditating. After the program, we have a community breakfast.. We’ll have savory cereal, bagels and cream cheese, fresh fruit, maybe a coffee cake, and chai; steaming hot black tea with brown sugar, milk, ginger and a blend of Indian spices. Two Sundays ago, I remember sliding along the bench towards a spot where I could enjoy my bagel when Holly spoke up.

“Oh Deb, those are really pretty earrings.”

Donna looked up at me and jumped in.

“Oh, that color of blue is beautiful. It goes great with your top.”

Jim thought he’d add his two cents.

“They’re very unusual. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pair like them. And you don’t wear jewelry all the time, do you?

Kathy, who was smiling quietly after what I surmise was a very deep meditation, decided to weigh in as well.

“Yes. They are a striking color of blue. They look like peacock feathers.”

The dozen or so heads around the table looked at me and smiled.

I was going to tell them “the story” of my earrings, or as much of it as I could think of. I’m not sure when I got the pair. Maybe someone gave them to me. I couldn’t remember. If I did buy them, I must have gotten them at a street fair, not a store. I don’t buy jewelry much, and I certainly don’t spend a lot of money on baubles. I really do love the color of blue, and yes, they look a little like peacock feathers, which I am very enamored with. I have a friend in Michigan who raises peacocks, and I took a collection of fanned out beauties home after making it out to Plymouth for her wedding last fall. I stuck them in a Styrofoam block and put them in a handled shopping bag and made sort of a dried arrangement with them. The earrings have the coloring of peacock feathers, but the design looks a little Southwestern, don’t you think, like a Native American decoration? I was in Sedona last spring. While I was there, I bought a small rose quartz pendant in the shape of a heart, but I am sure I did not get this pair of earrings then. I’m a winter, skin complexion-wise, and dark blue seems to look good on me. I have another pair of earrings made of glass that my mother got in Spain. They’re the same cobalt blue color. But I don’t know where they are…..

I took a deep breath. I think I unconsciously pulled my hair behind my ears; showing off my earrings while my brain was doing everything possible not to acknowledge positive regard.

I said, “Thank you.”

Sometimes, taking a compliment is no small thing.

Living Your Dreams

Some time last year, I put visiting Machu Picchu on the top of my bucket list. I knew of a woman who led spiritual tours to Peru. Her tour started in Cusco, considered the Holy City and capital of the Incan Empire, and the itinerary included time in the Andean village of Pisac, a visit to the ancient Lemurian Temple of Love in Ollantaytambo, stops at countless other Incan temples and time spent with local shamans. A friend of mine had gone on this tour a few years ago and gave the experience an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Last spring, I also acknowledged a returning yen to partner, to find a compatible and companionable man, someone I could laugh with, explore life with and grow with. The two desires seemed to have woven themselves together and an intention was formed. I was going to visit Machu Picchu with my soul mate on 10/10/10.

Even though this was an intention, not exactly a goal (more a case of mentally fixing on the result I wanted and not on viewing the result as the culmination of specific steps), it seemed right to have a date in mind for this experience. Spirits of the Earth had a tour to Peru scheduled around a sunset meditation at Intihuatana, the highest point in Machu Picchu on 10/10/10. The number began to represent a gateway for me. It felt magical. Over the last few months, huge banners went up around Chicago, my hometown, promoting the 33rd running of the Chicago Marathon, which was to take place October 10th. Whenever I walked to work, I would see these banners and feel encouraged in my intention. 10-10-10. TEN-TEN-TEN. Yes, something big will happen on 10.10.10!

Of course, wishing alone does not make it so. I was welcoming divine intervention but I knew I had to take aligned actions. A lot of things had to come together before Machu Picchu with My Man could happen. I had been living in a no dating zone for years before ten-ten-ten became my mantra, and my passport had expired. I also needed about $4000 to make the trip.

I went about renewing my passport and put profiles on a couple dating sites. I made myself open for introductions. I went about snagging work assignments more energetically… but I was largely counting on an insurance settlement to provide me with the cash to dash. Early in September, I had more than a sinking feeling that the money wasn’t going to materialize.

I tried giving my intention positive energy and leaving myself open to how things might come together. Maybe, I thought, as the deadline for making a security deposit with Spirits of the Earth came and went, I wouldn’t go on Vera’s tour, but I’ll get to the mountaintop some other way. I began including some Stairmaster time in my gym visits. I needed to build up my breath for the climb. Faith and right action. I wanted to support my intention with both.

But the money didn’t come through. I had been dating but did not feel any closer to my perfect partner…And it was now 10-10-10.

I decided I had to do my best to live my dreams anyway – with a little sense of humor.

I took myself to the Machu Picchu Restaurant, probably less than two miles from my home. I enjoyed the country’s folk music, piped in throughout the dining room, and I treated myself to the most “Peruvian” dishes on the menu: Seco Cordero and Papa a la Huancaina, lamb stew and potatoes. (When sampling dishes at an ethnic restaurant, 8 out of 10 times, I’ll go with the lamb stew.) After dinner, I played Catalyst, a spiritual board game, with some very good friends. Not exactly how I intended to spend the day, I still found a way to enjoy Machu Picchu and celebrate my heart connections. One day, I will share the climb with the right companion.

Honoring your dreams while accepting that life’s events occur according to God’s time, is no small thing.

Put Your Stamp On It

I am not a collector. I am a mailer. I love to send and receive mail with eye-catching stamps.

I often send birthday greetings by email. I forward jokes by buddy list blasts and pretty much send most correspondence electronically these days. I am even training myself to pay bills online.

This is more efficient, I guess. Maybe I have avoided a few late fees on credit card payments. But it feels less personal. While the postal service has been the butt of jokes for years, the ritual of preparing a letter, or sending off a payment, or sealing and stamping an envelope containing a specially picked out card seems like an important experience.

I haven’t given up snail mail altogether. I love sending out Christmas cards. Mine go out with silly personal notes handwritten on the inside. I am probably one of those people you hate to get in the line behind at the post office because I will actually have the clerk pull out all the different kinds of stamps that are available for sale before making my selection and walking away with one sheet of twenty.

I could order online, but I love to look at the stamps. I like to hold the sheet and look at the history or whimsy I hold in my hands. The stamps I use are a way to let people know what I’ve been thinking about. I consider a stamp to be like an announcement, calling attention to the fact that the letter or card is from me. I believe an individually selected stamped envelope is less likely to end up lost or unread in our pre-email versions of spam folders.

I’ve bought breast cancer awareness stamps when I was thinking about friends who had survived cancer. I used to enjoy sticking a Buckminster Fuller stamp on envelopes. Always an advocate of creative thinking, I’d wonder if my mail’s recipients knew about Bucky Balls or remembered the craze around geodesic domes. About eight or ten years ago, I liked to buy Greetings from America, stamps of all 50 states. I would choose state stamps based on what I was sending and where it was going. And, of course, getting to plaster the front of an envelope with a smiling, pre-Vegas Elvis was a lot of fun.

So this past Friday, I needed stamps. Having planned to spend a morning cleaning up paperwork in my office, I expected to come across things I would have to mail. The lines were really short and I wasn’t going to take the clerk’s bait, settling for a cracked Liberty Bell when I knew she had something better she hadn’t pulled out of the drawer yet.

I was trying to decide between The King & Queen of Hearts ( a longtime favorite); Gulf Coast Lighthouses ( I’d like to encourage people to add any light they can to the world); Mother Teresa (a nice reminder of every day kindness, although I am no saint); and, of course, The Simpsons looked pretty good.

I decided on a great image from the Legends of Hollywood series. Katherine Hepburn. Independent, discerning, self-aware, positive but not Pollyanna. High-collared sexy.

Getting to put your personal stamp on something is no small thing.

Polishing Silver

Two weeks ago, by best friend’s father died. She flew in from California and started busying herself with arrangements for his memorial service. She hunted the house he had lived in for over forty years for buried treasures. Some pieces of paperwork were quickly discovered, much to her relief. Other things were discovered by surprise and were quite affecting. She found a shoebox full of birthday cards she and her brother gave him when they were children.

I tried to think of ways I could help her. Her sadness, I knew, would spin out slowly over time. I walked through the basement with her last week. It was overwhelming. All the stuff. “Do you need any pots and pans?” she asked “Do you want some aluminum foil?” It seemed as if her father and mother (who passed away more than five years earlier) were saving narrow cartons of Reynolds Wrap in their basement bunker as if preparing for a long stay underground.There must have been over a dozen packages. “Barbecue your brains out,” she added, trying to make a joke. “If you want anything else, take it.”

I picked up an umbrella, deep forest green with small golden flowers, a wooden shaft and a clear, curved and tapered handle. So unlike the six dollar collapsible numbers I usually pick up at a Walgreen’s or CVS when I am out and the sky opens up.

“Look at this. It’s beautiful,” she said, noticing a small silver tray lying askew on a box on top of the family’s old ping pong table. “Art Deco. Simple lines. You’d like this.”

I looked at the piece. A round silver tray, no more than twelve inches in diameter. Unwrapped, untouched in a damp basement for years, it had become very black and tarnished. What would I do with this? I thought. I don’t throw elaborate parties. I don’t have a butler. I am pretty much a no muss, no fuss kind of girl.

I nodded and smiled. I took it took it home.

I have only one other piece of nice silver. I have a silver bowl that I allowed to get tarnished. It was a wedding present from a marriage that didn’t make it to its leather (three-year) anniversary. It occupied space in a rarely visited storage area for most of twenty-five years. More recently, I used it for my own burning bowl ceremonies, where I would light small pieces of paper that represented something I wanted to release. This made it even blacker. Just a few months ago, I decided to bring my bowl back to its original luster. I came up with a symbolic purpose for it that had nothing to do with burning. I guess I would do the same with this gift.

I put on thick yellow latex gloves and poured Tarn-X over the center of the plate. A very understated sheen began blossoming before my eyes. The flat surface almost seemed to go from black to white as soon as it was coated. I took out a very soft rag, a strip of old cotton tee-shirt, soaked it, and started rubbing the edges of the plate. I took out an old toothbrush and ran it over tight curves in the trim. Here, it was harder to coax the dark crevices into reclaiming their original sparkle. I started thinking about where I wanted to put the plate. I decided on the top of a small cabinet in my bedroom. I could put a small candle there. I would leave my watch there, maybe earrings or other jewelry when I was done with my public self for the day.

Gloved and practically sweating over my kitchen sink as I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the plate into shining, I answered my own question. What would I do with this gift? I decided I would apply effort. I conceived of a purpose and place for it. And then, I recognized, I was really going to enjoy its beauty. Part of the gift in my new art deco silver tray was the way it encouraged me to put forth effort.

Polishing silver is no small thing.