In the leaving we face our fears – and – our sense of adventure. In the settling into the next stage, we create a larger “playground” for our evolution. Perhaps another aspect of the restlessness around birthday time is, in fact, a reassessment. A review of what has been, an exploration of what is yet to be; a letting go of that which we have outgrown, a welcoming of the new or reunion with the best of what was. This may be the grandest of all birthday gifts that life holds out to us year after year, a push and pull that lasts a lifetime.
This is a time of tension for me. It is my birthday and for as long as I can remember, I get restless around my birthday. I want to travel. Maybe the winter has been too long and I’ m tired of cold; maybe the days between holidays have been an endless blur of sameness. Maybe everyone gets restless around birthday time. After all, at birth we do make a tremendous transition from the realm of spirit to the physical world; from our mother’s womb to a much larger and separate world. All of life appears to be a push from the familiar, the pull of the unknown, the tension to return, the desire to go beyond.
In the leaving we face our fears – and – our sense of adventure. In the settling into the next stage, we create a larger “playground” for our evolution. Perhaps another aspect of the restlessness around birthday time is, in fact, a reassessment. A review of what has been, an exploration of what is yet to be; a letting go of that which we have outgrown, a welcoming of the new or reunion with the best of what was. This may be the grandest of all birthday gifts that life holds out to us year after year, a push and pull that lasts a lifetime.
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I have a new motto: Washington is for Lovers and Poets. Maybe it will become a bumper sticker. Here we are just after Valentine’s day which is a week long event, at least, here. Forsythias bloom, eagles are nesting, jonquils and tulip bulbs are ready to burst – love is in the air.
As for lovers and poets, the past weekend featured: · “love uncensored” nineteen couples spanning the decades from those in their twenties to couples in their seventies, reminded us of the many levels and nuances and transformations in love. The couples read poems of their own creation or from their favorite writers, to each other – and to us in the audience – revealing glimpses of their relationship. It was touching and hilarious and R-rated and so very sweet. · original valentine love poems were printed in the newspaper and on the paper’s website showing us the many ways that we love and are loved. Love poems and songs will be featured at the Deming library this coming Friday night as 12 poets and musicians express love in its myriad forms. Our Deming librarian is certain we will serve up chocolate along with poetry and adds “all we need is dancing and we’ll be having toooo much fun!” Hope you’ve made a place for lovers and poets – and chocolate – in your life. Who could ever have toooo much fun??? February brings love poems in abundance. Poets emerge from winter’s darkness with fresh hope, so says a young poet song writer friend of mine. And there is hope to be found in new love, old love, different love, love of place or pets or food. We are such resilient creatures, loving even when to some eyes we may appear foolish or naïve. We want love to be true in our lives. Our puppy dog kind of loyalty, infatuations, our mistakes, our dreams, give way to love that endures, love with substance. It is our very nature to reach out to give and to receive love; for such holy work we are created. We are never too old, too young, too hurt, too inexperienced to love. Right now. In this moment. Just the way we are. We know how. We must.
“every heart to love will come; but like a refugee . . . . ring the bells that still can ring, forget your perfect offering, there is a crack in everything, that’s how the Light gets in.” - Leonard Cohen copyright 2012 phyllis boernke; except quote from Leonard Cohen |
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December 2015
Authormusings may delight or disturb; musings may spark new activity, sometimes. . . . . |