Feeling Your Feelings: A Meditation on Being

Posted on February 16, 2012 by Jennifer

Some days
the sadness comes, whispering into the fragrance of the day, dyeing it just enough with
blue so that your heart catches, and tears rise.
Happiness can sneak up on you too.
Some days you wake up, it might be in the middle of a dark winter, but
you find yourself inexplicably happy.

Memories are
attached to cycles in the seasons and the weather. Some days the autumn wind carries a memory
scented with sorrow that arrives when the air is cool, brisk, and full of rain. Other times memories of happiness bloom in the
heart and suddenly everything is spring.

As it nears
the first anniversary of my mother’s death I remember her taking me to my first
guitar lessons when I was in second grade.
I remember how she brought me to the creek after the lessons, and let me
lift my pant legs and take off my shoes and socks, and wade in the water to
look for crawfish, turtles, and salamanders.
This memory snagged my heart like a fish hook a few days ago. It reeled me back and back until it landed me
in a net of sorrow and gratitude, and I wept like a baby.

So when the
sadness comes, I needn’t ask why. I
never ask myself why I’m happy. I just
feel happy. Why not do the same with
sadness? Or anger? Why do some feelings pine for
justification? Certainly some are more
comfortable to feel than others. But the
human experience is a mingling of many emotions, each with its own fragrance,
sensation, color, and yes, reason. Since
they are ephemeral in nature however, it is nearly useless to try and figure
out why we’re feeling whatever it is we’re feeling. Instead of teaching children to think out why
they’re feeling something, why not teach them to feel what they’re feeling and
not react in harmful ways to the uncomfortable ones (or to the happy ones for that
matter)?

Sure things
need to get talked through, but feelings are like spirits. They come when they come. They go when they go. They probably have their mysterious plans and
reasons for appearing in the blurred edges of your vision, but they might just be
passing through on their way to another soul.

Rumi called
feelings guests. He encouraged us to welcome
them in, letting them stay awhile knowing that they’d be moving on soon
enough. I like his idea and add this one
of my own: Bless them. Thank them.
Bless them all. Thank them
all. If you’re feeling something you
have a pulse. You have hope—no matter
what the feeling. If you’re emoting,
then just be with your feelings as if you were with a friend or a moving piece
of music. Listen to them as if they were
senior citizens or young children. They
have stories to tell. They won’t
tell you why they exist—but they will just give you glimpses into their hearts,
into their histories with the wind, the stars, the darkness, and the
light. They will offer you hints into
yourself as long as you approach those hints as if you would a deer or a heron. Celebrate them. Lavish them with praise. Be in wonder.
They are gifts of the season, the day, the moment, the food you ate, the
air you breathe, the things you’ve done or didn’t do, the things that happened to
you, or didn’t happen; they are fireflies; they are the feathers of owls after
the owl lifts and banks into the marsh.
Mostly they will open you. They
will open the windows of your heart and pour in life. They will reveal you to yourself in that precise
moment in time, and then disappear with the winter wind.

So feel your
feelings. Be with them in your
body. Move with them (e-motion). And give thanks for being alive.

On Love

Posted on February 11, 2012 by Jennifer

Once upon a
time two seeds slept side by side deep in the earth all winter long. One day, without warning, without a word, one
of the seeds awoke, aching for light. It
nudged the other awake, and soon they were both thrumming with a deep,
luscious, hunger for light and warmth.
They began unfolding, and as they did they disentangled into each other’s
arms, while simultaneously pushing through the darkness. And there was darkness–long, silent moments
of blackness, of not knowing which way to turn, except into each other’s
embrace, and they would unfurl upwards blindly, mumbling little prayers into
one another’s palms. They would travel
fine for a time and then hit walls, only to eventually wind their way around
them or through them. They occasionally got
snagged by the roots of other trees, but managed to free
themselves by simply being themselves, and keep moving through the darkness. One of the seedlings would uncurl a stem as
graceful as a dancer offering her hand to the sky, and the other would leave
room for the gesture to unfold. One seed
would stream upwards with a rush of intensity, leaving the other seemingly
behind. Yet they were woven together at
their core, and so as the one surged forward the other rose too. One would tire and the other would carry them
both. One would become overwhelmed by
the ever present blackness and need gentle encouragement to keep reaching
through the fear. There was a give and
take of these two lovers of light that inspired the darkness to part before
them, to crumble down barriers, to open the gates to the sky. And finally they emerged, breaking free of
the blindness of not knowing where they were going. That no longer mattered. They were a tiny forest of truth, and they
blessed one another with room, they gifted one another with space. And while they continued to untwist into the
bright air, opening to the light, they reached and stretched towards one
another and towards the light, revealing more of themselves to themselves and
to one another and to the light. They
unraveled into bloom, and the light wove through them like breath through flutes,
and the two seedlings became trees, and stood together hand and in hand,
holding the earth, holding the light, holding the memories of how they moved
through the darkness, regardless of their inclinations to stop, to fall back,
to swallow the night. They held their triumphs
and little victories, and then let them bud into fruits and flowers for all to
see, for all to partake of the sweetness and fragrance of their innocence. And the light. The light crowned them with the dawn and the
moon, and draped garlands of stars over their shoulders, sent fireflies dancing
around them, sent birds singing through their boughs, children climbing through
their branches. And they stood, side by side, looking deeper
into the ever unfolding sky.

On Gratitude

Posted on January 29, 2012 by Jennifer

“How is it you are so happy all the time?” the old man asked the Child.

“I stay steady even as the things around me, and within me, change.”

“What do you mean?”

“This,” said the Child. And as he spoke, the Child swirled the winter winds into his hands and tossed them back into the sky as spring. Flowers bloomed over the grass, like a river of color, birds banked turns around them, bees hummed through the sweet, earth-scented air. And as this all turned round them, the old man overheard the Child whispering, “Thank you,” to each and everything he saw, heard, and felt. In a few moments, the Child cupped spring in his hands, shook it a little, cast it into the air where it descended around them, landing as summer. Fresh fruit hung heavily from the trees, fish jumped in the pond, cicadas droned, hidden in the lush, swaying trees. And as the old man and the Child spun around in the field, laughing, the Child paused, looked deep into the world and said, “Thank you.” And just as the old man was thinking of lulling in the summer sun, the Child swished his hands into the sky and turned the air as if it were water. With a flourish, the Child spun the air to a stop and when it did, gold and red leaves whirled everywhere, sheaves of corn leaned against doorways, the smell of mulled cider scented the clouds, a clean, brisk chill flowed through them. And as the two raced about trying to catch the falling leaves, the old man heard the Child stop and say,“Thank you.” Finally, the Child wound the air back up and turned it out back into the moment, where snow was falling, draping their shoulders. The Child looked up into the sky, snowflakes kissing his face, and said, “Thank you.” And after he did these things, he looked to the old man and asked, “Now do you see?”

“Yes,” said the old man, “the way to remain happy is to remain steady in gratefulness, no matter the season.”

“No matter the season, no matter the feeling, no matter the day, no matter the circumstances, no matter anything. Happiness is not a feeling so much as a way of living. And that way of living is to give thanks in all things.”

And with that the old man and the Child walked, hand in hand, towards the blossoming horizon.

Using Your Gifts, Sharing Your Light

Posted on January 27, 2012 by Jennifer

Once upon a time the Moon was happily reflecting the light of the Sun when a nearby planet said to her, “Excuse me, Ms. Moon, doesn’t it bother you that you do not shine your own light? I mean, shouldn’t you be trying to develop your own ways of shining?” The Moon slowly turned her face towards the planet, “Bother me not to shine? Dear One, there are many ways to shine. The Creator saw fit to endow me with a silvery complexion, one that does not give off a light of its own. One could say it just isn’t a talent I have been given. I used to try, eons ago, to make my face shine, but I simply do not have that skill. One day, I saw the Sun and asked if He would share His light with me, and of course, he said yes. Now I am the light of the night sky. I am an inspiration to generations of poets and singers. I use what I have been given; I use it in such a way as to honor the gifts of others. My gift is to reflect, to utilize the light of those around me. So, you see, I am shining.” The nearby planet frowned and turned away, feeling secretly green with jealousy. For she was billions of years of old and still trying to figure out which talents she should develop and which ones she should ask for help with. Now she spins around and around judging others for what they do and do not do.

Justice

Posted on January 24, 2012 by Jennifer

Justice. From the Latin iustus, meaning “upright,” and also from, ious, meaning, “sacred formula.”

The villagers stood in a circle around their king and queen. Moving slowly, like stately magical ships, the king and queen stopped at each villager to bestow gifts and blessings. To each one they presented a gift that was uniquely suited to the destiny of that villager. To each one they bestowed a blessing that trickled down to the heart. Some gifts appeared, to the jealous ones, to be finer than other gifts. Some blessings consisted of a nod, the wink of a twinkling eye, or a kiss or the touch of a hand. Others were secrets murmured into waiting ears that opened the souls of the hearers like the dawn. The jealous villagers wondered what words were spoken. And as each villager departed carrying the king and queen’s blessings and gifts, the foolish wondered why they had been given what they had been given. The wise used their gifts and blessings to become the kings and queens of their own lives.

We Are Triune Beings

Posted on January 21, 2012 by Jennifer

We Are Triune Beings. The Creator layered us all with three beautiful coats. One is made from the silver-tipped feathers of a falcon and gives us the power to think and to soar and to dream. Another is golden, made from the fine, shimmering fabric of the wings of the sun. It shines with the fire of desire. The last coat, the one that covers the others, is fashioned from silken scales and sewn with silken seams. It is made of the wings of dragons. All three coats are alive. We wear living wings of thought that we must train to take us where we need and want to go. We wear the living cloak of love which we must use to shine and burn for the love and service of others. We also wear the wings of the body, which carries with them the instincts for the love of the smell of the earth. To gain self-control, we must not forget the outer coat. When the other two coats are flapping out of control, either with passion or with scattered, unfocused energy, tighten the outer coat with a walk in nature or with the playing of a musical instrument. If needed, release the energy of the other coats with a baseball bat to a pile of wood. Twist a towel. The outer coat experiences what the other two feel. Self-control means using the glory of all three coats to the benefit of the one wearing them—the king and queen inside. And remember, when we struggle for self-control, the Creator spun the stars from the loom of the night sky in part so we would turn our faces upwards during times of darkness and pray both prayers of gratitude and prayers for strength. Be the answers to each-other’s prayers. Be each other’s stars. No one gains self-control alone.

Loving Your Neighbor As Yourself

Posted on January 14, 2012 by Jennifer

Jesus said to the young man, “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.” “What does that mean?” asked the young man, “isn’t loving yourself vain?” Jesus smiled and said, “Vain? No child, loving yourself is not vain, it is a commandment. The Creator made you—you are a child of the Divine—to love yourself is to love the gift you’ve been given—the gift of who you are.” “But how do you do that?” the young man asked. “Shine,” said Jesus. “Shine like the sun. Be the real you. Live the life you were created to live. Live your dreams. Then you will be loving yourself. And,” Jesus continued before the young man could interject, “when you are living the life you were created to live you will automatically be loving your neighbor as well. Shining your light reflects the Creator’s light, my light, your light, your neighbor’s light. We all shine a little brighter when you love yourself enough to be yourself, when you love yourself enough to shine.”

Loving Yourself, the Art of Positive Self-Talk

Posted on January 5, 2012 by Jennifer

Once upon a time an old man and the Holy Child sat in silence by the riverside. After a while, the old man heard the Child talking to himself, or so it seemed. As the old man leaned in closer to listen, these are the words he heard:

“You are beautiful. I am so happy you were born. I love you. You are the perfect weaving of Sky and Earth, the keeper of holy fire and soothing water. I want you to be happy, so I will sing this day, sing your praises, give thanks for the life you give me. I am so grateful that you carry me with such grace and generosity. I love you. I appreciate you. Now let’s go play.”

And then he was quiet again. Tears were streaming down his face.

Finally the old man spoke: “That was a beautiful prayer.”

“Thank you,” said the Child.

“You must love God very much.”

“I do, but those words were not spoken for God.”

“Then who were you talking to?”

“Myself,” said the Child, reaching down and cupping his hand into the cool water.

“Yourself?” said the old man surprised.

“Yes,” laughed the Child, “don’t you talk to yourself that way?”

“No,” replied the old man, staring at the flowing river, “never.”

“Now’s a good time to start,” said the Child, as he rose and took the old man by the hand, “never has ended. The time to love yourself has come.”

On the Difference Between Rituals and Paradigms

Posted on December 30, 2011 by Jennifer

Every morning he would set the breakfast table for his wife. With all the sanctity and precision of a priest setting out the chalices and cloths, he would arrange her coffee cup, spoon, and napkin. Then he would brew the coffee and carefully pour milk into the little cream dispenser, and take out the sugar and some extra spoons. When the coffee was finished brewing he would pour some into her cup and cover it with a little lid to keep it warm until she woke. To complete this little ritual he would remove her favorite sections of the newspaper (the crossword puzzles) from the bundle and set them by her place. He did this every morning for the nearly fifty years they were married.

Once there was a young man who went around saying, “sorry” all the time. He said it for practically everything he said or did, even good things. He said “sorry” so much that he would joke with those around him by saying “sorry” for saying “sorry.” It became such an ingrained thing that he would even find himself saying “sorry” when it didn’t make sense in a conversation. And of course, he said, “sorry” when he didn’t mean it. In his efforts to live out this false humility, he annoyed many people, and he became truly sorry when one by one those people stopped hanging around him. One day, alone, looking in the mirror, he said, “sorry,” and realized he hated who he was, both on the inside and the outside. “What would happen,” his reflection said, much to his surprise, “if you loved yourself?” And then the mirror shattered, sending shards of glass whirling around the room. He tried to duck and shield his face. He fell to the ground. When he heard the last of the glass raining down around him, he got up and looked into the mirror again. The mirror was completely intact. And the image he saw was an angel. He wept, and from that day forward, only said “sorry” when he really needed to.

“Ye Are Gods.”

Posted on December 25, 2011 by Jennifer

One day I found God sitting on a park bench in Flourtown, Pennsylvania. He looked depressed as he tossed bread crumbs to the pigeons. Taking a deep breath, I sat down next to him. He barely looked up as he moved his bag of bread over to make room for me. We sat in silence a long time. I wondered what to say to him. He looked so sad. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he spoke first.

“Nice weather, eh?”

“Yes, you made a pretty sky,” I said.

“Me? I didn’t make the sky look pretty.”

“You didn’t? I thought you made everything.”

“That’s a myth…Well, no, let me use a different word: “lie.” “That is a lie.”

“Lie?” I said surprised, “What do you mean?”

“Why do my children so willingly give their power away? This sky,” He said, gesturing towards the late afternoon autumn sky, “the people of this town made it. They’re collectively in a good mood; they’re living right, so the sky is clear, sunlit, full of fluffy white clouds.”

“Wait, wait,” I said, “You’re not suggesting that the collective moods of the citizens effect the weather?”

“Effect? Make.”

“Make?”

“We make the weather?”

“Yes.”

“So what do you make?”

“Oh, I make the raw ingredients for the weather. I make you. I make a lot of things.”

“I see.”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“Thought so.”

“Listen God, You’re telling me some pretty outrageous stuff here. It’s not that easy for my finite mind to grasp all this.”

“Finite mind?”

“You’re the infinite one. We’re the finite ones.”

“Says who?”

“You did, didn’t you? In the bible someplace?”

“Never.”

“OK, so now you’re suggesting I have an infinite mind, like yours.”

“Not suggesting. Telling. I gave each of my children a spark of my own mind. That makes your mind infinite.”

“Yes, but where did I get the idea that my mind was limited and yours unlimited?”

“The people who write that sort of thing are scared of their own divinity. They can’t handle the responsibility. Even worse, many can’t handle the joy, the sheer joy of being unlimited.”

“So they put words in your mouth and say you say things that you didn’t just to justify their own beliefs?”

“More or less, yes. People are always giving me credit for things I didn’t do and devaluing themselves. They do something great and say, “Wow, look what God did!” But I didn’t do it. They did. They blame me for disasters, wars, abuse, everything—good or bad. I didn’t create victims. I created princes and princesses.”

“Is that why you look so sad?”

“Yes.”

I looked out over the growing flock of pigeons as his bag of bread crumbs was never ending. He handed me a piece of bread to throw to them.

“Is there anything else you need to talk about?” I asked, chucking the bread into the sea of coo’s and glimmering feathers.

“I’m tired,” said God, “tired of people using my most common name, and twisting it to mean such horrible things. I created people not so they would believe in me, but in themselves. The sad truth is most people do not truly believe in me. If they did, they would lead wonderful, unlimited, joyous, creative, compassionate lives. If they only for a few seconds everyday took the time to remember how powerful they are, how I just want them happy, how I don’t need their praise, how they have it within themselves and the people around them to have everything they ever needed to be happy.”

As He spoke, great tears formed in his eyes and trickled down his face and into his beard of stars and snow.

I put my hand on his. He broke down completely, sobbing like a baby.

I held him in my arms for hours; so long the pigeons began landing on us. He cried all night, and I held him all night, wondering at the mystery of it all.

The Wonder Child Blog

Sharing the Journey

Author Archives: Jennifer