Category Archives: inspirational
Reflections on Going to the Super Bowl Parade for the Philadelphia Eagles, Thursday, February 8, 2018 by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Reflections on Going to the Super Bowl Parade for the Philadelphia Eagles
Thursday, February 8, 2018
by
Jennifer Angelina Petro
I picked up sons Ben and Daniel at 4:30 AM. After stopping at Wawa (because everyone should stop at Wawa on the way to anything–especially on their way to a Super Bowl Parade) and headed downtown. It took us an hour to both drive and eventually find a parking space. It was another 15-minute walk to where we set up camp for the next eight hours, near where the parade was going to end—the Art Museum steps.
The sun had yet to rise, and people were filing in the slowly-lifting darkness from Broad Street down to the Art Museum, like a jubilant river. It was 6 AM and people were already shouting Eagles chants, fight songs, and Brady-Sucks, and yes, people were already drinking.
As the crowd grew hour by hour, the people grew kinder and happier. People were dancing, singing, oh, yes, and drinking—and they were also happy, high-fiving, laughing. And as the sun rose and illuminated the Art Museum, the sea of people swelled with anticipation.
People played catch with footballs that seemed to be soaring around the crowd from out of nowhere. People introduced themselves to those standing around them. People exchanged stories of how long they waited for this day and what it all means. Strangers hugged and offered each other blankets, handwarmers, and beer.
And the green. Nearly every person there—of all shapes, sizes, ages, race, gender-identity, and expression was bedecked in Eagles green. Looking out across the ever-burgeoning crowd, it turned into a luminous green sea that ebbed and flowed and raised its waves to heaven.
Yes, there were the knuckleheads. One idiot climbed a tree, urinated (very poorly aimed) into a water bottle, spraying the people below with urine, and then, threw the full bottle down among the people. If the police hadn’t been there I think he would have been beaten to a pulp. The people below were justifiably (pardon the pun) pissed.
One nearly-naked guy with green hair smashed two beer cans together in front of his face and roared as he sprayed the crowd with Budweiser. The surrounding people weren’t happy, but not as unhappy as those who were where the shit-brain peed on them.
Then there was the guy so stoned he came tumbling through the crowd like a wobbly train, and, if I hadn’t had been there to grab him, he would have plowed into the two old ladies in front of us.
“Thank you,” he said with his voice slurred and his eyes rolling around in his head like marbles, and then he just kept stumbling through the crowd.
There was no violence though. No meanness (yes, peeing off a tree was mean, but he was clearly drunk, and cracking up as he did his heinous act), no rage, no property being damage, no cars set on fire. It was plain and simply a party. It was a celebration of civic-pride—city pride—family pride—and, of course, pride for our team—the bunch of under-estimated players who overcame a ton of adversity to sweep unexpectedly and remarkably through the playoffs to bring home the long-awaited Super Bowl victory. It is a team comprised of good and decent people. It is a team together in true brotherly love. It is a team unlike any other I have ever seen, and I was proud to be there to celebrate them and our city. It was glorious, hilarious, bizarre, and fun—profoundly fun. When a city comes together to dance, sing, and embrace one another—it is a truly beautiful thing—I dare-say, holy.
There is so much wrong with the world. And, I believe there is far more right with the world. Today was one of the right things, and I am grateful to have been there with two of my sons. We will never forget it, and neither shall this team, this city—all the people living and dead who waited so long for this moment—who suffered through agonizing years of frustration. This was a day of unbridled joy—a collective exhale of relief and a collective in-breath of getting ready to sing—arm-in-arm-again and again, as loudly as humanly possible— “Fly, Eagles, Fly…”
One Way to Prepare, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
One Way to Prepare
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Exhale: Release and create,
Inhale: Gather and nourish,
Exhale: Loosen and share,
Inhale: Draw and replenish,
Exhale: Surrender and sigh,
Inhale: Unite and receive,
Exhale: Express and give,
Inhale: Assemble and hold,
Exhale: Relinquish and set free,
Inhale: Store and treasure,
Exhale: Cast and measure out,
Inhale: Claim and protect,
Exhale: Bestow and rejoice,
Inhale: Shore up and fortify,
Exhale: I am awake and ready.
If You Become Lost, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
If You Become Lost
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Keep moving,
The road, they say,
Is made by walking,
I know, that sounds
Trite and annoying,
Nevertheless,
It holds true.
Think about acorns.
I imagine
They haven’t a clue
About what is happening,
Or where they are,
Or where they are going.
Nevertheless,
They go. I want to
Believe they dream
Of sky and wind and sun
And roots to hold them
As they sway in said sky,
Wind, and sun.
I also think they haven’t
Any idea that their dreams
Are real, on so many
Blessed levels.
So, what do they do?
They move inside—
Something unfurls,
Like having the morning
Tucked away within them,
And as this slow, green,
Galaxy of branches opens,
They move outside. While they may
Not know where
They are going,
They open themselves
To possibilities and roads.
Sure, they meet stones,
Rocks, pass worms
And bones, perhaps
Even a sleeping bear or two,
Sure, its dark inside, and outside,
And, for the most part, cold.
Yet, they rise, moving
In ways that remind me
If you become lost,
Keep moving. You may
Not know where
You are going, or
Where your destination
Will be; what skies
You will open up into—
What horizons you will see,
What birds will find safety
In your arms. The light knows
However. The light knows
Wherever. The light knows
Whenever. The light knows
Whatever. The light knows
Whyever. The light knows
Whomever and whichever,
And shiningever, and singingever,
Callingever, lighthousingever,
Lookingforyouever, thewayever,
The nowever, the light knows all
The question words,
The light knows all
The answer words,
The light knows all
The inbetween words,
The light knows all
The unspoken words.
The light knows
You.
The light knows
You carry its child.
The light knows
You will both be born
Again, and again,
Into the way home.
All donations go to medical bills and groceries. <3
Some Thoughts on Seeing, by Jennifer Angelina Petro
Some Thoughts on Seeing
by
Jennifer Angelina Petro
Vision depends on the amount of light the eye bends to its uses. The retina sees things upside down and needs the brain to flip the images right side up. As evening comes, the eyes tire and rebel against the light, and sleep passes over, closing them for the night. And we dream, creating light inside ourselves, until dawn comes, awakening light within light, and we are flooded with things to touch and see, taste and smell, in short, to celebrate with our whole being.
Today, as the amount of light coming in from the world appears to be thinning, lessoning, I will make it my work to seek out more light and keep the aperture of the soul open. I will make it my work to create more light with sparks of humor or song, kindnesses and attention, calm words and softness of speech. And if I begin seeing things upside down, I will depend on the ideas of others to correct the image.
And if a time comes when the soul constricts–from fear or pain, closing off the light, then I will make it my work to seek out ways to ease the soul into opening, to coax it to look for, and to see, oceans of light in the hearts and minds of everyday people on everyday streets in everyday homes and towns across America.
Of course, sometimes the soul requires sleep and a time to dream its own dreams, some of which we never see. And in those times of holy darkness, when I must become the moon to my soul, then I will sing in whispers and move quietly about the house so that my soul may rest. And I will do the same for yours. If your soul wearies and needs time to replenish its rivers and suns, then I will sing softly to you until you sleep without fear.
I am awake, and it is not too late. In the soul’s time it is early, always early, and I open the pupils of my mind to new opportunities for vision and possibilities for drawing in more light through service and singing. I allow the world to see the iris of my heart, risking everything to stand on the solid ground of peace—eyes wide open, looking for you.
Nursing the Dark, Eating the Light, a Fable, by Radiance Angelina Petro
Nursing the Dark, Eating the Light
A Fable
by
Radiance Angelina Petro
One day, an acorn and a cicada nymph were talking underground, when a beam of light suddenly appeared shining down on the acorn.
“What is that?” asked the acorn.
“It’s light,” said the cicada.
“Why is it tugging at me?”
“That’s what light does.”
“What if I don’t want to move?”
“Dunno,” said the cicada, “I’ve been under here for 17 years. I like the dark.”
“I haven’t been under here for nearly as long,” said the acorn, “but it sure is comfortable.”
“And cool,” said the cicada, “and snug, and yeah, so cool—wonderfully cool.”
“What do I do?” asked the acorn.
“About what?”
“The pull. I mean, my heart feels like it’s breaking, and something inside wants out.”
“Go with it,” said the cicada. “So part of you moves into the light? Your roots will always be in darkness.”
“And what about you?”
“Me?” Said the cicada, “Well, when the light draws me out, and I climb a tree and wait for my wings to spill out, then my roots will be in the sky.”
“Should I try to fight the light?” asked the acorn.
“Good luck,” said the cicada. “Funny thing is, once during late summer, you fell to the ground and the darkness pulled you under and you loved it. You didn’t resist. You couldn’t resist. I heard you sinking down. You were weeping and laughing all at the same time because it was so nourishing and safe-feeling to be under here. Now you want to fight the light. Try this, just try breathing in the light, and see what happens.”
The acorn did as the cicada suggested and she suddenly felt the light breathing her and she found herself unfurling into the bright, blue sky, and the light–she was eating the light.
“There ya go,” said the cicada.
“Aren’t you coming?” asked the acorn as she turned away.
“When I have suckled the roots of the mother tree long enough,” said the cicada, “then I will come. For now I am still nursing the dark.”
On the Love of Showers, Soap, Rubber Duckies, and Thirst Relief International
On the Love of Showers, Soap, Rubber Duckies,
And Thirst Relief International
By
Joseph Anthony
So I was
reading some P.G. Wodehouse (“Right Ho, Jeeves”) by candlelight a
couple days ago during one of the recent power outages here in Philly, and
there is a scene where Bertie Wooster (one of the goofball main characters) is
really down in the dumps. He decides to
take a bath (“splash in the porcelain”) in order to lift his spirits, and it
works! While doing so he even discovers
there is a rubber ducky in the tub, and his delight really takes off. Here is how that scene reads:
“After
splashing about in the porcelain for a bit, composure began to return…I have
always found that in moments of heart-bowed-downness there is nothing that
calms the bruised spirit like a good go at the soap and water….The discovery
of a toy duck in the soap dish contributed not a little to this new and happier
frame of mind. What with one thing and another, I hadn’t played with toy ducks
in my bath for years, and I found the novel experience most invigorating. For
the benefits of those interested, I may mention that if you shove the thing
under the surface with the sponge and then let go, it shoots out of the water
in a manner calculated to divert the careworn.”
As in the
above snippet suggests, taking a bath or a shower is completely therapeutic in
the truest sense of the word. Water is a
great healer, whether one is drinking a nice cool, glass of it or taking a
dip in the tub. Water heals, refreshes,
invigorates, and cleanses. And when you
add fragrant soap to the tub and shower, the whole effect is even more wonderful
and enjoyable.
Here’s a
secret that is now no longer a secret: I
love soap. Soap and water. And showers.
Baths are good too. Any kind of
water contact involving fragrant soap is a miracle. Really.
Now that the secret is out, allow me to further elucidate on the
subject.
When I was
growing up the only soap we had in the house was Ivory, which, back then,
smelled like well, a dull, yet somehow biting-block of lard. Sometimes my mom ordered a bar from Avon
scented with musk or something, but in general, the soap fragrances back then
were limited. Liquid soap for showers
became popular when I was about 10, but even then, the fragrances were nothing
too exotic—it was like showering with liquid dish-soap.
Today we can
shower with any fruit we want—pear, pineapple, strawberry, watermelon, pomegranate,
grapefruit, peach, blueberry, mango, citrus, cucumber, and more. We can lather in vegetables, like carrots and
celery. We can foam up with soaps
scented with almonds, pumpkins, honey, sandalwood, amber, vanilla, peppermint; and
flower essences like patchouli, lilac, clover, honeysuckle, and rose. We can delight in spreading the rich lather
of cinnamon scented soap, or even chocolate scented soap. Soap making today is
an art form of the highest order (Check out my friend Vanessa’s website: she is one of those artists making [among other many wonderful things] soap): Nirvanaland Essentials). Her soaps are amazing!
I tell
you the truth that taking a shower in the morning (or anytime) is one the
absolute best parts of my day. I always (and you know I don’t use the word “always”
very often, but in this case, it’s true) step out of a shower feeling like I’ve
been blessed, baptized by holy water—so ready to get on with the day.
The French poet, Francis Ponge, knew about the loveliness of water, and especially of soap. He wrote a whole book-length prose-poem-meditation
about soap (one of my all-time favorite books for its sheer enthusiasm and adventurous
spirit) in the 1940’s. Here is a little excerpt from
his book:
“There is something adorable in the
personality of soap. Why adorable? Because its behavior is at once the highest
degree appealing and completely inimitable.
Here is a sort of mediocre pebble, flatly reposing in the plainest
saucer in the house. A man comes in with
dirty hands. Then the forgotten soap
gives itself up to him. Not without some
coquetry. It swathes itself in
glistening, iridescent veils and, at the same time, tends to vanish…no more
fugitive stone in nature. But then, the game exactly consists of holding it in
the fingers and chafing it, by the addition of a dose of water sufficient to
obtain a voluminous, pearly slobber, wheras if one left it to remain in the
water, it would perish in confusion. For
soap has its particular dignity…it is a magic stone…the more it foams, with air
and water, clusters of scented grapes, it is explosive…water, air and soap
overlap, playing leapfrog…Yet it is necessary to return it to its saucer, to
its austere oval, its dry patience, and its power to serve again.”
For me
there is nothing like showering and lathering with soap that smells like
heaven. It is a sensual and truly
self-affirming experience that I can’t recommend enough. And it is an experience comprised of the
simplest ingredients: soap and water.
And speaking
of water, my friend Lefty has once again started a fundraising campaign with
Thirst Relief International and so any and all donations that come to the
Wonder Child Blog from this post (see the donation button below after the Ernie video) will be given directly to his campaign. And for every $10 you donate he will donate
$5 until he’s reached the goal of $2,500. So for as long as this post in
online, any donations will go to Thirst
Relief International (TRI). TRI is a
wonderful organization that helps provide clean, safe drinking water to the
nearly one billion people on our planet who have no access to any. Of course, you can go directly to Lefty’s campaign
page and donate there too. Click this sentence for the link.
Now please
don’t think this post was a big set up to try and make you feel guilty for
loving soap and water or for taking long, leisurely showers. That was not my intention at all. I love long, leisurely showers and have no
guilt for taking them whatsoever. I
decided to add the fundraising piece to this post in hopes your love of water
and soap will be shared with others in a real and tangible way. So have a splash in the porcelain and then donate
to Thirst Relief International.
Thank you
again for reading my friends. You are
the bee’s knees.
100% of all donations for this post will go to Thirst Relief International. Thank you. 
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
The Golden Bird and the Tree: A Fable of the Soul and the Ego, by Joseph Anthony
The Golden Bird and the Tree
A Fable of the Soul and the Ego
By
Joseph Anthony
Once upon a
time a golden bird wandered the heavens in search for a place to sing. Seeing a tree that stood alone in the valley
of the mountains, she flew in for a closer look. The tree was young, a mere sapling, and since
it was winter, the sapling was sleeping, so it did not notice when the golden bird
alighted in its humble branches pleased to find a home.
As it slept,
the little tree dreamt, and in its dream, a golden bird descended and made its
home among its branches.
“Why would
you choose me?” the tree asked the golden bird.
“We chose
each other,” said the golden bird, “and together we will make a bridge between
heaven and earth.”
The tree
shimmered gently and continued sleeping, dreaming it was listening to some
mysterious and radiant singing.
In reality, while
the golden bird had been searching for an earthly place to call home, it had
intended that home to be temporary—a stop along its journey of singing its song
through time and space. However, the
golden bird decided to make its home among the branches of the tree because it
had, in fact, gotten one of its delicate feet stuck in a tight spot among the
branches, and couldn’t move. But since it
liked the tree and felt at home there, it decided it would do what it was born
to do: sing. And it would remain there
until it was no longer tangled with the tree.
The golden
bird sang a tree-song, a song of tree-energy, tree vibrations, tree leanings,
and it enjoyed very much how its voice was informed by the being of the
tree. Sure it had its own song, but its
song had no overtones or harmonies, it was just pure tones issuing from a most
exquisitely fragile voice. Now that it
was stuck in the tree, its singing made vibrations in the branches and these
vibrations created echoes, harmonies, and drones of endless variety and timber,
and so it kept singing this new and wonderful song, and felt it had discovered
sides of itself it never knew before.
The golden
bird grew to love that little sleeping tree.
It appreciated the shelter, the experience of form and boundaries. It loved the way the tree’s being made her
own song more resonant and deep. And it
decided it would do whatever it could to protect that little tree and help it
grow to reach its fullest height.
Meanwhile
the tree slept. It slept and dreamt it
had a golden bird living in its branches and that they had fallen madly in love
with one another.
In the
spring, the tree began to awaken, born into a blue sky dappled with clouds the
shapes of castles. As the tree grew more
and more awake, it began to enjoy being a tree very much. It reached and it stretched, it swayed and
it leaned. It grew green leaves and soft
blossoms and sent deeper and deeper roots rivering through the surrounding
valley.
Every night,
it slept and it dreamt about the singing, and as it grew, it realized it could
do so many more things than when it was a seed or a sapling. It was delighted to discover it could cast
its seeds far into the world and that the world would accept them and nestle
them deep into her womb.
As it grew
even larger and its branches stretched even further, it could touch places even
further away. It began to want more
light, more space, more sky, and somehow when it dreamt, the song it heard
seemed to tell it that all of its wantings were good—holy, wonderful, meant to
be. So it wanted more and the
surrounding world gave it more, pouring down rain, sun, and soothing winds.
The tree, in
turn, gave oxygen to the world. It loved
making this mysterious force, loved how it became one with the wind and felt it
breathe into the sky and how all the creatures around the tree enlivened and
quickened with enthusiasm when new oxygen was produced.
One night, in
a quiet moment in the light of the moon, the tree was not quite asleep and not
quite awake when it heard singing—the same singing it had been hearing in its
dreams. The tree shimmered. The sound filled its branches with light. Every branch and budding leaf quivered with
joy. The tree listened and listened all
through the night. It stood there awake,
swaying to the song. And as the dawn
kissed the night sky and made it blush with the deep presence of its
honey-scented kiss, the tree suddenly realized a golden bird really did live in
its branches, and a shimmering thrill quivered through it from the tips of its
branches down to its gnarled roots.
The golden
bird sang its song of light and as it sang the tree decided its primary reason
for living was to protect that golden bird.
Little did it know that the golden bird had the same idea.
Over time
however, in the tree’s goodness and curiosity of heart, it became a harbor for
many types of chattering creatures, each competing for the best spot in the
tree. At first the tree didn’t mind all
the noise and activity, but after while all the hustle and bustle began to
distract the tree from its primary purpose, and what was worse, it couldn’t
hear the golden bird as well.
And as much
as the tree loved the golden bird and wanted it to stay forever, it knew it
must have a home somewhere else.
Perhaps, the tree thought, she had come from a faraway shore or perhaps she
came from another tree, a universal tree crowned with the heavens, one that
draped a canopy of verdant green over all things. Wherever it came from, it was determined to
not only find the golden bird’s home, but to help it return there.
The tree
whirled its branches in a wild frenzy, hoping to loosen the bird, but its efforts
had the opposite effect, and the golden bird’s leg only stuck faster in its
spot. The tree talked incessantly all
day and sometimes all night, creating all sorts of dramas and stories hoping to
help inspire the bird to think up an idea to help free itself. The tree wanted more and more space with
which to spread its branches further and further hoping if it did the growth
would open the stuck spot and loosen the leg of the golden bird.
Little did
the tree know that if it really had wanted to, the golden bird could have
lifted, leaving its leg behind only to sprout a new one as it flew away, but
the golden bird was so very moved by the tree’s devotion that it stayed. It stayed and it sang.
Over many
years the tree kept trying to free the bird, but still it could not. It went
mad for the trying and the failing. It
swooned into a stupor of depression so much so that it began to only focus on
the frenzies of its own talking, and of its own swirling wanting. It tried so hard to free that golden bird that
it forgot to listen to the her song. Over
time, it somehow managed, as strange as it seemed, to forget the golden bird
was there, even though it loved her dearly.
To anyone
looking from a distance, it would appear the tree hated the golden bird, that
it was somehow an opposing force trying to harm the golden bird or at very
least drown out its song. In actuality,
the tree stood in deep devotion to that golden bird, and all of its activities,
as misguided as they appeared to be, were in service of the one who dwelled in
its branches. Its efforts were, in a
word, holy.
The golden
bird used the magic of its song to transform the efforts of the tree into the
very growth and expansion of the tree.
The tree grew and learned so many things as it sought to free the bird. It became a strong and deeply rooted tree,
one whose boughs became a favorite climbing place for the children of the
nearby village. And the golden bird
looked upon all of the tree’s efforts as those of a highly active and creative
child. She forgave its every forgetting
and knew that running through its trunk was the thickest blood of the deepest
devotion.
One late
summer afternoon the sky darkened. An
ominous shiver swept through the leaves of the tree, thunder roiled through the
valley like an invisible wave from an invisible sea. Within minutes a storm careened off the
surrounding mountains, echoing through the tree sending it spinning in place
like a top, and had it not been for its roots, it would have twisted out of the
ground and tumbled away.
In the midst
of the storm the tree suddenly heard and remembered the singing of the golden
bird, and it stood up as tall as it could reach, stretching and unfolding its
branches as high as they could go hoping to simply hoist that bird back into
heaven. The tree wept its leaves into
the wind as the rain pelted down. It
tried to heave itself upwards, lifting itself from the earth, but its roots
were attached too deeply in earth.
And still
the storm raged. And still the bird
sang. And through the wind and rain, the
thunder and the cooling air, the tree loved that singing with such a love that
the world could not, and indeed would never fully understand. How could it be that such an unlikely pair
could create such a partnership of such breadth and such harmony.
In their
time together they had done just as the golden bird told the tree they would in
its dream from long ago: they had created
a bridge between heaven and earth. The
golden bird wanted a place to settle and sing, and that she got. The tree wanted to grow and to delight in
the world, and that it got. And the
golden bird grew to love the tree, and the tree grew to love the golden bird
and they both desired to protect the other. However, only the golden bird knew
the truth of the inevitable.
And in the
distance, the golden bird saw the lightning.
She saw it splitting the sky and lighting up the village and the
valley. She tried to warn the tree, tell
it to look out and be careful, to bend out of the way, to stop reaching so
high, but she knew the tree was rooted to its own personal earth, and that
ultimately she could do nothing to save it.
So she did what the tree loved most: she sang.
She sang a song
of sky and of blossoming horizons. With
every note the golden bird draped shawls of light over the branches of the
tree. It garlanded the tree with
dazzling strings of musical fireflies that bobbed and danced in the storm
lashed branches. She sang hoping to
guide that tree safely through another season.
She sang even though she felt her foot loosening from the spot that had
held her there for so long. She sang as
the storm trampled through the sky and gathered directly over the tree.
And just
before the lightning touched the tree with its terrible, sudden stroke, tearing
it asunder and blasting it to pieces, the tree knew the way to free the golden
bird. Instead of doing all of the things
it had been trying to do—all of those things that actually created tension and
more tightness within itself, it suddenly knew to pause, to breathe, and to be
still. And as it relaxed, a song began
to rise like a river up through its roots, and up through its entire
being. As the song rose, it gathered
earth and moisture, and these flowed into its song, giving it strength and
power. And when the song reached the
branch of the golden bird, it struck the bird with such joy, such sweet and
undying devotion that the bird wept, it wept into the sky with tears that
rained down upon the tree in a baptism of the most fierce and tender love. And their songs merged becoming one song,
rising and streaming into the heavens directly up through the lightning bolt
that struck the tree, and into the very heart of the Divine Itself, and together,
for a moment that held the entirety of eternity, that tree and that golden bird
sang, not as opposites on some mysterious, little known scale of misunderstood music,
but as one—one song of All Life, All Love, and of All Unending Joy.
Thank you for your kind contributions to the continuing work
of the Wonder Child Blog.
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
On the Importance of Sleepenings
On the Importance of Sleepenings
By
Joseph Anthony
Awakenings
are the spring of all things. Awakenings breathe out rebirth and entire fields
are covered with flowers. Awakenings can
be sudden, like lightning cleaving a tree.
They can be gradual, like an iceberg melting slowly over decades into a
roiling sea.
When we have
them we sometimes cheer, laugh, weep for joy, or melt into an embrace. We are unloosened and free to move.
Sometimes
however, things need to rest. We need to put things to bed. We need to rest our minds, bodies, and even
hearts and souls.
Let us call
these rests: Sleepenings.
When we are
tangled in a skein of fear and doubt, let us try not to fight them. Be still, rest. Have a sleepening. When we do, our breath slows, we relax, and
so when we do eventually awaken, the fear and doubt will be at our feet and we can
walk unencumbered. In fact, we can pick
up the muddle and wind it into a ball and then weave hope and wisdom out of
those fears and doubts.
While working
towards our dreams, fairly obsessed with the joy and excitement of the torrent
of creativity or the steady stream of ideas and inspirations, if we do not take
moments to pause, then that self-same torrent will slow to a trickle, the
stream will dry.
We need a
sleepening. Literally and
figuratively. A rest for our bodies and our
minds. Let the torrent naturally slow;
let the stream flow without us always splashing in it and muddying it up. When we awaken, the torrent will be waiting,
and somehow refreshed with clear water.
The stream will be there, a crystal blue ribbon guiding us through the
forest of possibilities. We needn’t view
the sleepening as if it’s something wrong.
Winter isn’t wrong. It gives
spring its juice.
Try putting
some old fear to bed. If you try to
fight it, it will grow. Let it
rest. Give it some time alone. Give it some space. Turn your attention to
something else. Consciously move your
gaze, your hands, your inner and outer attention towards something that gives you
strength and courage. Consciously
breathe yourself into calm. And not just for two minutes. Sometimes the sleepening needs to last for
days or weeks. Sometimes it needs to
last forever. However long it lasts, if
you can turn your heart towards hope, towards big and little steps in another
direction, then when the awakening happens, when the fear eventually rises from
its cold, dusty bed, it will be changed into courage, faith, a being of
light. And if it still looks like fear, you
will be able to see through it, like a ghost, and keep moving.
What things
need to be put to bed in your life? An
old idea that no longer makes sense? An
old, limited belief (or a new one?) holding you back from sharing a talent,
interest, or wild idea? What worries or fears need a good wintering? What shames tucked away in the dark folds of
your memories need to be laid to rest once and for all? Try having a sleepening for each of
them. Honor them with sleep. Give them the grace of hibernation. When they awaken, they will be transformed
into gifts for yourself and others. They
will be winged things or stories, songs, dances of healing and light, paintings
full of vibrant color, hymns dripping with gratitude. Whatever they become, they will no longer own or
terrorize you. They will be harvests of
grace meant to be shared.
And in the
same way that we do all sorts of wonderful, ritualistic things to help us have
awakenings, let us discover creative and healthy ways to have sleepenings. We can sing our shame lullabies of
affirmations, rock our fears in the steady arms of faith, hand our worries over
to someone else, let them rock them to sleep while we find a place to curl up
and dream. Light a candle in honor of a
long held limited belief, say a prayer that it find its way home and when it
arrives, pray that it is a new creature in God. Let your grief cry itself to
sleep in your arms. Bear witness to its
pain. Tell your doubts a story of
hope. Prepare a room for your financial
stress with the open windows of amends and restitutions and with the clean
sheets of thoughts of giving, sharing, and of abundance. Take some old unhelpful
idea about your body or sexuality and make a bed for it–a grand, welcoming bed
of satin and silk, dappled with roses and candle light. Ravish that old idea with the kisses of
acknowledgement, awareness, and conscious presence, and then let it fall back exhausted,
changed, breathing the deep breaths of blissful acceptance. Not the acceptance of surrendering to it. Let the old idea surrender to you, to the
touch of your passion and desire, and tender openness to exploring new ways of
being alive. Let it awaken in your
hands, and blossom before you as a new possibility shoot through and through
with warm, luxurious amazement.
The more
ways we can learn how and when to put something to bed, to let things have
their sleepenings, the more our awakenings can be full of light and gratitude,
creativity, and clear, fresh energy. And
often we need other people to help us know when we need to put something to
bed. So often we are like children so
frazzled with the activity of the moment that we forget what exactly we are
doing and how to stop. I’ve been
there. Many times. And were it not for mentors saying: “Put it
to bed, slow down,” I would not be here today.
The paths of
sleep and of awakening were not meant to be traveled alone.
Of course, I
am not talking about procrastination, avoidance, delusion or denial. I am talking about releasing the tight grip
we sometimes have on things that are actually unhealthy or unhelpful. When we loosen our hold, allow ourselves to
be held in the hands of another—a mentor, for example, we can put those old
things to bed so other things can wake up and smell the roses.
For all
sleepenings are really reawakenings and all awakenings are really
resleepenings. With every awakening
something is laid to rest. With every
sleepening something is woken within in us that says: “Breathe.”
Thank you for your contributions to the Wonder Child Blog
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog
On the Rebirth of Innocence, A Christmas Meditation
I wrote this last year around this time and was inspired to share it again today. May it help fill you with hope and joy.
–Joseph
On the Rebirth of Innocence
A Christmas Meditation
by
Joseph Anthony
Everyone has
things happen to them that shouldn’t happen.
Everyone carries wounds within their very cells. This being said, everyone also has things happen
to them that should happen. Everyone carries healing and purity within
their cells. Both leave imprints on the soul and the cells of the body.
Learn to
slowly integrate both into your life.
What? Integrate pain? That’s crazy.
Except that every human life experiences pain—emotional, mental, and
physical. Of course, it’s good to avoid
the unnecessary manufacture of pain and to not put one’s hand on a hot
stove. However, we cannot avoid pain completely. So when it comes, learn, within reason, to
feel it, especially the emotional and mental varieties. All pain is a messenger.
I was asked
recently how often I moved towards the pain—the emotional pain. I replied that most days the pain moves
towards me. It’s safe to do that now. Once not too long ago the pain wasn’t welcome;
I treated it like a monster, an outcast, a pariah. Now it knows I will give it a place to spend
the night. I will listen to it, sit with
it, and move towards it with intent to honor and ultimately transform it
through the very act of listening and embracing it. It can be itself while knowing, its heart of
heart is love—protection—the desire to be whole.
The same is
true for healing. It is safe to flow
towards me and from me. It is welcome in
my heart, body, and soul. I am learning
to open my arms to healing, to sit with it, listen to it and transform it into
anything it needs to be. It can be
itself, even as it manifests itself as music, poetry, nature, the touch of a
friend, the smile of a child, you.
How does one
open their heart to healing? Can
innocence really be reclaimed, reborn, rediscovered? Is it ever completely lost? Does it ever completely die? Can it ever truly be stolen? And if it can be
reborn, how does one make room inside for that to happen?
Keep in mind
the roots of the word: innocence is
related to the word noxious, and thus
means not-noxious, not harmful, not poison, and not sick (online etymology
dictionary). This being the case
innocence can certainly be born again in our lives, indeed, it must be. Our very bodies are equipped with healing
cells. The same is true for the heart
and the soul. We are all born with the
white blood cells of spirit and joy.
To be
specific, here, in a nutshell are some suggestions for allowing innocence to be
reborn within you:
Learn to
embrace your sorrow and pain.
Learn to
stop doing things that harm yourself and others.
Learn to
forgive others and yourself.
Learn to
seek forgiveness and repair anything you have broken.
Learn, with the
help and guidance of mentors, trusted friends, and therapists, to find
direction in your life.
Learn to
breathe fully.
Learn to be
in the moment—every moment.
Learn to
love yourself—your body, your own unique ways of thinking and praying and being.
Learn to be open to and to integrate healing modalities such as EFT into your life.
Learn to
play.
Learn to
sing.
There are
other things as well. And while I think
the ultimate journey towards innocence involves unique moments of pain and
darkness for everyone in one way or another, everyone’s path also involves
unique moments of healing and revelation.
Know that
the worse you feel (even if you feel down and out right now), the more you are able to sit with the pain, the more
your life has been reduced to spiritual poverty, where your animal instincts
are crowding around your life, there is another part of you, a union of quiet
strength and willingness; a union of intuition and openness; a union of dreams
and passion, that is seeking your heart, your very own dingy, broken heart to
give birth to innocence. It is looking
for a “house of bread.” And it is guided
by both the star of your dreams and the light of your wounds. And when you have humbled yourself or life
humbles you, know that innocence will be born again inside you. It is seeking a place, daily, hourly, ever
more, to find a safe place to be born. And when it finds the manger of your
heart, open the doors, let the night winds swirl and dance, let those same
clumsy animals gather round for the body is beautiful, let those who shepherd innocence come near, and lo, let the Wonder Child be born anew. Let the gift of the birth of your Divine
Innocence be adored, be praised, be showered
with treasure. Let that innocence rise and celebrate who you really are—your gifts
and talents. Share them with the world,
help others, inspire others, nourish others with the Bread of Life growing within
you, and you will truly experience the rebirth of innocence–Divine innocence,
Holy innocence. And your life and the
lives of those around you will truly help save the world.
Happy Holidays
from Joseph Anthony
at
The Wonder Child Blog
Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog