Category Archives: inspirational

A Conversation on Soul-Making

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A
Conversation on Soul-Making 

My friend
Jean Raffa’s writing has been inspiring me for a couple years now—ever since I
discovered her work on her blog, Matrignosis. 
The other day she wrote a post, “Soul-Making Half Way In Between,” and
this story popped out as a response/reply. 
I am grateful to Jeanie for her kind and wise encouragement and
permission to leave such long comments on her blog.  Anyway, here’s a story I posted as a comment
for her piece.  I thought you might like it.  It’s a transcription of a conversation I overheard between a kindly old man and the Divine Child as I sat up in the Tree of Life daydreaming.  Let me know what you think, let’s keep the conversation going. 

 


The Journey


Along a
shadow-dappled path on a late summer evening, a child and an old man walk
discussing many topics of great interest: their favorite painters and poets,
the art of brewing tea, water divining, and the ever self-revealing topic of soul-making.

“There is no
finish line on that journey,” said the child to the old man.

“Is that why
we make everything into a race?” asked the old man, “It would seem we like
finish lines.”

“I suppose,”
laughed the child, “we all like to imagine and to feel a sense of completion.”

“So it’s OK
to want conclusions?”

“Of course,
provided you remember that conclusions are just doorways to new beginnings.”

“So nothing
ends?”

“Oh things
end,” said the child, “just not in the way we’re taught to understand endings.  In the movies they flash a big, ‘The End,’ so
we know to get up and leave–in case we didn’t know.  Everything gets tied up nicely.  In reality, however, when something ends, when
Enlightenment dawns, when a soul awakens, it often happens after, or during, a
not-so tidy experience.  Sometimes it’s a
little messy, rough around the edges, torn, broken, wrinkled, worn out.  But if one looks at our brothers and sisters
of the cicada variety and the caterpillar variety, and the hatchling and the
tadpole variety; the autumn leaves, late, late evenings like this one, we would
see that endings are really wildly transformative and colorful beginnings.”

“I’m not
sure I want wildly transformative beginnings.”

“You’re not
alone,” said the child, “I am guessing when the cicada nymph’s back splits and
its wings spill out that it feels both painful and relieved, much like the scratching
of a deep itch.  I wonder how it feels to
be the caterpillar spinning its own shroud in rhythmic pulsations, and then
dissolving into an alchemical substance that will eventually take the shape of
a butterfly.  Really, think of that a
moment—caterpillars dissolve in their
cocoons.  They liquefy.  What must that be like?”

“A bit like
losing oneself in grief, perhaps,” offered the old man.

“Losing
oneself into anything you love,” said the child, “Tears and heart-softening
embraces happen when we’re happy or sad. 
My point is it’s probably a difficult transition—from fully-bellied,
exhausted caterpillar to churning, golden liquid; to deep dreaming; to powdery
winged enlightenment.”

“Did you
know that the word ‘chrysalis’ comes from the Greek, ‘khrysos,’ meaning gold?”

“I did know
that,” said the child, “thank you for reminding me.  The whole enlightenment process, even the
difficult parts where we seeming lose ourselves—is golden.”

“Maybe we
like finish lines because we get to rest, or because we imagine the pain and
hard work will be over?”

“Something
like that,” said the child, “if we actually learn to settle into periods of
rest and inactivity, so-called ‘endings’ wouldn’t come as undesirable surprises.  After all, the tide comes in and the tide recedes.  The morning dawns and the night awakens.  The body slips into the harbor of sleep and
rises with the songbirds to work the fields. 
Endings are the shadows of beginnings. Enlightenment is the sister of
darkness.”

“It would
seem a healthy practice then to enjoy the journey,” said the old man.

“Yes!”
shouted the child happily, “That’s the key. 
Allow yourself to be blessed by the very path itself, and by the walking
and the movement, the rest times, and the dancing.  Allow yourself to revel in the ability to
move and to learn, to be able to stumble and rise again.  This gratitude opens all doors at the so-called
end of the road.  And when one steps
through the gates they find themselves in a mansion that is really a universe; that
is really one world within another, one body of light giving way to other
bodies of light; there are rooms within rooms in the mansion of heaven, souls
within souls, embraces within embraces. 
The valleys rise and the mountains bow. 
Beds are carried on currents of dreams, and dreams spill over into
kitchens and living rooms, classrooms and churches.  New myths are told and stories bloom in the
minds and hearts of children. Gardens break forth into gardens, caresses drip
into caresses, desires are fulfilled only to give birth to children named,
“Gratitude,” “Prosperity,” “Success.” 
And then these go out into the world to play only to discover entirely
new cities and open new gates, enter new heavens, explore new forests.  Yes, enjoy the journey,” said the child, “and
know that enjoying the journey means sometimes you will stumble, fall, want to
give up.  That’s all a part of it.  We do grow tired and weary sometimes.  Enlightenment doesn’t necessarily mean
boundless energy; it just means there’s clearer light to see where to go next.”

“What do we
do when we grow tired and weary?” asked the old man.

“Rest,” said
the child, “Pause.  Breathe.  Allow yourself to dissolve into doing
nothing, stop where you are on the dance floor and rest your head against the
shoulder of your partner.  Let them glide
you along.”

“So part of
the journey is resting.”

“Yes.  And part of the journey is learning to live
with incompleteness and imperfections. 
Think of the tadpole when it’s close to becoming a frog.  It still has a tail.  And it probably doesn’t try to hide it like
we might.  But it belongs to two
worlds—the fish and the frog.  It has a
sort of identity crisis, only it probably isn’t a crisis because it simply
accepts this temporary tail as part of the plan.  We’d probably feel embarrassed at not quite
being fully frog; we would think we’re not enlightened until we lost our tail.”

“You’re
saying the journey is imperfect?”

“No, the
journey is perfect.  It’s just that we
walk it imperfectly, which in the grand scheme of things, is perfect anyway,
just as the clouds look all jumbled and yet somehow manage to look beautiful as
they travel across the sky. We are enlightened here and now, it’s just that we
think too much about what that means and the experience gets lost in ideas and
expectations.”

“Let me try
and sum this up,” said the old man.

“OK,”
laughed the child.

“There is no
finish line to the journey of life, to enlightenment.  There are pauses, deep breaths,
transformations, rest stops, but no actual endings.  Endings are beginnings with different
names.  They’re twins.  Also, we cannot travel the road
perfectly.  We will stumble sometimes or
get caught with our tails still showing. 
But in the end…”

“That’s a
pun,” interrupted the child.

“Oh dear,”
laughed the old man, “So it is.  In the
end, or at the end of the day, whatever we call it, the night comes, our own
cosmic cocoon descends, and we dissolve into sleep and dreams only to wake up
the next morning, born again, refreshed, renewed, transformed, and ready for
more.”

“Sounds good
to me,” said the child, “and there’s one more thing about the journey that is
perhaps the most important thing of all.”

“What’s
that?”

And as the
old man waits for an answer, the child slips his hand into his. 

“We go
together,” said the child, “the journey is shared.  It belongs to us all.  We can only walk alone so far.  We all need to be carried sometimes and we
all need to carry others.  And when we
reach those views, those heavenly plateaus, they are heavenly precisely because
we are sharing them with others.  Heaven
is heaven because it is the coming together of people and loves, desires and
dreams—all spilling into one ocean, one song, one dazzling and exquisite
embrace.”

“I like
that,” said the old man, “thank you for going with me.”

And as they
continued walking deep into the night, the moon untangled herself from the
trees and drifted easily into view.  The
sun tucked his face gently into the bosom of the night, and the child turned to
the old man and smiled.  It was the smile
of the future and of endless beginnings.


 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Breathe, Listen, Watch, Transcribe–the Art of Pedagogical Stories, Part One: First Day of School Jitters

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Breathe, Listen, Watch, Transcribe

The Art of Pedagogical
Stories, Part One: First Day of School Jitters

I recently
got word that one of the first graders I am going to teach in the fall was
feeling nervous, full of questions, and anxious about starting school.  And as so often happens with me when I hear a
child is having some sort of issue, a story popped out.  Sometimes I share these stories with the
children, sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes
they are for me to learn from and gain insights into the situation.  Other times, like this story, they are clearly
written for the child in question and need to be shared. 

This is an
example of a “pedagogical story”—a story designed to address an emotional,
behavioral, academic, or social issue that a student or class may be
experiencing.  Pedagogical stories are
wonderfully gentle interventions to meet children of all ages, especially younger
ones, at their level—the level of wide-open imaginations and open hearts.  Such stories have the ability to work their
way right into the hearts and minds of children and give the children the power
or permission to transform or resolve whatever the issue is for themselves.  Pedagogical stories honor the child’s experiences,
concerns, and struggles.  And since
children (and many adults who strive to keep this ability alive) think in
pictures, the language of the story—the language of the heart and imagination
is an ideal way to effectively reassure, inspire, comfort, redirect, and heal many
of the concerns of children.  They are a
tool that can be used by parents and teachers alike.  And while a story might be written with one particular
child in mind, it is often the case that if one child is experiencing a concern
most likely others in the class are as well.  So some stories are told for one, others for
the group.  This story, a simple yarn
about a bear cub and a bear, was written for one.

Some parents
and teachers think pedagogical stories are nice for those that can write
them.  Some believe they can’t “make up
such stories.”  They’ll say, “Oh well,
you’re a writer, Joseph, it’s easy for you. 
I just can’t think of what to write.”

To these
concerns I would say: let the story be born from your love for the child.  Really. 
Let it arise from the heart of the matter.  There is no need to “make up” a story.  The story is living in the situation.  It just takes a little attention, a little
care and effort to think of the issue in terms of an image and let the story
blossom from that.  Most of the images
and stories will come from nature—animals, birds, butterflies, trees—let the
language of nature clothe the particular issue and let this happen freely.  Of course, one can always pray before writing—for
guidance and insight.  One can simply
start writing, as I do, without any thought or plan—well, there’s a plan to
help comfort a child if I am writing a pedagogical story.  But in general, for me, the stories are
there, waiting to be harvested from the Garden of Inspiration, plucked from the
Tree of Life, gathered from the Fields of Dreams; netted from the Lake of
Wonders.  And while this may sound
flowery, it’s my experience.  

Most
stories are like most children (and adults)—they are aching to be seen.  And they will open themselves before you if
you take the time to quiet yourself enough to listen and watch.  If I “try” to write a story, it will come, but
most often, it will crawl from the pen painstakingly and be crippled in some
way.  And if it does come through my
force, it will come out only to go hide somewhere in the corner of the room
perhaps forever.  If I approach the issue
a child is having with an open, compassionate heart, a heart of understanding
and knowledge of where children “are at,” then the stories just come.  You can always edit and revise the initial
story—prune, weed out repetitive words and so on, after the story sprouts, but
that’s for later.  For now, take a deep
breath.  Try it. 

Think of a
child you know and love who is experiencing some sort of concern.  It might be a little one, so to speak, and
the story might be three lines long—just an image for the child to hold onto
that honors them and gives them hope.  It
might be more involved and take many days to write and tell.  But try it. 
Your heart will be in the right place, so you cannot make a mistake
here.  Of course, I rarely, rarely, rarely
mention a particular child’s name in a pedagogical story—in fact; I often
change the child to an animal, or change the gender of the child, age, etc…that’s
really the only big guideline as I see it. 
The rest will come when you are even a little bit open and willing to
sit down a minute (or walk, some stories come to those who move).  So breathe through the experience; think of a
child you know who is experiencing an issue of some sort and let a story approach
you and reveal itself to you—you just listen and write it down—that’s really
the formula for the initial story—breathe, listen, watch, transcribe.

And then
share this gift to the child—tell it by heart, and know you have truly touched
the heart, mind, and soul of a child. 

Here’s the
story that came for one of my first graders:

 

Keepers of the Castle

Once upon a
time a wonderfully Bright and Kind Bear Cub stood at the edge of a Great
Forest.  Inside the woods a path towards
an Enchanted Castle wove through the trees like a shining, golden river.  Music and laughter could be heard in the
distance.  The Bright and Kind Bear Cub
wanted so badly to step into the forest and onto the path, but she was nervous.

“What will
it be like in there?” she thought.  “Will
I have fun?”  “Will anyone be mean to
me?”  “What will I learn there?”  “Will the Keepers of the Castle be nice and
friendly?”  “Where will I sit at the
table?”  “Will I be next to my
friends?”  “What if I make mistakes?”
“What if I say something silly?”

As all of
these questions, and more like them, fluttered through her mind and stomach
like so many butterflies, she suddenly heard a low, but friendly growl coming
from the forest.  Then she heard huge
paws padding towards her through the underbrush.  A crack of twigs and branches shot off like
fireworks and there in front of her stood an Enormous Black Bear. 

“Oh dear,”
said the Bright and Kind Bear Cub, “Who are you?”

“I am one of
the Keepers of the Enchanted Castle,” said the Big, Black Bear, “I have come to
answer your questions and invite you to join us.  We need other Keepers.  Kind Keepers, Bright Keepers, Keepers Who
Care about Themselves and Others.  We need Keepers like You.”

“Me?” She
said surprised.

“Yes you,”
he said, “I can feel your kindness all the way from inside my den.  Now, are you ready to have your questions
answered, and are you ready for a wonderful adventure?”

“Y-yes,”
said the Bright and Kind Bear Cub, “but may I ask one question before we go?”

“Of course,”
growled the Big, Black Bear.

“Will I be
OK?  Will you love me?”

“That’s two
questions,” laughed the Big, Black Bear, “And the answer to both questions is:
Yes.  You are already OK and always will
be.  Your heart is Kind and full of
Laughter and Light.  And I love all of
the Keepers of the Enchanted Castle. 
Together we make an Enchanted Castle that is Safe, Fun, and full of Laughter,
Learning, and Song.  How does that
sound?”

“Lovely,”
said the Bright and Kind Bear Cub, “But I have one more question.”

The Big,
Black Bear nodded.

“May we go
now?” she asked, “I’m ready.”

The Big,
Black Bear laughed a laugh so loud the surrounding trees shook their branches and
rained down their autumn leaves.  And
then the Big, Black Bear bowed before the Bright and Kind Bear Cub inviting her
to climb aboard his back.  She laughed
and did just that.  Together they
wandered their way through the magic forest towards the waiting, Enchanted
Castle.

********

Go ahead
storyteller–we’re all storytellers and gatherers–a story is hatching within
you right now.  You can do this, you know
you can: breathe, listen, watch, transcribe…


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Kristin Pedemonti: Bringing Joy to Everyday Moments

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Dear
Wonder Child Blog Readers,

My
friend Kristin Pedemonti is a joy-spreader.  She shares hugs, bubbles,
smiles, big wheels, and it all translates into joy and hope.  Recently she
auditioned for TED and did a wonderful job.  It’s a joyous filled
presentation that has a message the world desperately needs to hear.  

Please
watch the video here, but also follow this link to the TED site and watch it there too.  And please take a
minute to log in to the TED site (it’s free and quick) and leave a comment and rate her
video.  You need to log in so your
comment will stay and be registered.  The
more positive ratings and comments she gets, the better her chances to make it on
the worldwide TED stage and her message definitely needs to be heard.  Watch this and you’ll see why.  Of course, you can also share it on your Facebook and Twitter pages.

Thanks
Wonder Child Blog Readers.  You’re the
bee’s knees. 

Joseph

P.S.
I am also including a true story that happened to Kristin recently on her Free
Hugs Tour.  Get the tissues and from this
story you can see why she’s so special at sharing joy:

“My conspiracy of love = Free Hugs. One of
the most powerful Free Hugs ever received or given:

I had just finished my monthly Free Hugs in Union Square, NYC and was walking
back to Harlem where I lived; I saved subway fare by walking as often as
possible, being a storyteller I don’t have much money. I saw a woman sitting on
the pavement, her shopping cart to her side piled high with her possessions;
her shoes were worn to nearly nothing. I got out my Free Hugs sign and
approached her: I smiled gently and asked if she would like a hug. She looked
at me with disbelief. “You’d hug me?” I opened my arms and walked
closer to her, “if you want a hug, absolutely.” She reached out for
the hug and then told me she had not been touched in almost 20 years. I hugged
her tighter. I apologized to her that I had no money to give her that day and
she responded that the hug I’d just given was worth more than any amount of
money.

Next time you see someone homeless, smile at them, say Hello and if it feels
right to your heart, offer a hug or even the touch of your hand on their arm.”

-Kristin

Storyteller Kristin Pedemonti combines theater with storytelling to create
multicultural, educational and entertaining programs that build bridges between
cultures.

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Cicadas–the Sound of Summer and of Your Dreams

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I remembered this post I wrote almost exactly a year ago.  Its words resonate louder with me today.  I hope you feel them too.

Beneath the tree, and below the ground—a vast, intimate exchange of water flows.  Roots spread through the dark soil, nursing hidden springs.  Cicada nymphs, half-asleep; nuzzle the roots of the trees for nearly twenty years. 

Imagine for a moment—on the day you were born, a brood of cicadas hatches below a tree, perhaps in your own back yard.  And on the night of your thirteenth birthday, or your seventeenth birthday, or on the night of your graduation party, the cicada nymphs emerge from the earth  and slowly crawl their way up the rough bark of an oak tree, painstakingly—their front claws like grappling hooks, hoisting themselves ever upwards.

Imagine one of those cicadas is your daemon–your spirit guide—the physical manifestation of your dreams and visions.  Imagine it continues its aching ascent, until it cannot lift one more claw.  It is exhausted.  Not only that, but it has an itch that sings a strange, nearly maddening song through its back and head. 

Imagine the moon-lit sky is calling your cicada’s secret name—perhaps it is singing your name. 

Imagine the cicada beginning to pulse and throb with an inner turmoil.  Watch as the spot just behind its head, where it meets its body—suddenly and inexplicably–opens, and its broad, triangular face lifts from its husk, as if you were raising your face from a long-furry sleep. 

See its yellowish-pinkish-cream colored flesh, and its eyes like dabs of champaign colored paint, looking blankly, yet wisely amazed.

See a carnival of fireflies celebrating the arrival of this newly hatched being.

And then, over the course of several hours, the cicada pours from its own skin, not unlike you pouring from your old ideas of limited beliefs and fears—the old ideas that used to lumber along with hooks that tried grasping onto anything to keep you held down. 

Imagine the cicada arching its back with its arms looking like flat, helpless whiskers.  Imagine it curling upwards in a marvelous gesture of triumph and praise.  Imagine it remains attached to its already drying husk by only the thinnest of chords.

Imagine when you emerge from your old ways, how at first, your wings are truncated stubs waiting to be inflated with warm, clear blood. 

But once you step forth from the past, you must steady yourself a moment.  It has been such an exhilarating rush of transformation and hard work.  Get your bearings, because the wonder of awakening, the discovery of hidden powers, and the call of the waiting sky, are great and can easily blur your thoughts like a drunken haze.  So stop a moment and breathe.  Feel the air flowing over your clean, glorious body. 

Once you are centered let your wings unfurl down your back like a cape divided into two layered parts.  Feel them thicken with blood, feel their weight—light, transparent, trimmed with golden veins.  Feel the wind finger them gently; separating them to be sure they dry evenly.  Feel the wind strum them with satisfaction and praise.  Feel your wings thirsting for flight.

Feel your body darken, becoming the color of night.  Feel your body becoming strong and precise—fluid black armor gilded with deep greens and gold.

Feel the chord of self-doubt snip as you take your final step from the husk which will remain on the side of the tree like a monument for some observant young child to find and treasure.

And when you finally lift into the cool, dew-laden air—for by now the sun will have dawned—and you bank your first turn into the wide open sky, never forget the dark time beneath the earth, sipping the roots of trees, seeing nothing—nothing for years on end—remember so you can teach those earth-bound and visionless.  Remember so you can be there to welcome them at the horizon.  For your voice will shake the summer night.  Your voice will be the summer night.  It will be audible heat that will have the magical power of being able to be thrown—cast like a net across the houses and the streets—it will resound from the sidewalks and chimneys—it will drip from the moon and the stars and the dome of heaven itself.  It will be unfollowable—but that is good—you do not need followers.  You want your voice to rouse the dead, to awaken the sleeping, to excite the dreamers to rise and do, rise and be, rise and run, rise and live. Your voice will be the loudest sound in the shadows of the branches of the night.  It will be unmistakable and undeniable.

So blow out the candles or take that diploma and know that somewhere nearby, your dream is being born and while it may take time—years—know that it is there—you will hear it calling in the night—an electric river of blessing—flowing from the trees and the stars—straight into your waiting, trembling heart.

Brood XIX Periodical Cicada 2011 from Mark Dolejs on Vimeo.

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Musings on the Mystery, in Two Parts

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I. The
Searching

I have been
following the Mystery for years.  Every
now and again I catch a glimpse of it in unexpected places: the patterns of
roots spreading through the ground, the swirl of milk in a cup of coffee.  Of course I discern the Mystery in the places
one would figure it resides: your eyes, for example, reflect luminous aspects
of the Mystery; the faces of the flowers nodding as you pass, reveal the
reverence the Mystery feels for all things; and the voices of children singing
rings out the Mystery clearer perhaps than anything else—for me, that is. 

There have
been however, exquisitely surprising and terrible moments when the Mystery sneaks
up on me when I least expect it and blankets me with wonder.  Exquisite because the warmth of being held in
the Mystery is like being surrounded by the softest glow of the kindest hands;
terrible because the light it brings exposes my frailties and my hypocrisies
and I am forced to rethink, relive, and once again, allow myself to be reborn,
which is rarely easy. 

The Mystery
also swathes me in darkness.  When I am
open, the Mystery descends (or rises, depending on where it is traveling from)
and surrounds me like a moon-lit night, where the darkness is deep, yet tinged silver
with the light of the moon and the encouraging faces of the stars.  It is then, when I am able to sink into the
mystery and let it enfold me.  And I
needn’t worry about the opinions of others. 
I can just be myself. 

Some would
say this vision stems from a mother-hunger, a yearning to return to the womb,
and I wouldn’t argue.  The Mystery is the
Divine Mother—Mother Nature, Mother Moon, Mother of God, Mother Lakshmi, Mother
Ocean, Mother of All Flowers and Wings. 
And so the Mystery seeks to enshroud me with soul-nourishing darkness,
not to smother or possess me, but to set me free—to allow me to be born into the
freedom that the owl enjoys, that the manta ray enjoys,
that the tiger enjoys, that the frog enjoys—the
Mystery wants me drenched with bliss, like morning grass kissed with dew.  It wants me cleansed of all fear and rage and
prejudices.  It wants me free to explore
the dark waters that it pours unceasingly and graciously into my being—for many
gifts and provisions are gathered in the folds of these night waters.

And yes, the
Mystery is the Father of Light.  It
radiates the dawn when I am most lost and unsure of myself.  It ignites fires in my mind and heart and
stories flood across the page.  The
Father-hunger that rumbles through my insides is also filled by the Mystery.  For the Mystery is Father Sky, Father Sun,
Father God, Father Mountain, Father Buffalo, and Father Whale.  

And the
Mystery is the Holy Child roaming through the fields of my soul hiding
treasures for me to discover, healing each bud and leaf with the touch of His
hand.  The best is when I let Him find
me; let Him sidle up beside me unannounced and slip His hand in mine; let Him
appear in my dreams, like an angel and tell me secrets; let His faith burrow
into my doubts and upturn them like soil needing to be tilled; let His singing
thread through my fears like golden light. 
He loves to visit mostly when I am creating (playing) writing, chanting,
or playing with children.  Sometimes He
appears while I’m sweeping the floor or driving the kids to one thing or another
and suddenly the road floods with gratitude because He has seen a marvelous
sunset through my eyes.

And so I seek the Mystery…I seek it because it
gives me joy—this adventure of spirit and of bones, fossils and of flowers.  It awakens things within me; a yearning to be
born, to blossom, to be ignited, and to shine.

II. The Sharing

So when the
Mystery comes, let us walk from our places of worship or rise from reading our
holy books, and walk gently, for we hold within the cup of our hands the
tiniest flame, the littlest mustard seed…and it is ours, and it is real.  Share it with the awesome responsibility of
being truly loving, truly kind, and truly compassionate.  Let us turn to our neighbor and offer the fruits
of the Mystery that we have gathered, the ones given to us, the ones we’ve
discovered after years of searching.  Let
us offer them with patience, the patience of the night, the patience of the
horizon, the patience of the lighthouse. 
And since our eyes are mirrors, when we share our gifts, let us look for
ourselves in the eyes of the other, look for how we would like to be treated—look
for the dignity and the gentleness; the unyielding, fierce wisdom; truly see
each other, see each other’s suffering and pain, see each other’s little (and
grand) victories, so when we offer our cup of revelations, it may be welcomed and
nurturing, sweet, and refreshing.  Let
the Mystery speak through us so that all beings may live freely and securely,
nestled in the endlessly spreading wings of the Divine.

 

 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Like A Fish Out of Water

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The little goldfish leapt out of the water leaving a rainbow-tinted arc in the air.  Missing the larger fish bowl set next to its own by a fraction of an inch, it landed on the floor and flopped around staring up at the ceiling, the table, and the opening mouth of the cat.  Swallowed in one slippery gulp the goldfish sank into the warmth of the cat’s insides.  The cat licked her paws and purred.  To the fish it sounded like angels humming.  The purring reverberated through its flapping gills and fluttering fins, and as the goldfish breathed its last, it reflected on the way things had turned out: “Well, I tried,” it thought, “I didn’t want to die not having tried for the larger bowl.  My bowl was fine.  It was comfortable and I liked it a lot, but the other bowl seemed well, just so big.  I thought if I landed there it would make the children happy when they got home from school wondering how on earth I got in the other bowl…The bowl they were planning on putting me in anyway…Oh well, I wanted to make them happy.  I wanted to feel the water from the larger bowl singing through my gills.  But I missed.  Now I’m nothing…The children will be so sad.” And those were the last words the goldfish consciously remembered before it sank into an illuminated blackness.  When it opened its eyes it was blinking in a blinding, brilliant light.  And it felt water—the most refreshing, cool, and invigorating water it had ever felt or tasted coursing through its body.  When it was finally able to focus it realized it was splashing and swimming through the largest body of water it had ever experienced.  It was swimming through a pond dappled with golden light.  The sky above was blue with billowing clouds moving like majestic cities.  Castles of lilies drifted lazily over the pond, cattails swayed along the banks, frogs with gold-flecked eyes sat hidden in the reeds.  The goldfish had never felt so free, so grand.  And as it neared the shore it saw through the shimmering water, two children, a boy and a girl, looking down into the pond.  “Look,” said the boy, “that is the biggest koi I’ve ever seen…look…it has a crown on its head.  It must be the king of the fish!”  “That fish looks familiar,” noticed the girl.  And as she leaned closer, her night-black hair touched the water.  “It looks like our old goldfish…you know the one the cat ate three years ago.”  “You’re right,” said the boy staring in wonder.  And they sat and watched the resplendent goldfish tracing glittering golden patterns in the crystal blue pond for the rest of the luminous afternoon. 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Achieving Your Goals, the Art of Teaching Each Other to Walk

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Years ago, the baby crawled to the end-table, reached up, and hoisted herself onto chubby, wobbly legs.  She let go and then fell.  She reached up and grabbed the edge of the end-table again and lifted herself up.  She let go.  She fell.   Again and again she repeated this action until finally, over the course of many days, was able to balance herself on her own feet.  She chortled a crystalline laugh.  Her father sat in the chair across the room.  He held out his arms.  A coffee table and a foot stool stood in the path.  She looked down at her feet, thought at them to lift.  Finally one of her feet got the message and lifted, taking an awkward little step. And then she fell.  After a few exasperating moments flat on her face, she looked up at her father.  “You can do it,” he said, “one step at a time.” She rose again and steadied herself.  She raised her arms to ear level, and then teetered into a head-long step. And then fell again.  Over and over she fell and over and over got up.  Once he held out his hand and she grabbed ahold of one of his fingers and let herself be led across the room.  She was delighted.  She looked down at her moving feet.  She couldn’t believe what they were doing. Then he let go and she kept walking.  She looked up at him, amazed.  He held out his arms.  She tumbled into them laughing the laughter of heaven.  The image swirled through him.  That was thirty years ago. The sound of her laughter rang in his ears and formed the words: “You can do it daddy.”  He blinked back to the present moment where she held out her arms.  He slowly and tentatively rose from his wheel-chair, doctors and nurses looking on, and took the first steps he had taken since the car accident three years before.  He wobbled, teetered, and he grabbed her arms to steady himself.  “How am I going to do this?” he asked.  “One step at a time,” she said, tears forming in her eyes.  Then she let him go.  He took a little step, and then another.  He inched closer to her, until finally, he tumbled into her arms, laughing the laughter of heaven. 

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

Feeling Your Feelings: A Meditation on Being

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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.

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

On Love

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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.


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

On Gratitude

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“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.

Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog