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.”

The Importance of Repetition

Posted on December 4, 2011 by Jennifer

Nestled after the “re” in “repetition,” is the word, “petition.” A petition is a prayer, and comes from the Latin, “petere,” meaning “to seek, or go forward.” Interestingly the base of the Latin word “petere,” can be traced back to the Sanskrit word, “patram,” meaning “wing or feather.” And it this definition which will inform the following story.

“Open your heart,” said the child walking alongside the old man. “How?” asked the old man. “Repetition,” said the child. “Repetition?” said the old man, “Of what?” “Your deepest love,” replied the child, “Let what you love the most be ever on your lips, ever on your heart, ever repeated, ever ruminated over, ever caressed within you. Let what you love be your prayer of the heart. Turn the name of what you love over and over in your mind, in your heart, with every step, with every breath, and soar.” The old man was silent for a long time as the two of them walked through a flock of birds that went scattering into the sky as they passed. At last he asked the child: “What do you repeat over and over?” “We all have our own loves,” said the child, “try not to get caught up in rules. Find what you love and repeat its name over and over.” “But what if I do not love anything?” “That is a lie,” said the child, “Search within yourself. What you love is there waiting for you to call its name.” “I am afraid,” said the old man. “That is why you can’t see what you love,” said the child. “What should I do?” “Should?” said the child as he turned and looked up at the old man. “What do you want?” Tears welled in the old man’s eyes and finally, voice trembling, he uttered, “Peace. I want peace.” “Then let that be your petition, your prayer,” said the child taking the old man’s hand. And as the old man began repeating the word “peace,” over and over, his heart opened, and his prayer took wing and lifted him, carried him directly to the very Heart of Peace Itself.

The Feast of Conquored Fears

Posted on December 1, 2011 by Jennifer

She fell asleep surrounded by books, writing her dreams in a journal. She awoke to water lapping at her bed. Her room now stretched around her as a dark and roiling sea. The horizon disappeared in a mist that slithered in from the descending sky. Her bed bobbed and tipped from side to side. Refusing to give up she grabbed her journal and began using it as a paddle. She rowed with the strength of her dreams unsure where she was going. Fear burned within her as she saw the water darken even more—and the darkness moved—something massive, some dark shape shimmered just below the surface. But she kept rowing. Suddenly the darkness leapt from the water—a giant manta ray. And as it rose into the sky, leaping for the moon, a white flower, limp, but radiant, washed up onto her journal and clung there. She looked down, stunned–land was near. The manta ray plunged back into the water surging her forwards. Renewed by the hope of the little flower that she delicately placed between the pages of her journal, she paddled with her dreams harder than ever. And there, up ahead, an island bloomed into view. The manta ray rose again this time lifting her and her bed clear out of the water. She screamed but then realized it was carrying her towards shore. She laughed. It carried her as if she were riding a magic carpet, right towards land. The manta ray’s wings billowed as the wind rippled through them. She rose unsteadily, and spread her arms to the sky. The wind blew back her hair and she shouted in triumph. She could see the island was a lavish, vibrant paradise of flowers and trees, of crystal pools, and shimmering streams, gardens of vegetables, and orchards of fruits, of grape vines strung across wooden trestles, of fields of golden, waving wheat, of fields of wildflowers praising the Light. She could see someone was standing waiting for her. She could see a circle of angels. And as the manta ray sank, letting her bed settle in the shallow waters, she saw who was waiting, and she stumbled, running towards shore, splashing and weeping. For there, arms open, hair woven with a garland of white flowers, face beaming like the sun, was a child. They embraced as the angels closed the protective circle around them. The manta ray leapt for sheer joy over the island. Everyone cheered. And then she walked, hand in hand with the child, followed by the angels into the gardens where they picked the freshest fruits and had a feast of sweetness, a feast of having conquered her fears, a feast of thanksgiving, a feast of being God’s Wildflowers, a feast of being truly home.

Ride the waves of fear and doubt,

Raise your hands to the sky,

You will be carried in ways unfathomed

Towards the heavenly light.

And a Child Shall Lead Them: The Art of Facing Your Fears

Posted on November 22, 2011 by Jennifer

Fear roamed the streets in the form of a pack of starving lions. Ribs quivering, tails dragging, they stalked the shadows in search of easy prey. Their yellow eyes scanned the alley ways and doorways, searching for the hesitant ones, the ones who needed to rise from the two-step in front of their apartment and live a new life, but instead remained glued to the spot, lost in the hypnotic gaze of future worries. The starving lions sniffed out the ones just about to get up and make a change, and slunk in front of them and sat on their haunches, and stared them back down. But the people did not see starving lions; they saw the forms of those they knew ready to tell them that they were crazy, that they would never make it, and that they were not good enough. They took the forms of images of failure and destitution, and the more the people let those images stalk their minds, the more the starving lions feasted on their dreams, devouring them with gleeful fervor. One of the lions of fear glided towards a child who wanted to leap into a pile of crisp, red and orange leaves, but was too afraid of getting bit by a tick to actually jump in. He stood there hating himself for having such obsessive fears. He heard the voices of his parents in his head telling him all about the horrors of Lyme’s disease and deer ticks, yet he always wanted to play in the leaves. The sky was crystal clear and blue and the leaves glowed like a pile of treasure. The lion brushed passed the boy’s legs and licked its lips, about to gorge itself on the boy’s dreams of playing in the leaves. And then it happened. The boy looked the lion straight in the eyes. The lion blinked. No one had ever done that before. People weren’t supposed to see fears for what they really were. This boy was staring back, and, much to the shock of the lion was smiling. The boy took a step towards the lion. The lion snarled. The boy laughed and then tussled the lion’s greasy mane. The lion was incredulous, and yet it felt something surge within its ribs—something alive. The boy had had enough of not living the life he always dreamed of. “I can do a tick-check,” he thought, and turned from the lion and leapt into the leaves in a huge, splash of autumn glory. He laughed with joy and when he looked at the lion it was no longer a starving, rib-exposed ghost. It was golden. It was majestic and the form of bravery itself. It let out a roar of triumph that sent the approaching pack of starving lions scattering like mice. The boy dove back into the leaves laughing, and then popped his head up blowing a yellow leaf from his face. The leaf sailed and settled onto the lion’s head like a little crown. “Come on in!” the boy shouted. The lion smiled, flicked his tail, twitched its ears, and then roared, leaping into the pile and rolling with the boy like a puppy, happy to be truly full, truly alive, truly itself.

Reflections on Dreams, and The Artists Within

Posted on September 23, 2011 by Jennifer

Good Day, Dear Readers,

As you know I talk a lot about following your dreams here at the Wonder Child Blog. There are other dreams however that may influence us–the kinds we have while sleeping. Today I am going to share with you some poetic reflections about these other kind of dreams. And while it is best to focus on our waking hours, our sleeping hours can provide a vast storehouse of subconscious information that can help guide us on our way.

This piece was inspired by the insightful work of Dr. Jean Raffa (http://jeanraffa.wordpress.com/). Enjoy.

Dreams– moving murals painted across the living canvas of the mind by the artists of the soul. The mediums they use are so mysterious: seemingly innocuous experiences we have during the day, foods we eat, events from our childhood, scents and aromas, music, the sense of touch, movies we saw twenty years ago. The venue they have chosen to work in is even more mysterious—the dark theater of sleep. We must enter the darkness in order for the artists to step from behind the curtains and begin splashing paint across them. Once they’re finished, and the curtains form a watery backdrop, they arrange a set with props from the past and silken memories draped over moveable, skeletal scaffolding. Then they invite us to go up on stage and parade around with huge, larger-than-life-gestures wearing the masks of dog, aunt, uncle, neighbor, co-worker, angel, devil—even ourselves. And oddity of oddities, we get to watch from the audience as well—and we watch with our eyes closed! It’s all so strange. And yet the players and the artists creating the whole vision are there to do more than entertain—each night they prepare elaborate mystery plays, initiation rites, ancient sacrificial rituals, and birthing ceremonies; and all of them on the stage of the imagination—that wonderful and blessed, living playground of the soul, and all of them meant to instruct and enlighten—to open our eyes to the truth. These players form the most loyal, dedicated guild of artists there is. They are the trusted servants of our deepest desires. Day after day they labor for us and with us. And every morning, as we wake, and sunlight begins filling the auditorium, all of the artists, the players, and the set, are moved behind the curtain to remain back stage until the next showing.

When we wake up, if we are troubled by a particular play that transpired that night, take a moment and peek behind the curtain, see backstage the most amazing mystery of all—the play within a play—all of the workers are one worker, one director–the person we most want to become.

The Glorious Lessons of the Honey Bee

Posted on July 28, 2011 by Jennifer

I love watching bees gathering nectar from flowers. To watch them amble into a blossom and walk along the silken curtains is pure delight.

Put yourself into that image a moment—of being a worker bee gathering provisions for the hive. See yourself walking into a sacred hall completely surrounded—top to bottom with pink or yellow curtains. See how easily you might stumble in the soft folds as you make your way to the center. How you would ecstatically gather the gifts left on the altar in baskets carried at your sides. How you would thrum with a Divine urgency to complete your task. How you would be charged with an electric desire for sweetness—and to work for the good of the hive. How it would be so hard to turn back from that sacristy of wonder and soar, not knowing if you will find another. And yet, that unknowing would be just a part of the play—for in your heart of hearts you would know–there are other sanctuaries—there are as many as you need, each one opening before you as you dip and rise in the morning air on your holy search for the stuff dreams are made of—the nectar of labor—the pollen of ideas—the honey of desire.

Why not do this now, right where you are? Know that you have a dream and that it is laden with sweetness. It is a dream to fulfill your Heart’s Desire. And Your Heart’s Desire blends seamlessly with the Desires of the Heart of the World—to share, to give, to shine, and to work together in one incredibly beautiful, intricate, and marvelous dance– to spread the gifts of the sun into the darkest corners of the hive of your community.

But you mustn’t kid yourself—you need to know that just as there are assassin bugs hidden in the curtains of the flower waiting to ambush the honeybee, there are doubts and fears hiding behind the curtains of your mind seeking to destroy your dreams and thwart your desires.

So look before you leap. There is little wisdom in just jumping into the darkness—no matter how romantic some people would like to make this act to sound. Study yourself and what it is you want to share with the world. Know yourself and your dreams. Know what you’re after. And while the honeybee is a lone forager, you needn’t embark on your journey alone. Take the hand of a mentor and soar with them to the fields laden with possibilities that await those workers brave enough to face their fears and doubts and leave them far below, as they rise to new heights of creativity and wonder.

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Many of you who know me or follow me on facebook or twitter, have heard me use the expression: “You’re the bee’s knees.” Now you know why I say it. Pass it on. The world needs all the sweetness it can get—the sweetness of positive acknowledgement and praise, the honey of gratitude, and the pollen of encouragement. It needs you and your baskets of destiny to go out into the world and spread the nectar of Your Heart’s Desire.

A Teaching Story on Mercy from the Conference of the Birds, a Sufi Fable by Farid ud-Din Attar

Posted on June 26, 2011 by Jennifer

The Conference of the Birds, by Farid ud-Din Attar is one of my favorite pieces of spiritual literature. I first read it nearly 20 years ago and it has stuck with me as a regular source of inspiration and comfort. What follows is one of many stories from the book, which is essentially a long poem about a group of birds that go about trying to find a king (God). A hoopoe bird leads them on their quest to find, what Attar calls, the Simurgh, which is an old Iranian mythological winged being. The birds go through many trials and tribulations all told through stories. Here’s a story I have plucked out of this vast treasure house of stories after which I offer just a wee bit of commentary.

“A man who drank too much often came to the point when he lost both his senses and his self respect. Once, a friend came across him in this deplorable state, lying on the road. So he got a sack and put him in feet first and put the sack over his shoulder and set off for home. On the way, another drunk appeared, reeling along, supported by a companion. At this, the man whose head hung out of the sack, woke up, and seeing the other in this pitiable state said reprovingly: “Ah, unhappy man, in future drink two cups of wine less, then you will be able to walk as I do now—free and alone.”

Our own state is not different. We see faults because we do not love. If we had the least understanding of real love, the faults of those near to us would appear as good qualities.”

When I first read that story I was convicted to the quick! For years I went around criticizing others (usually in my head, but sometimes out loud with words or with rolled eyes), never once realizing I was just afraid to look at my own faults.

Now I know everyone is a mirror, everyone is a teacher. If I see a good quality in someone it is because I possess that quality, whether I am consciously aware of it or not. Likewise, when I am critical and condemning of someone, I too possess the fault I am pointing out, and am simply unable or unwilling to deal with it.

And while Attar tells us real love overlooks the faults of others, he never says to condone abuse or irresponsibility. He is talking about those things that we are always critical about in other people—all the fault finding and nit-picking. Focus on ourselves, he is saying, and look for the good. If I truly want to follow my dreams I will need to not only learn real love of others, but of myself. I need to learn to look for the good in myself also.

My own brand of self-centeredness used to manifest in my constantly putting myself down. Just as I used to only see the bad in others, I used to only see the bad in myself. Oh, I could idolize you and see good in you sometimes, but I didn’t know it was because I had it in myself too—I used it to compare myself with and to further put myself down when I always came out lacking. My self-image, my self-esteem used to be horribly low—dangerously low.

Today I extend Attar’s advice about overlooking the faults of others to overlooking some of my own. I no longer have to be perfect at everything I do, think, or feel (and interestingly, the more I accept myself, the “perfect” I am becoming–in terms of being at peace with myself the way I am–the shame is lessoning). I can extend the mercy I show towards others to myself. And as far as dealing with those things that I do need to change in myself, for those I need other people that I trust to help me work through them—it’s hard for me to objectively see them—I’m too emotionally involved.

Lastly, I have EFT to help me accept and love myself. Tapping through my issues, which live in the cell of my cells, has helped free me up
to become a channel for love and mercy, towards others and myself.

*while the second edition is much more expense it is the better of the two in terms of translations–very accessible. And it is a prose translation.

Wind, Prayers, and Amazing Eighth Graders

Posted on June 2, 2011 by Jennifer

It is wonderful how memories, locked in the body, surface during anniversaries. Last year, at just about this time, I experienced an adventure with my six-eighth grade students that I want to share. This piece first appeared in a school newsletter. Only minor changes have been made.

The winds didn’t just blow in our faces—they roared with a monstrous fury. The Eighth Graders and I had already been paddling along the San Juan River that day for about 12 miles when a wind storm tore through the canyon. With the sun setting far too quickly for comfort, and our arms aching, doubt spread through our minds as to whether or not we would make it to a place to stop for the night. If the kids stopped paddling for even a second the winds would blow us backwards against the current. Two-to-three foot white cap waves splashed at us as we struggled to move forward.

One of our guides decided to link the students raft with the two-thousand pound supply raft that he and I were on. Then he got up, took the rope at the front of the raft, and stepped into the river and began pulling us like an ox. I took over at the oars while the three boys got out of the raft and began pulling also, but the bottom of the river dropped out on them and they had to get back in and paddle again. The three girls paddled with adrenaline-laced power and kept everyone’s spirits from flagging. It was an amazing thing to experience—the Eighth Graders and our second guide paddling, never giving up, never stopping. They fought and they pushed and we kept going.

As the wind was smacking us with an absurd ferocity, I began to pray that it would stop. “Give these kids a break,” I ordered the Almighty. I wanted them safe on dry land; I wanted the wind storm to stop and for the setting sun to pause in its descent so we would have enough light to get to ashore and unpack. But the wind just kept blowing and I just got madder.

We finally made it however to a place where we could pull over for the night. We cheered as we saw the site. Little did we know the worst was yet to come.

It began to hail a few minutes after we got out of the rafts and, the winds, unbelievably, picked up strength. As we wrestled to put up our tents, the winds tore through the camp like a wild freight train. Somehow we managed to get the tents up using huge rocks to hold the spikes down.

As the students were working I took one of our guides aside and said, “So what are we really dealing with here?” “I don’t know,” he replied, “I’ve never been in such a severe storm. We don’t just have the wind to worry about. I’m concerned about flash flooding and about those rocks above us. If it rains in the night it might only be a matter of minutes before we have to scramble up the rocky cliff 30 feet to safety before a wall of water rushes through here. We can’t even get a helicopter in here to take us out; it would never make it in here with these winds. We’re just going to have to hold on and do our best. We’re in a dangerous situation.”

“Lovely,” I thought. This wasn’t what I signed us up for.

That night, the wind stampeded through the camp, like a herd of crazed ghost-horses. It would stop for a few seconds and the pressure would drop in your chest, but then you could hear the wind coming again–smashing its way along the canyon walls. One of the guides estimated the wind gusts at 30-50 mph. The sand on the bank was swirling in our eyes, ears, and mouths, but at least the hail had stopped.

That night I laid awake the whole night as the wind rattled my tent like a drunken gorilla. I prayed as the storm increased in intensity. I just wanted it to stop. I was scared for my students and for myself. I could hear a couple of the students crying in the night and I got even madder at God. I demanded the storm to stop. But it just kept raging. I was furious for my lack of faith. For if I had enough I could have calmed that storm, but I didn’t. In the end however, God worked that out for a good reason.

In the early morning the air was still and almost contemplative. The storm had finally whirled its way out and we were all safe and sound—sandy, exhausted, but safe.

Later that night, during our sharing circle, every one of the students said, to my surprise, that, while they were scared of the storm and that the paddling through it to get to camp was excruciatingly difficult, they were all glad they had gone through the experience. They all felt powerful, like they could accomplish anything. They had worked together in a very dangerous situation and made it through. As I listened to them I realized why my prayers were not answered. I realized (again) that I don’t always know what’s best. The experience I wanted to end became a life-changing, life-empowering experience for the Eighth Graders that they will never forget. Of course, my prayers weren’t wrong—they were the obvious ones to pray, and the storm did eventually stop, and everyone ended up OK. It just goes to show the Powers That Be have better plans than my own often emotion-tinged ones. This adventure had made them better friends, better people.

When we got back to base camp there were whispers among the staff about my class: “That’s the class that made it through the storm. Those are the kids who paddled 56 miles up the San Juan River in 3 days and made it through that wind storm.” One of the directors of the camp came up to me as we were leaving. “You have amazing students,” he said, “really amazing.”

“Thank you. I know,” I said, beaming with pride, “I know.”

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