REST PART 2: ACCEPTING THE CLOAK

REST

I step into my morning meditation, remembering Storyteller Tree’s words:  “Just go inside.” Without effort or traveling, I am on the island standing in front of Tree.  Tree tells me, “Go inside fearlessly.”  Forgive us our trespasses….  I sink through the layers of fear– are there regrets? – into a place of fearlessness.  I am home.

I say to Tree, “You told me once that you are me.  Will I lie down next to you or will I lie down contained inside you, one with you?  Who are we?”

“Ah, just rest, child, all will be revealed.  Just rest.”

I lie down next to Tree, not completely settled.  I look up and a small blonde girl dressed in a white robe approaches silently.  She raises her arms, wordlessly asking to be held.  I pick her up, embrace her, and we lie down in the soft grass under the arms of Tree.  I glance around, looking for my friend, Peacock.  I have missed him.  I ask Tree where he is.  As I ask the question, Peacock slowly emerges into form next to me as if always there.  I lay my head on his brilliant blue body, the little girl cradled in my arms.  We rest at the foot of Tree.

ACCEPTING THE CLOAK

Little One and I lay resting at the foot of Tree.  The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep was looking up at Tree’s gnarled gray-brown trunk, his soft wizened eyes gazed down at us, our guardian.

We slept – I don’t know how long - but it was the deepest, sweetest sleep I have slept in forever.  I was awakened by the faint sound of leaves rustling.  …leaves?  How was that possible?  Tree had no leaves.  He was a wonderful, barky old soul.  His parched hard exterior belied the softness within.

Curious, I opened my eyes.  What could be making that sound?  When I saw what I saw, I thought that Little One and I must have been transported to a new land as we slept.  Peacock was gone.  Could he be playing tricks on us?  But no….I looked across the beach and saw that it was the same beach.  Joy Fish splashed and played in the water across the sand.  The island was the same….but….Tree?  How could it be explained?  Gnarled gray Tree was different.  Tree had transformed, no longer covered with crumbling old bark, but with smooth, plump skin.  Tree’s branches had grown a canopy of huge green leaves, our verdant umbrella.  Tree’s kind eyes were still there – the blueness more intense now.  It seemed that Tree had drunk in all the water from deep within the Earth as we slept.  Even Tree’s voice had changed as he …she?...(the voice was so different now) spoke in even warmer, softer tones than before.

“Rest.”

And as Tree spoke, green leaves gently swirled down, their fingers gently caressing Little One and me.  I felt their healing touch everywhere at once.  Each leaf was trailing a fine golden thread.  Gently, lovingly, the leaves were weaving a shimmering golden blanket around us as we rested on the ground.

“What is this?” I asked Tree.  I spoke softly.  Little One still slept and I did not want to wake her.

“This is the Cloak of Finding God.”

A cloak?  Finding God?  “Where do I look?  How do I search?”

“Rest for now.  In time you will see.”

RITUALS

RITUALS

I have a question for Storyteller Tree.  I want to know the story of the girl who was given the Magic Armor.  I know that I must travel to the island.  I go to the beach to find my boat.  What will it be this time? 

As I approach the water I see a Viking ship, sharply ornamented, adorned with serpentine figurehead.  I climb on the vessel; this is a far cry from the simple little rowboat I first used to visit my island.  I sail over a gray, nondescript sea.  Somehow I have found a suit of armor and have covered myself with it.  When I reach the island I clamber off the boat, armor clanking.  Peacock seems amused at my predicament.  I tell Peacock that I want to hear the story of the Little Girl’s Magic Armor and I thought that I would dress the part when I went to visit Tree.  Peacock’s eyes sparkle knowingly. 

Peacock and I start our island ritual.  It is how we prepare to meet Tree.  We climb the rocks through the jungle to the hut at the top of the cliff.  I see delicate greenish-white flowers along the path but my armor does not allow me to bend to enjoy their scent.  I stumble and fight my way to the top of the path.  When we reach the hut I am exhausted from the climb and collapse in a corner, too tired to sit in front of the hut and enjoy the view.  

Peacock gives me time to rest, and then it is time to visit the waterfall below.  I slip and slide down the hill, ending up in a pile of metal at the bottom of the slope.  I manage to pick myself up off the ground.  I know that the next step in our ritual is to stand under the waterfall.  I wade out into the water and stand beneath the falls.  From inside the armor I hear only echoes of water splashing.   I barely feel the cold through the metal plates on my body.  Do I feel at all?

We will go to visit Fish next.  I stumble down the overgrown slope and find the water where Fish play.  I know that they are there, I have played with them before, but right now I cannot feel them swirling around my legs.  I cannot feel their Joy.  The armor protects me.   Nothing will harm me.  I will feel nothing.

It is time to see Tree.  Peacock silently accompanies me.  I stand before Tree and ask him to tell me the story of the Little Girl’s Magic Armor.    “Ah, my child, you are not ready yet.  You need to wear your armor a while longer.  It is meant to be.  You need it now.” 

“But how will I remove it?  Must I wear it forever?”

“I will remove it in time.”

I am relieved when Tree tells me that I will stay in my armor for now.  I am tired from my journey and there is no energy for changing.  I sit for a time on the sand near Fish and rest.

When Peacock and I start our journey back to the other side of the island, the path to the waterfall seems easier somehow.  I am more aware of Peacock next to me than I was before.  Warmth flows from deep inside me.  I hear Tree’s voice telling me that the armor will melt from the inside…in time.

We stop at the waterfall.  This time, when the water falls on me, I feel several drops trickle down inside the suit of armor.  The water is fresh, clear, soul-quenching.

We leave the waterfall and start the climb to the hut.  I see that Peacock has given me a rope to use.  Was it always there?  I hold onto the rope and I am lifted effortlessly to our hut.  I am not tired.  I sit in front of the hut with Peacock and we take in the view.

On the return to the beach where my boat sits, I tumble down the hill; somersaulting and laughing.  I land on the soft sand of the beach.  I do not want to board my boat…there is no need to travel yet.  I lie on the soft sand next to Peacock and rest.

REST

REST

I step into my morning meditation, remembering Storyteller Tree’s words:  “Just go inside.” Without effort or traveling, I am on the island standing in front of Tree.  Tree tells me, “Go inside fearlessly.”  Forgive us our trespasses….  I sink through the layers of fear– are there regrets? – into a place of fearlessness.  I am home.

I say to Tree, “You told me once that you are me.  Will I lie down next to you or will I lie down contained inside you, one with you?  Who are we?”

“Ah, just rest, child, all will be revealed.  Just rest.”

I lie down next to Tree, not completely settled.  I look up and a small blonde girl dressed in a white robe approaches silently.  She raises her arms, wordlessly asking to be held.  I pick her up, embrace her, and we lie down in the soft grass under the arms of Tree.  I glance around, looking for my friend, Peacock.  I have missed him.  I ask Tree where he is.  As I ask the question, Peacock slowly emerges into form next to me as if always there.  I lay my head on his brilliant blue body, the little girl cradled in my arms.  We rest at the foot of Tree.

STORYTELLER

STORYTELLER

February 29, 2012

I stand on the familiar beach facing Storyteller Tree.  “What is happening?” I ask.  “Why do I have cancer?”

“Your heart is opening.  There is so much love around you and you have not fully received.  It is an old pattern of yours.  When you’re hurt you shut a door on your heart.  You have protected yourself with so many doors.  But now you are safe.  The doors are only blocking the love-light.  Receive it.  Be in it.”

I feel the tight knot in my chest begin to release.  “How do I open the doors?”  I ask. 

“I will do that.” Storyteller replied.  

“But there is pain when the doors open.  There is grief that there was never time to feel.”

 “Just go inside and you will not feel the pain.” 

“How do I go inside with the pain there on the outside?”  I am anxious.

 “Just be.  You will know.”

I go – inside?  Where is inside?  There is no “where”; there is no “inside”.  I expand.  I am.  Energy flows without form.  

When it is time to go I ask Storyteller, “How can I be open to others?  When I go back to my day, how do I open my heart?” 

“Just remember.” 

“Remember what?  My feelings?  This moment?” 

“No.  Remember the Beginning.” 

“Was there a Beginning?”  I ask.

 “Always….always Beginning.”

I breathe in the pure white light of healing.  Beginning…

A NEW JOURNEY

LABYRINTH

Incarnation Center

Ivoryton, Ct

February 26, 2012

Who am I?  I don’t know how to travel this path.  I stand at the edge of the labyrinth and I don’t know how to enter.  The field of stones lies ahead.  The path is not clear-cut; the stones marking the way are cluttered in bunches.  The sun waits to rise over the trees and an empty red barn sits at the foot of the hill.

Where do I start?  There is no clear entrance.  How do I start?  I know that I must begin and I do, with clumsy feet.  I step over rocks, wondering where the paths are.  As the gravel crunches under my feet I notice four donkeys, two black and two gray, emerging from the barn.  I am not alone.

I accept that there is no clear path to the center of this labyrinth.  It is up to me to create my own way around the bumps and rocks that lie ahead.  I know that I will reach the center and that it is my choice how long it takes.  How far I travel in circles and turns is my decision and mine alone.

I step over a rock painted to look like a strawberry and I think of the child who painted the cheerful picture during summer camp.  It is a bright spot on my path.  I step over several piles of donkey dung.  My friends at the foot of the hill have stopped staring and are going about their business as I walk the path.

The sun rises over the trees as I reach the center.  The Lord is my shepherd… Our Father…  God, grant me the serenity…  Mantras repeated…  I stand at the center and breathe in the frosty morning air.  The two black donkeys have returned to the barn; the two gray donkeys move peacefully below.  I close my eyes and feel God’s light and love – fire-light – filling me.  I stand in a column of light.  I love standing here.  I am love standing here.  I am free to stay in this column of pure love-energy.  It has form and no form.  It is sheer healing power, and always here.  It is God’s grace. 

After some time I take a breath and spin around the crazy path a few times, making my way to the endpoint where I began.  A hot cup of coffee sounds good right now.  I return to my room and start a new journal.  On the front page I write:

Patti B.

Cancer – a journey

My journey

DANCE

DANCE

CANCER…

Shock.

Cringe.

Turn away.

Not me.

Why me?

CANCER…

Even gently spoken, the word lashes out.

My heart stops beating.

There is no rhythm, no time…

How do I dance to this music?

CANCER…

Where am I?

I miss my mother.

I see her prayer shawl, yet I cannot embrace it.

CANCER….

Fear – I know the night at 2AM.

The Lord is my shepherd….

Our Father…

Mantras repeated…..

I split in two

The one who functions                The one who watches

I want to hide and I know that I cannot.

I know….and I do not know.

Who am I?

Am I that word?

I am more.

I am.

I walk the ragged stone labyrinth, finding my way, creating my own journey.

I wrap myself in my mother’s prayer shawl, feeling her embrace.

My body begins to sway to the rhythm.

The music is life.

 

 

            CANCER…

I utter the words and……I accept.

I will listen to the rhythms deep within.

I will dance.

JOURNEYS

JOURNEYS

Hilltop Inn, Montpelier VT

February 8, 2012

395N…. 2W…. 84W… 91N……… a blur of green signs marches past in an anonymous parade; the radio drones on.  The sun is setting on a gray-brown landscape deprived of snow in this mild winter.  Finally the car merges onto I89N….a soft white cape of fallen snow joins the colors of the landscape as the sun passes behind the hills. 

EXIT 1: RUTLAND.  I laugh to myself as I think of Grandpa’s stories of Lars, Laura’s second husband after Eli.  Grandpa told how proud Lars was to come from “RUTLAND”.  I was too young to fully understand, yet old enough to sense the note of irony in his voice.  I turn off the radio as I begin to hear and treasure voices that are no longer.

EXIT 3: ROYALTON.  Time stands still.  I’ve touched those letters etched in pencil on diary pages one hundred years old.  The air pulses with the lives lived here – neighbors, friends, and relatives.  I hear echoes of their voices; I sense their gentle movement.  Is this what it is to feel history?

EXIT 4: RANDOLPH – VERMONT TECHNICAL COLLEGE.  One hundred years ago my grandfather Ralph was a skinny schoolboy learning the science of agriculture at this school.  And Randolph: it’s over there on the right.  Is my car still moving?  I seem to stay in this space forever.   I think of the past four hours’ journey from Connecticut, my Forester speeding over the interstate highway system.  Now my car seems to have stopped in time.  How many times did Eleanor and Ralph travel back “home” from Connecticut?  I know of two trips.

The first journey was on April 19, 1929.  “Grampa Dearing”, Ralph’s foster father, had been failing for months and finally passed away on April 18^th.   Claude, Ralph’s younger brother, was still living with the Dearing family.  According Claude’s letter written four days earlier:

“Grampa is failing pretty fast now.  We noticed about a week ago he was very different his color is very bad.  He has set in his chair night and day for almost a month until night before last the Dr came and we got him on to the bed.  I don’t think he is in much pain as he was.   His head is clear most of the time lately.  Day before yesterday he brightened up for an hour and talked about different things as clear as ever.  Among other things he quoted passages from the bible and recited poems just as he used to.  The Dr told us he might last for two weeks but we need not be surprised if the end came any time.” 

Ralph and Eleanor traveled to Randolph from East Lyme, CT for the funeral.  They made the trip in one day since Ralph had responsibilities as manager of White Gate Farm.  That was no small feat in those days.  According to Grandpa’s diary:

“Sat., April 20, 1929:  E. and I started for Vt. this morn.  Got up here about 9:30 P.M.  Roads very bad some of the way.  Stopped at Windsor for supper.  Came up through Newport and Keene.”

And returning to Connecticut, he wrote:

“Mon., April 22, 1929:  We walked down over the hill from Mrs. Dearings’ this morn. and started back for Conn., got stuck in the mud twice, and got back here about midnight.  Nice day all the way.”

Back home the next day, they immediately returned to their responsibilities:  Ralph stacking hay in the barn and both Eleanor and Ralph washing the car “which was pretty well covered with Vt. mud.”

Meantime, back home in Vermont, Claude’s health had been failing.  He suffered from the after-effects of “infantile paralysis”.   It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to cope.  Breathing was difficult, he was losing control of his muscles, and the viciously cold Vermont air hit him hard due to his condition.  Tragically, Claude took his life fifteen days after losing his “Grampa Dearing”; twelve days after seeing his brother and sister-in-law for the last time.  He wrote to his loved ones, “I am going to find Grampa.” 

As so it was that once again Ralph and Eleanor found themselves traveling to Vermont for a funeral.

“Sat. May 4, 1929:  E. & I started for Vt. this morn. at 4:50.  Got to Randolph at 12:30M.  Made arrangements for the funeral.   The body was brought to Randolph yesterday.  We stayed with Mrs. Dearing overnight.  Pretty lonesome.  Mr. and Mrs. Harvey stayed with the children.” 

As my car moves along the interstate, I think of the stories I have heard about Ralph and Claude.  The obstacles that they faced on their life journeys were immense:  losing their baby sister and mother, life with an unfriendly step-mother, subsequent beatings by an abusive father, separation as they were placed in various foster homes, more mistreatment, and then their reunion – finally – at George and Abbie Dearing’s home.  I have seen a photo of the teenaged brothers.  The struggles that they faced both together and alone explain the devotion in the photo:  heads tipped together, arms around each other, eyes sharing more pain than is right to feel at that young age.  

EXIT 7: BARRE.  I realize that my car is still moving along the interstate.  I see the image of one more journey.  My great grandfather, Edward Fitts, has loaded a wagon with one hundred pounds of butter, five butchered hogs and a butchered beef.  It is 1904.  He is carrying the items from the Randolph farm to the market in Barre on a Tuesday.  The journey is long; he will make the round trip in two days.  He will stay overnight in Barre or maybe in Williamstown.  He may stop to buy feed on his return trip at the railroad depot in Williamstown.  If so, he will need to leave the heavy load at the bottom of the hill and return on Thursday with a rested team to haul it to the farm.   

There is so much in the air up here….echoes, ghosts, memories and movement.  Tomorrow I will see the places I’ve read about in the diaries.  Perhaps I will find the route that my great grandfather’s team traveled to Barre.  And tonight I will relish the profoundly moving experience of my family’s history.