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.

THE STORIES

THE STORIES

Upon opening my grandparents’ diaries,
Kept from 1903-1979

As I open Nana’s diaries I think of the woman I knew when I was little.  I knew Nana as a teacher.  She was a serious, disciplined woman who always wanted me to do my best: to learn all I could, to do what I should do. 

Should. What power that word can hold!   I can still hear Nana’s voice: “You should practice your piano”; “You should drink your prune juice.”  (Prune juice--that goopy stuff in the dreaded green bottle.)  Don’t get me wrong, I had fun with Nana as well, but I always knew when I was with her I should stand up tall and do the best I could.  I always knew that I was learning something - or should be - when I spent time with Nana.

And now as I open the diaries that Nana wrote starting when she was 9 years old, I am reading the words of a little girl whom I never knew, one who grew up on a dairy farm in Vermont at the turn of the twentieth century.  This was the little girl who pulled molasses candy, who made sugar on snow with her family, who went to singing school, and who went “May-flowering” with her little sister.  She was the young daughter who swept the chambers, learned to rake, helped to churn butter, played carom, and bought a doll’s head on an excursion into town with her Papa.   

This was the young lady who was invited to the neighbors’ with her sister to play cards and have tea; who had horses named Mag, Nancy and Pete; who watched the “menfolk” roll the roads in the winter; and who went to “S.S.” (Sunday School) with her Mama and her sister.  She was an animal lover and farmer’s daughter who set eggs and raised chickens;  who had a dog named Bouncer that followed her and her Mama to church one day and didn’t come home; and who watched a family friend pull the porcupine quills out of Bouncer’s mouth years later.  She was the young schoolgirl taught by her big brother in a one-room schoolhouse with 11 other “scholars”.  She went to school picnics and took music lessons.  

This was the young woman who bought a Kodak and learned to develop pictures; who attended Grange meetings, “sociables” and dances (and “danced every set!”)   She learned how to make a “waist”, did her “fancy work”, and went skating with the girls.  She belonged to a marching team and a touring dramatics club.  When she toured with her dramatics club to other towns, she would return home in the early morning hours because it took so long to travel. 

As time went on, she passed the examinations for the Normal School and, at the age of fifteen, went to live in Randolph Center with her roommate, Gail.  And she was very homesick when she was there--until Ralph, my grandfather, started to visit her….

I never knew this girl.  I knew the woman she became, but only briefly.  When I was very young Nana started having strokes.  They called it “hardening of the arteries”.  I watched Grandpa care for her for years.  She would sputter and snap at him, probably out of frustration at not being able to say what she was trying to say or move like she wanted to move.  As I watched my grandparents, I just knew that Grandpa would always take care of her.  That’s just the way it was.  There was something there much deeper that what could be seen on the surface.

After Nana passed, Grandpa told me how lonely he was even though he lived with us.  He explained that there was no one around who knew the old stories.  That’s when he shared a story with me.   I remember the picture he painted with his words.

  During their courtship in Vermont, Grandpa and Nana used to go for sleigh rides on Sunday afternoons.  When Grandpa spoke, I could see my grandparents as a young couple, their sleigh skimming over the brilliant white snow, the sun radiant in the blue winter sky.  Even now I am there in time watching them – so many years after the story was told.   I can hear the bells on Mag’s harness; I feel the cold air on my face as she trots past me and on through the woods.  I hear more bells in the distance; another couple is out for a sleigh ride this perfect Sunday afternoon.  I see the two sleighs pass; my grandparents laugh and wave to their neighbors and continue on their way. 

I remember this story told so many years ago and I cherish it, knowing that it is part of me.  I’m reading these diaries.  I want to know the stories.

A NIGHTINGALE'S MISTAKE

circa 1901

from the "Short Essays" composition book of my grandmother,

Eleanor S. Thayer, 1893-1969

     Once upon a time there was a nightingale who was singing and she sung a few notes wrong.  She was very much ashamed when she found that the lark and dove had heard her.  Her face flushed as the lark went by her and she wished her life would go on faster.

     The dove came by and and told her not to mind about those notes which she sung wrong but to go on singing.  Then the nightingale took her head out from under her wing and never did a bird sing better.  The people and all the birds listened.

That's word-for-word what my 8-year-old grandma wrote when she was a "scholar" in a one-room-schoolhouse in Randolph Center, Vermont.  How could she know that 110 years later her granddaughter would find inspiration in her essay to start a blog?  So here I go, Nana!  I'm taking my head out from under my wing and I'm going to go on singing...

VOICE

     Once upon a time there lived a little girl in a family with her mother, father and her older brother. When the little girl went to Kindergarten, the teacher was worried that she didn't talk. You see, the little girl liked to test the water before she jumped in. Some people would call that "painfully shy". One night at the dinner table, the little girl had heard about all she could stand of the teacher's concern for her. She stood up, shook her finger at her brother and said, "Listen, brother! You're not the ONLY talker in this family!" Having said her peace, she sat down and quietly finished her meal.

 

CREATION MYTH

2012

written as an assignment for Master of Arts in Oral Traditions

at the Graduate Institute

The ancient brown sailboat sits on the beach like an old friend, beckoning me to cross the water to explore my magical island once again.   I set out over the still waters at nighttime, stopping to gaze at the full moon’s reflection in the water.  The wind kicks up and the waters became choppy as I arrive at the shore.  I climb out of the boat and make my way to the sandy beach.  I look up; Peacock stands in a tree waiting for me.  He descends to meet me on the beach; we bow to one another.  I ask Peacock to help me find the Island Storyteller.  There is no rush.  First we will visit the three magical places on the island that we have visited before.  This, I know, must be done before I can ask my question of the Island Storyteller. 

The visit to the three spots on the island is a ritual performed by two old friends.  We know each other well and we travel together as one. 

First we climb to the hut:  a tall wooden structure at the top of a cliff.   I stand on the front step for a time to view the infinite ocean.  Nearby a waterfall flows and crashes over the rocks below.  Once inside, Peacock hands me a small bottle filled with holy water.  He asks me to take a few drops and let them wash over me.  They are the Pain of Life, the Pain of the Earth.  I am at peace knowing that I am safe here.  I can feel the Pain, but I am not overcome by it.  Time does not exist, only peace in knowing the Pain.

Peacock takes me to the pool at the base of the waterfall.  He wants me to stand under the waterfall and be cleansed by the pure, cool water.  As I stand under the falls I can feel the Pain of the holy water and the cool, crisp splashing of the falls at the same time.   

We travel to the far side of the island to visit the fish.  I have seen these fish before and have been infatuated by their beautiful blue-green-purpleness.   Iridescent scales flash as the fish jump and pirouette above the surface of the water.  Peacock and I gently enter the water.  The fish swarm to greet us, turning and leaping around our legs like hundreds of puppies bounding in the water.  I sit in the water and play:  endless Joy.  

Time has passed and I look at Peacock.  I know that we will go now to visit the Island Storyteller.  We wade out of the water and across the beach toward the island forest.   At the edge of the thick growth we stop.  I expect to see an old man sitting at the base of a tree, but Peacock shows me that this tall, rough tree that we are facing is the Island Storyteller.  I greet him and ask him to tell me how this beautiful island came to be. 

Here is what Storyteller Tree told me:

“Fog….it was fog.  If you had been sailing in your boat, you wouldn’t have known where the water ended and the sky began.  The One was the fog.  The One was All.  He was full:  spinning Energy-Love-Joy.   The One filled until He could hold no more.  A fireball of Love and Joy burst from His heart.  The fog burned off and the horizon appeared, separating water and sky.  The One saw this and cried tears of Joy.  His tears entered the water and became the beautiful fish, the ones that you were just playing with.  They are His Joy.  Fish played and the One loved them.  He wanted them to have one to love, so he reached his hands into the water.  He held the water.  As He caressed it, His hands grew into the ocean floor and the land.  He lifted up the ocean floor right here to make this island.  His hand is underneath us now; it is Love.  He made this island as a home for Peacock – one for the fish to love.  He sent Peacock to the island.  Peacock and Fish played:  Love and Joy.  Peacock saw that the island was all dirt.  Peacock was the one who shaped the cliff, the rocks, the waterfall; he built the hut at the top of the cliff.  He did this for you so that you would have this world on the other side – a place to love within yourself.”

I don’t know how much time passes as I absorb this story.  I feel that it will be time to leave soon, but I have one more question for the Island Storyteller.  I ask him how he came to be since Peacock had not made him.  Storyteller Tree said, “I am you.”

I stand in stillness, feeling intense gratitude to Peacock for creating the beautiful spaces on the island for me.  I am awed by Storyteller Tree’s words, “I am you.”

Peacock and I thank Storyteller Tree.   Peacock lets me know that we will visit our three spots again before I leave.  We sit in the water and play with the Joy-Fish.  We visit the waterfall.  Peacock stands by me as I am washed in the sparkling clear water.  We climb to the hut and I put on the holy drops of Pain.  I wear it peacefully and feel Pain as part of life –  part of the One-ness.   We walk down to the beach and say our goodbyes.  I am reluctant to leave, but I climb in my boat and sail back to this side.  It helps to remember that the island is always there and my boat waits for me on the beach.