Messages from Hummingbird

My fruit trees are busting out with apples and pears, and the squirrels, magpies and deer are feasting on what I don’t gather. Days are still hot, but nights are cooler. The elementary school is alive once again with the laughter and shouts of kids;

the bell rings regularly. I bought a 4-foot ceramic colored fountain for the little side yard under my kitchen window – the window that faces the school. The fountain graces the raised flower box that is blooming fuscia bougainvillea, rosemary, columbines and bluish-white hydrangea – it’s my little corner of Italy.

I hung a hummingbird feeder the other day, but I noticed it wasn’t getting use. Online I read to tie a red ribbon on the feeder to call attention to it – and it’s true the elegant feeder did not have enough red, but as soon as I tied the ribbon and walked back into my house, a hummingbird appeared to drink! After he drank his fill, he flew towards me and hovered by the window long enough for me to say: “You’re welcome. Come back any time!”

Who says Dr. John Dolittle is fictional? Speaking with animals requires nothing more than changing the frequency. If there is someone in my family who currently does not have animals as part of their circle, it is because they are in transition in some way. Animals are important to our tribe. My grandmother Mutti occasionally put my ailing parakeets under a spell and operate out their tumors. I stood by to hand her

what she needed, or to hold the tumor that she would later dissect. My other grandmother, Nonnie, rescued her one-eyed cat, Taffy, from a dumpster – it had been shot, but she nursed it back to life and he lived many years. Aunt Helena (pictured here to the right) spent years caring for dogs, cats and rehabilitating a wide array of wild birds - a bathroom was converted into an aviary.

But it was my childhood mentor, Elizabeth Lukather, (a Karate Kid sort of mentor) who taught me that animals really do talk to and listen to us. They might not know our language, but they still understand the intention. She once opened her front door and found a huge snake curled on the steps. She told it that she was going to close the door and give it half an hour to go find another resting place. When she opened the door again, it was gone. It helps to show the animal a picture of what you would like it to do. When I can’t handle a bigger issue between my animals, I call in JoLee Wingerson, an official animal communicator and owner of Spirit Whispering (www.spirit-whispering.com) and she’s taught me some tricks of the trade.

Granted screaming “SIT!” at a dog doesn’t count as communication and will only make him think you are trying to bark louder than he can. Training, like the kind Cesar Millan or the book Raising Your Dog with the Monks of New Skete promotes, is the greatest gift we can give a dog. To become his leader diminishes a dog’s anxiety and

will extend his life by a few years. Similarly, my daughter, Bella, studied with Buck Branaman (left), featured in the documentary BUCK, now appearing in theaters. These great teachers are able to convey, without aggression, to the dogs or horses that we are on their side and there is nothing to fear. As a result, the animals relax and respond to our requests.

This morning as I watched the tiniest hummingbird I have ever seen take a poop bigger than a raven’s, I was using the end of a lime to watch the sides of my sink. I was thinking how weird the germ fanatic culture was when I was growing up – people were slaves to the media and Clorox as though nature is dirty or being clean and using chemicals meant everything else would fall into place. I remember how amazing I thought my Aunt Judy was for having a couple of her babies under a tree. (At least that's what I remember - if it wasn't under a tree then it was something close.)

Unfortunately, I was still chained to the cultural norm when I had my kids. I want to do it all over and have my babies on a blanket on the grass, under the hummingbirds and pine trees and bougainvillea who would instruct me because the more I listen to the plants and animals, the more I hear and the less the culture has the ability to lull me into its clinical spell.

Heaven is a Belly Button Moon

This was a perfect summer evening: 75 degrees with a breeze. I walked the goats, Lily and Ramon, through the green field with the sun setting in a flair of coral clouds on one side and a gaggle of geese flying across a huge full moon – Lady Sky’s belly button – rising to the other side. I felt perfectly squeezed, like an orange been juiced or a washcloth wrung – since I’d just been to a 2.5 Core Power hot yoga class. The gifted and inspirational instructor had used an image that stuck with me. He had said to relax our butts into the matt in savasana like a cool stone dropped into honey. Never mind my butt, I want to kiss like that. I want to live that way… like a cool stone dropped into warm honey, because it requires that I slow down and appreciate the sweet surroundings. My kids used to tell me they imagined swimming in a large pool of vanilla pudding. It’s remarkable they grew up without food obsessions. I’m hoping it’s partly because I taught them moderation and that sugar isn’t evil. Well, it can be, but if you tell a kid they can’t eat sugar, they’re going to grow up and they aren’t just going to imagine a swimming pool of pudding – they’re going to build it!

But anyway, there I was with the goats, looking around at the awesome beauty and I cried with gratitude. I felt like a soft serve dipped in chocolate wonder. Life is delicious!

Last night I danced on my kitchen table on the Unitarian Universalist altar. Wait. I better back up. When I was asked by renowned polar bear artist, Barbara Stone, to create a dance with the theme of “family” for an event she was having at the church, I immediately thought of the kitchen table. Well, more specifically, I thought of how at Thanksgiving my grandma, Mutti, would pull several long tables out of storage and push them together in the living room (because she and Papa didn’t have a dining room in their little house and the kitchen only sat about five). She would set the tables with white cloths and beautiful dishes. When everyone had gone to bed I would sneak out with a blanket and pillow and sleep under the table. It felt like a tent, but too, the table seemed to be alive with anticipation of the upcoming celebration. For the purposes the dance, I flung myself around my own sturdy kitchen table that I brought to the church.

I named the piece “Memories of the Kitchen Table” because another memory dear to my heart is when my mother would return home from a long day of teaching, my aunt would return from school, my uncle was home from the Navy, my grandfather had just come home from a long day at Public Service and we would all gather at the kitchen table while Mutti served dinner. She occasionally pulled up a chair, but she liked to serve us. I was the only child present, so I didn’t want to be asked too many questions, but I loved to observe. I can’t remember much of what was said – I lived there from the ages 2-10, but I remember the camaraderie and sense of union.

While this event at the church was artistic and not religious, it was spiritual, as Barbara related the amazing tales that led to her original art works and a harpist played and Jeff Stone, Barbara’s ex-husband, recited poems and played Celtic tunes. I celebrated the memories of the table and did what connects me most to the divine: I danced.

Heaven is a cool stone, warm honey kiss, the tall grasses brushing my legs as I follow the goats, the white disc moon and burning sun disappearing behind the blue mountains. Heaven is the warm evening breeze and the magpies eating apples from the big tree that shades my front porch. Heaven is the hummingbird that mistook my red shirt for a flower this morning and buzzed in my face; it’s the last year with my old dog who helped me raise my kids; it’s the yoga instructor’s voice lulling us deeper into our hearts that expand if we let them, bigger than the moon or the sun, so big that we know for sure that war is an illusion and peace was all there ever was.

I Made it All Up!

In a recent blog I wrote: “the only real truth we will ever have is in the moment. The rest is a result of confabulation, imagination and longing.” One of my three thoughtful brothers (all three pictured to the left) replied: “I would love to know what moved you to use ‘confabulation, imagination and longing’ to describe everything but the ‘moment’ in which we live. Not that I disagree, just an interesting description of everything else.”

He's my little brother - he better not disagree! Now that we're clear about that... "confabulation" is a great word. It reminds me of a con man with flatulence rolling around on inflated inner tubes. But alas, the denotation is: “to fill in gaps in memory with fabrication.” Using a recent incident: I had a clear memory of something occurring. Blank looks all around; no one else in the family remembers it – not even the person it supposedly happened to. How could this be possible!? Did it happen? Did it happen differently or in a different context or to a different person? I was flabbergasted (that word sounds like what happens when you let go of an inflated balloon that has not been tied. Sometimes I feel like a balloon that has not been tied). How could my memory fail me so completely? I didn’t set out to fabricate a memory to fill in the blank, but evidently my imagination took over.

Memory is fickle – we might not even know when we are fabricating. Everyone generally has a slightly different take on the past. You might be able to agree: yes, we all went to the Grand Canyon together, but everyone will remember different visual, sounds and experiences. Siblings might agree that they all have the same mother, but they all know her differently. So, the past is unreliable. The future is no more reliable. Our imagination draws pictures in our mind about what’s going to happen and if we let our egos get attached to those pictures, chances are we’re going to be let down big time. Expectations are a direct line to disappointment. Longing fuels our visions of tomorrow, but according to Neale Donald Walsch, longing in this moment shows the universe we want more longing. Whatever state of being we are emanating will grow stronger. The key is to get to the end feeling that any person or place inspires in us… and conjure that feeling now, in this moment. (If you want a great book that teaches joy and hope check out Martha Beck’s Steering By Starlight.)

So, this leaves this moment. What are we going to do right now? Or now? Or now? :o Philosophers explain that we are always in motion, like a pendulum, with only slight hesitations. We perceive “moments” as though they are still, but that is an illusion, so even the moment is fluid. Still, it is where we are. In those hesitations, are we engaging our senses? So many books such as A Course in Miracles or Eckart Tolle’s The Power of Now teach us how to interject ourselves into the moment, how to value what is and focus less on what was or what will be. The moment is intimate; it asks us to acknowledge what we feel about ourselves and our relationship to others and what we’d like to accomplish before we die.

The future is a guessing game and the past is a series of little deaths, of moments we will never recapture, half of which we might have made up. The only way to regret less and choose joy is to be fully awake right now.

This Delicious Dance

Within 24 hours I shot a bow and arrow and a BB gun and went pole dancing. Things get a little wild when you visit Utah on the biggest Mormon holiday of the year. I hope I’m not going to Mormon Hell! My sister, Vanessa (below), who lives in Salt Lake City with her husband and two adorable children, and I had a lot of fun. The pole dancing gave us plenty to joke about, but too, it inspired some insight.

It’s no news we live in a culture that struggles with gray area and subtlety. Sex is either suppressed for being bad and dirty, or blatantly displayed. Pornography is rampant as a backlash to a culture too busy to make love in the way that sex is best practiced. Ideally, sex involves all the senses and is sacred. I’m not saying you have to be married, but the most memorable sex is generally experienced within a consistent and trusting relationship, between a woman who loves her body and a man who knows what he’s doing and doesn’t do any of it quickly. (Well, that’s the hetero version, but you get what I mean.)

The most wonderful things in life are not rushed. Delicious meals take a while to prepare: sautéed mushrooms and risotto, fresh broccoli from our own garden with butter and garlic, baked kale chips – taking care to be creative benefits us mind/body/soul whether we are making a meal, tending a garden or making love. Sex is not meant to be fast food, but everyone is so tired and busy trying to keep up with the culture we created that prevents us from true intimacy. Most of us are just trying to make it to the next check. But the more we scramble, the emptier lives become.

Which brings me back to pole dancing. I wasn’t sure what to expect. No men allowed; there were women of all shapes and sizes and ethnicities. First, we stood on one end of the room and learned how to walk across the room – to quit slouching and hiding: “the girls” up, barefoot on the demi-pointe and looking straight out (and not down at the ground). It felt like charm school from the 60’s. We strut to our designated shining gold poles that we had carefully cleaned with puffy, yellow rags and Windex before class officially began. Our instructor, Sophia, was middle aged, with full, auburn curls that dangled to her mid back. She had a voluptuous figure, but walked delicately, using her hips and hands strategically. This was all new to me. I had grown up in an era where athletic girls were the most desirable. In the 70’s, we were busy making ourselves out to be more like men. I was more comfortable shooting the bow and arrow than sidling a pole. But Sophia explained that claiming femininity is powerful. Loving our bodies is imperative. Curves – even a little tummy - are more delightful than gaunt, stick-figure models.

But when Sophia proudly explained she once “frisked” the produce counter and left the store with half of her groceries for free, I wondered if she’d gone a little too far. While I appreciated some of her tips, I was getting tangled in double messages. It felt contrived to use my body separate from my mind and heart. Do we really have to be gripping a pole to come to terms with our femininity? There’s a way to be sensual without being objectified. The process lacked play. The fireman spin was so fun I found myself whipping my leg into the turn over and over, touching down and jumping up from the floor to do it again until Sophia cleared her throat and said: “We are NOT children on a playground!” I felt like skipping around the room and starting a game of tag, but I stood there and it dawned on me: I am a little afraid of my sensuality. Maybe spinning was a ruse to avoid intimacy. Maybe I’ve been taught that sensuality is dangerous and wrong. Maybe that programming takes a lifetime to overcome. It’s probably why so many good girls are tigers in the bedroom, freed from the waving finger of the perverted judge – but, they haven’t learned how to integrate it into their lives. It’s so black and white, and it doesn’t have to be.

It’s a delight to be a woman. It doesn’t serve the world to hide or diminish our light. We are all – men and woman alike – reflections of the divine. Pretending to be what we are not throws us off track. Tell the little girls of our culture, it’s not about getting sexier, but becoming more comfortable in our own skin and loving that skin. Unfortunately things get a little twisted because we are all starved for the real thing – for nourishing, satisfying meals, for the caring connection two strangers can feel for one another without touching. We are becoming more detached from ourselves and others, and therefore, when we do come together, it is a sort of clamoring.

We frisk and flirt to win attention because we feel separate from God, but we are never separate from God - or whatever you want to call the Force. Separation is an illusion. We don’t need anything to complete us because it is already inside of us. If we stop running and begin to live our lives with sensuality and presence: cooking thoughtfully, clearing out extra stuff, reducing what we use, while having fun at it, then GRACE will step in to replace the RACE to nowhere. With this knowledge we choose a partner because we want to be in their company, because their presence makes our lives richer, grander...because we like how they smell and feel and how they touch us.

Imagine lying in the woods next to a rushing, exploding river, next to the man or woman you love on a soft, fuzzy blanket, surrounded by your favorite foods. Imagine kissing slowly, tenderly with the taste of fresh peaches on your breath, the feeling of the silk dress and bare feet pressed to the velveteen. You are best friends and lovers. And let it be enough to just be you on the blanket. You are your greatest witness. THIS sensuous vitality is what being in the body is about and it is a celebration of the sacred reflection that we are – it is a holistic presence, and interjection of the gift that we are into time.

In gratitude,
Jen