Coming Home

Coming Home

Without question traveling is a rich experience. It alters our understanding of other cultures and traditions. It broadens our previously held ideas about them. And, through meaningful conversations with people we meet, our ideals hopefully become more universal. But after months of travel, there's nothing quite like Coming Home. It's that glorious moment when you walk into your house and the familiar settings, the books, the crystals, the altar with its lingering smells of burned down incense, reclaim you. There's a silent pause as you look around and hear the house saying, I've been here waiting; where have you been?

Returning home is another part of the travel experience. But, re-animating the home can take a while. Travel laundry has to be done. Suitcases, battered by TSA across two continents, need to be put away for another year. Then food and supplies brought in. This sounds rather ordinary and routine. But, in mindfulness practices, the process is quite deliberate and methodical. For when a house sits alone for months, it develops its own silent but very noticeable patterns. A calm stillness is tangible in every room. It's held its own space without benefit of human intervention. The objects, lovingly placed by careful hands, look somewhat tenuous. It's as though each one could easily dissolve into the ether.

So, re-introducing human contact is a slow and sacred process. It must be done gently while respecting the energetic patterns the house created without us. It continued to provide shelter and cooling from the elements, though no one was around to appreciate it. Silly as it sounds, that must be acknowledged. Just as we ask the house spirit to be watchful and protective when we leave for travel, the same way we thank it for its service and duty when we return.

Once food has filled the refrigerator it's time for the more subtle animations to begin. Flowers are brought in. Their colors permeate everything. Flower-presence enlivens the house, telling it, take note, they're back! The flowers never overwhelm, but are a compliment to the décor. But the one thing above all others that signals to the house that "they're back" is the smell of incense. Once lit, the light blue tendrils of smoke linger as the smell of Champa wafts through the atmosphere. Anyone coming in the front door remarks about the signature fragrance.

Each sense of sight and smell and touch and taste bring life back into the house. But the powerful sense of sound announces a unique harmony when the various chimes are returned to the garden. The bamboo chimes play a tubular melody against the tinkling pipes of the Woodstock chimes. Then, when the deep vibrant tones of the long Neptune pentatonic tubes sound their baritone notes, the garden and house fall into resonance. This is when the tones and aromas awaken the "house-spirit" and it once again becomes a spirit-home. 

While these are most notable animations, balance must always be envisioned. When the elements are in harmony, balance is restored. When the sun moves across the heavens, announcing a new season every three months, balance is restored. When a house has its people, balance is restored. When its people animate the house, balance is restored. Coming Home restores a sacred balance. Gardens, left idle during travel, are weeded and fertilized, and balance is restored. Morning walks on the beach, not enjoyed since June, resume, and balance is restored. Sharing the journey with friends and students restores the balance.

In the end, it's these mundane acts of Coming Home that reclaim our space, renew us, and make us settled again. In these simple acts, great happiness and gratitude permeate the return to normalcy. May there be balance and happiness when you come home this Thanksgiving.

Jo Mooy - November 2015 

What's Love - Feb. 2015

“I love you so much, Moo Moo” he said, putting his arms around me and resting his head on top of mine. He was 15 years old when he said that - an age when most teenagers hardly utter a civil word to members of their family, much less express such a heart-felt emotion to a visiting grandmother. It was so unexpected I couldn't respond. So I just hugged him back, content in this moment of enjoying a grandson's surprise expression of love.

No longer interested in the video games they'd been playing for hours downstairs, he and his younger brother sat with me as others cleared the table from Thanksgiving dinner. They asked me questions about my childhood and where I'd grown up, laughing at some of the stories. I remembered for them each of their births, recalling how I'd raced two and a half hours across several states to see them when they were but hours old. It was no struggle to remember the dark haired infant that was now six feet tall standing next to me.

When just the three of us were alone, he asked me a question that revealed not just how much he'd grown but also portrayed the depth and maturity of who he was becoming. He asked me, “Moo Moo, is there anything that I did that you would not forgive me for?” I just looked at him, stunned by the question. I was not yet ready to answer him. My mind raced in countless directions, wondering why he asked that question of all questions. He returned my gaze quite easily so I asked him let me think about that a moment. He continued to stand there patiently waiting for my answer. His younger brother slid over to a chair closer to us, also intent on my answer. Because both brothers were very close I knew whatever I said would be later dissected and discussed in private.

After a moment of silent centering and an invocation for guidance, I told him that love and forgiveness were interchangeable pieces of the same emotion. I told him that I would always love him and his brother. That they might do things in life that could hurt many people, some of which might be judged unforgivable, but love would always be constant. “Like what?” he asked. Realizing I was letting a “teaching moment” get away, I took the plunge.

Here's a short list of some things that could badly hurt you along with the most important people in your life. These things damage your character or your body and would be hard to forgive because you have control over them. They moved closer. I held up my closed hand, listing each of four things with an outstretched finger. “Doing drugs. Misusing alcohol. Intentionally hurting others. Not sticking up for the underdog.” In unison they both said “We don't do drugs.” With one item cleared off the list I knew they'd be thinking about the other three for a while.

Both of them were quiet for a few minutes. Then the oldest one again put his arms around me and said, “So you would always love me?” Yes said I, but remember, the older you get, the longer the list gets. They hugged me and headed off to the next round of video games while I sat by the fire thinking about “What's Love?”

I went through a litany of things that I know Love is. Love is a chemical reaction. Love is compassion. Love is emotional commitment. Love is a magnetic binding. Love is service. Love is kindness. Love is a spiritual experience. Love is God. But on that Thanksgiving afternoon, Love was my 15 year old grandson wrapping me in his arms and telling me he loved me and asking about forgiveness.

Walnuts And A Piano

Walnuts and a Piano

   

There's a rhythm to life. It's a musical quality that asks us to hear the cords and feel the vibration of sound that carry our emotions from the highs through the lows and back again. The recognition of this rhythm allows us to live in balance and to enjoy the music of life. 

This time of year always pulls at my heart and mind with sweet remembrances of the rhythm of childhood. Perhaps it's the blustery feel to the weather, the knowing that winter is soon to come, or a recognition of the gentle turn of the seasonal cycles. Certainly ancient cultures honored this time of year, the time of the thinning veils. The Celts honored it with ritual and the ceremonies of Samhain. This time of year creates an opening that allows for the fine tuning of my inner nature and with it, the ability to appreciate the song that became who I am.

Autumn is a time of preparation for the mysterious and sacred winter-time ahead. In California, where I grew up there wasn't a winter that was severe or dangerous, yet there was still something otherworldly about it.  It was a season of deeper inner silence.  During this time, as we made ready for the shorter days and longer, mysterious nights, we felt closer to something magical.  Of course, much of that magic revolved around that most sacred of children's holidays, Christmas.  Christmas required great preparation and just as the ancient people we had our own rituals that readied us the special time ahead.

One particular autumn shaped my life forever more. Our mom cooked good food that was as delicious as it was nutritious. In fall she prepared for the holidays by baking cookies - lots of them in a great variety of shapes, flavors and textures. Cookies are a treat that nourish us on so many levels. They bring joy to the taste buds, a lightness to the mind and a healing of the soul.

But the kind of baking our mom did required lots of ingredients and some were expensive and hard to come by in those days. So every October our family was packed into the car for an hour drive south of our home in San Jose to a place where the main north south road, highway 101 narrowed to 2 lanes and where towering black walnut trees lines the road. There we'd park the car as each of us were given burlap bags to fill with the green round pods that had dropped from the trees. These pods held the treasured meat that would in December become Russian tea cakes, one of Mom's specialties made only when the weather was cooler. I could almost taste them as I gathered my walnuts in my sack.

I knew the whole procedure by heart. I knew this movement of our life's musical movement well. When we got home my dad would lay 2x4s on the ground and nail them together to make a pen to hold the walnuts while the outer shells dried out in the sun for weeks. When they were ready to be hulled he took his large carpenter's hammer smashing the thick outer shell tossing them onto tin baking pans. Then each evening we'd all dig out the precious tasting walnut meat for the inevitable holiday baking to come. All of this lay in the depths of my psyche as we hunted for the round treasures hidden under the fallen leaves of the great old trees.

That particular year mom needed to use the restroom on our trek home from the walnuts. In that part of the world, on a blustery fall Sunday, there weren't too many options for her. My father found a seedy looking bathroom on the outside of a dilapidated filling station where the gas attendant barely looked up as he pumped gas into our station wagon.  When mom came back to the car she was carrying a big leather purse which she didn't have when she left. She and my dad held a muted conversation but I caught snippets of it. "Someone left their purse..." "I don't feel right leaving it..." "Would you trust..." 

I think there were more walnuts to be had but something had changed and we headed home. The bags of walnuts were piled in the backyard forgotten now as we gathered round as mom and dad opened the purse tentatively. My parents were honest hard-working folks so we could see they felt like sneaks just opening the bag to see if there was some id in it. Even before they'd opened it there was talk of placing ads in the personals to see if the owner could be found. Each article was removed and placed carefully on the kitchen table, some tissue, a wallet, a comb, a huge diamond ring. Even to a kid's eye, you could tell this was very valuable, And then the one thing they had hoped to find, an address book which identified the owner.

They immediately called the number in southern California. The son answered and as soon as Dad told him what they'd found he was jubilant. His parents had called a few hours before, devastated that his mother had lost her purse. They looked everywhere, drove miles back retracing their stops to no avail so were cutting their trip short and coming home. He had no way to reach them until they arrived home as it was well before the time of cell phones. Instead he told my father that the ring was his mother's wedding ring and very valuable. It seemed she usually took it off when in the car as her fingers got swollen when she sat for long periods of time.

Arrangements were made to return the purse and everything in it was packed with great care. The next day it was mailed, insured and sent to a woman we had never met. When it arrived, the lady called, thanking my parents for their honesty and for their kindness. My parents assured them it was no problem, and not to give it a  second thought. I could tell by the smiles on my parent's faces that their reward was the warmth that comes with bringing great joy to someone and in this case someone they would never meet. Then the incident was forgotten and we went back to our rhythm, the walnuts were laid in the sunshine to dry, children went to school, fathers to work and mom kept the home fires burning.

A few days later, a letter arrived in it was a check for $300, a small fortune in 1961. It was a small token of their gratitude from the lady and her husband. The ring had been in the family for a very long time and was irreplaceable. My parents called them saying they couldn't accept it as they had only done what anyone would have, but the lady insisted. She said that many would not have returned it and that they had the money so it would was a pleasure to thank them. It turned out that was the amount of cash the woman had in her wallet when it was lost but my parents had never even looked in the wallet.

Mom wanted to use the money to pay bills and maybe buy nice Christmas gifts, but dad was adamant. "You are going to get something for yourself; something that will make you happy." A few weeks later, a used upright piano arrived. My mother who had learned to play as a child sat down and was in her element.

That Christmas there was music, real music, not from the radio but from our mother's fingers and from her heart. And much like the home baked cookies the music was sweet and nourished us in unseen ways, body mind and spirit. The piano reset the rhythm in our household and the music in our lives. This fall just like every other fall, I think of walnuts and a piano and how that came to be such an indelible memory in my life.

 

Patricia Cockerill - October 2013