Beth Chapman's Blog

The other day I wrote the scrich of the Whisper of what cannot be taken. This weekend, possibly knowing I don’t have a good memory and/or I tend to be hard of hearing, the Whisper returned. It was sunset and I looked up at the clouds and there they were. Cloud candles.

Neurobiological research has clearly proven that looking up and seeing unboxed space calms our nervous systems. Science. Science of our hardwiring. But the Whisper always goes to the heart. In our world today, “Show me the way” has become my mantra. Perhaps my plea. Perhaps my desperate cry. No matter, the message was received. And the Whisper, “Look up and out Little One. I’ve marked the way.“

Yes, so much mayhem, confusion, well, you pick your adjectives and verbs. But as I watched the cloud candles dance…. know I left a flame for you, that you may find your cloud candles.

I’ll leave the light on…. maybe not perfectly, but know it’s there.

So much chaos right now. I sit in the early morning and ponder my simple morning rituals and prayers. I wonder if they are perhaps too childish. A little hobbit walking to the north, south, east, and west windows greeting the morning, waving at the trees, laughing at the swirling incense, bowing to the light of the candle reaching for the rising sun, and eyes softly resting on little things gathered on shelves.  Outside, so, so very different…or is it?

We set out on a morning drive and a flash of white in the sky catches our eyes. Disappears. Reappears. It is a flock of migrating white pelicans. Riding the thermals, they disappeared against the blue sky until they turned, and the sun illuminated their bodies. Pulling over, we stood in absolute awe. Magic.

A heron stood by a creek refreshed from recent rains after months of drought. Horses grazing and gathered. Leaves caught in the creek’s fast-moving flow are oblivious to the force. Another leaf, out of the current, lies upon the still water touching it ever so gently. A tree’s roots weave upon the bank finding water and creating shelter for little critters. Spring and autumn leaves nuzzle together.

Yes, my heart is broken and aches for the world. But the mystical and magic of this earth, weaves like the gold filler in Kintsugi broken pottery, and takes what was to what can be.

Outside, so, so very different… or is it? And this Whispers chuckles, “it takes a child to see the magic and mystical.”

Some say we chose our birth time. We chose to be upon this earth at this time. I will confess, there have been times my response to that pondering has been a resounding, “Seriously? What were you thinking!” And then the Whisper guides my eyes towards the rocks. A dragon’s claw playing peek-a-boo. A shiver. A smile. A new response, “And little one, who wouldn’t choose seven decades of such awe.”

It started with Fergie. Fergie is a groundhog that lives under the shed by my carport. I saw him/her in the yard and was fearful of him becoming another lifeless roadkill trophy. I decided, perhaps, if I provided food in the yard, by his home, he would not wander. Please, note, for the most part, that has worked.

Apparently, the opossum discovered the daytime peanuts and became a regular visitor. I discovered the opossum closing the bedroom curtains and, well, there was a opossum enjoying Fergie’s left overs. Looking out the curtains, before going to bed, became an amazing ritual.

From Fergie, the opossum, the raccoon joined. Then came a HUGE all white skunk. I mean HUGE. All white. Stunning. The racoon became racoons (mom, dad, and two unruly babies), the HUGE white skunk was mirrored by a teeny size white skunk and at least two regular black and white skunks. The last diners were two foxes who are so skinny they make me cry.

There are solo diners and a potpourri of diners. They used to arrive really late. It seems now, to avoid the rush, they are arriving earlier and earlier. They find their place and munch away in peace. Well, except for when the racoon babies get rambunctious, which caused the white skunk to head butt the child. Except for the foxes, if something startles them, much to Fergie’s chagrin, I’m sure, they dart under the shed- skunks on one side and racoons and opossum on the other. Their little heads pop out and if all is clear, they resume their dining.

I confess, the other night, I took my dog, Wally outside, and someone was walking down the street. For some reason they made me feel a bit uneasy and Wally and I scurried back in. I laughed to think of a herd of skunks running at an intruder, tails straight up in the air, as they screeched-“No outsiders buster! Back off or else!”

And, of course, the diners have gifted me another heart sigh sight- the double reflection of the moon right above where the dining area. Now, I say good night to the moons.

I’m not sure, why after so long, I chose to leave a little scrich. Even less sure, why the Whisper was to describe my diners. Perhaps it is the 100/112 temperature today that sucked the breath out of your lungs. Or maybe, the sight of all life struggling in the heat. [Note, I now have three bowls of water for my diners]. It could even be the angst of whether there is any sanity in the world right now. I don’t know. The Whisper said to leave a scrich about my diners. And, here it is. Maybe the Whisper is, when gentleness speaks, you answer.

I just checked. The teeny white skunk is having a loooong drink. Enjoy little one. Namaste to you and all the diners.

Today may be the “official” Mother’s Day, but for me, Mama’s Day occurred in a different month and on a different day.

My mother called me at work – something she would NEVER have thought to do. I grabbed my cell phone and scurried out to the parking lot where I would make endless circles walking as we talked. Mama had been struggling with her colon cancer and she had made a decision. She wanted to tell me first because she would need my help. She had not told my Dad, her sister, no one. She was afraid they would try to talk her out of it. She was going into hospice and would let the cancer run its course unabated. She was ready. She had made her choice.

Though never explicitly said, she reached out to her daughter whose own choices were totally against many of her beliefs. Beliefs are like that. The world cannot be a solid mass of either land or water. We need both. There will always be a divide between the two. My choices had created huge divides at times. What we rely upon, and our survival is dependent upon, are bridges of love that join the two. Build the bridges and we draw enormous strength from land and water. In that moment, I knew, she finally appreciated the profundity and complexity of making choices, and how important the bridges are. We can be land and water. That’s not the problem. Not building the bridges is what kills us. She had made a personal choice that would impact her family. Not common for a true southern woman raised in a culture and belief system that said her duty was family first. She needed me, the one who had dared to make choices, to help her build the bridge and not deny her, her choice.

So, on this official Mother’s Day, I celebrate that day as Mama’s Day. I hope she knows I would still be walking circles in that parking lot if it meant I could hear my Mama’s voice as strong, loving, and unafraid as she was that day. Choices and bridges Mama, your legacy for which I grateful.

A deep bow to you Mama. Namaste

My sweet friend, how long has the river swirled around your roots? Challenged your trunk? Doubted your resiliency?

And the river smiles and shares her secret. “I leave a heart, whether root, trunk, or rock.“

With a heart sigh, another small whisper beckons. “Trust the heart the rivers leave.“

And in this world of upheaval, I ponder the vibration within the earth as the sap returns to the trunks, branches, limbs, and budded fingers. I gaze upon the roots and imagine the millions of roots beneath the visible soil humming with life and connection. We are all rooted. May, in our awareness of that rooting, may we find our grounding.

I swear I will not dishonor
my soul with hatred,
but offer myself humbly
as a guardian of nature,
as a healer of misery,
as a messenger of wonder,
as an architect of peace.

In the name of the sun and its mirrors
and the day that embraces it
and the cloud veils drawn over it
and the uttermost night
and the male and the female
and the plants bursting with seed
and the crowning seasons
of the firefly and the apple,

I will honor all life
—wherever and in whatever form
it may dwell—on Earth my home,
and in the mansions of the stars.

Namaste

It is Jan 2, 2022. The second day of a new year. Another “new” year but somehow it looks suspiciously like last year. The second day after two full years of Covid, political, social, economic, planetary, … well, shall we just say chaos? No, I think polarity bests chaos.

Polarity, the blue revolving “nonresponding circle” on the computer, unsettles my nightly meditation. Holding my gratitude rock, I face each direction, and give thanks to each direction and its elements.

Simple. Straightforward. Grounding. Visually beautiful in my mind and heart. I drop into the earth’s images. Suddenly, I crash into her natural fierceness of death, the human devastation and killing. Shaking off the polarity, I flow into the East and Wind. My body and heart smile to hear the wind’s voice, the dancing clouds, and oh, oh sweet mercy, the rising of the sun and moon. Quickly, the freefall into the recent devastation of hurricanes and tornadoes, and windswept firestorms ensues. I grab a cloud and soar into the South for the light, warmth, and comfort of fire. What a miracle is fire and light! To know the aliveness of a heart inflamed. The rush of firestorms consumes the imagery as they have acres of land, homes, life, and my precious trees. With smoke filled eyes I plunge into the West’s cleansing waters and seek the healing baptism. Flow and acceptance, like the ocean’s waves, wash over me as I look up towards the sun and moon’s setting. The tides of flow and acceptance gather and amass. Flooding consumes and all is water with white caps of lives and life.

Simple. Straightforward. Grounding. Visually beautiful in my mind and heart. I drop into elements with gratitude and peace. Each element that draws forth a whispered “thank you” juxtaposes a polarity. It is a polarity that inescapably, it seems, cries forth a “why?” Why?

The same polarities have daunted me all day in the news and people’s actions – or inaction. Cannot my simple, little nightly meditation be free?

The sweet, whispered grace simply smiles each night when I chase this holy grail. And I return the next night. I stomp my little foot or heave a sigh between each turn. I will ground myself in the beauty of nature’s diversity and brevity. My voice of love shall be carried upon the winds caressing this world. I will allow my heart to become inflamed and burn the dross I control while offering light, warmth, and comfort. And I will always follow the tide’s fingers that carry away a child’s sandcastle while leaving gifts.

Polarity. Inhale, pause, exhale, pause, begin again. Heartbeat, silence, heartbeat, begin again. Left foot moves forward and bears my weight, right foot swings forward and now bears my weight.  The polarity of breathing, life, and walking. The polarity of sun and moon.

Today is January 2, 2022. The second day of a year that looks suspiciously like the prior two where we longed for the new January 1 year 20xx. Tonight, I shall face each element, gathering strength to do so throughout the next day. And when the rocks of polarity grow heavier than my little gratitude rock, I shall remember this written reflection. So many words, to simply say, polarity fades when we but admit our humanity, fragility, fear, strength, goodness, hope and faith in ourselves. To face the elements within ourselves first. In doing so, we anchor the elements for the world and beyond.

Stand. Give thanks. Turn. Stand. Give thanks. Repeat….

Namaste

So long since my hands have touched these keys. So long since the Whispers would not relent until I sat and gave them voice. Oh my, 2020, what you have brought!

Returning from a quiet walk with nature’s solace, I sat at a stop light. How many stop lights our earth, country, and world have endured this year. Cracking my mind’s silence came the voice of children. Children? I’m at a stop light! I looked to my left and saw the play yard of a Head Start school. There, sitting in the corner of the playground were two young tater tots. A young African American boy and an equally young white girl. I watched their faces as they talked about whatever 3-4 year old children talk about. Suddenly, another tater tot came around the building waving his arms. I guess the bell had rung.

The two young ones stood up. The young boy reached to the ground and picked up her coat. They struggled with the mechanics of him helping her put it on. And then they walked back into the building, turning their heads towards each other as they spoke. Actually making eye contact.

I confess I cried, and luckily no one was behind me because I didn’t go when the light turned green. I sang the Whisper, “May you stay forever young.”

And so, I break the silence of the year’s turmoil with a simple image. A simple song. A simple Christmas wish for them, for us, for our world. It really is simple…. May you stay forever young.

Namaste

a little hobbit singing to herself, to the tater tots, to the world

Like most, of late, my little boat seems as fragile as the leaf floating in the creek. As I stood watching, the Whisper brought to mind a chant that had been precious to my heart, but forgotten or lost …. like so many other precious treasures.

“The river is flowing,
Flowing and growing,
The river is flowing
Back to the sea.
Mother Earth carry me
A child I will always be,
Mother Earth carry me
Back to the sea.”

My boat may be fragile. The journey laden with currents, rocks, storms, drought, and the sea’s tides and waves. Mother Earth carries me. Her arms are strong and trustworthy. She has gifted me a beautiful boat. And like the child, I will always be, I will giggle as She guides me back to the sea.

*”The River Is Flowing” was a chant written in the 1970s by Sun Bear, a member of the Chippewa Tribe.