Author: susantara

Time to Bloom!

Time to Bloom!

Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.  -Ralph Waldo Emerson

As usual, the flower parade has begun with the daffodils leading the way, to be followed closely by the tulips. Growing tired of winter, I was thrilled to notice the daffodil shoots pushing above ground outside my classroom during the last week of February – and I have been observing them with my students and photographing them ever since. They became a symbol of hope and spring, and I enjoyed watching the yellow tips mature and bulge.


Yesterday was the first day back from spring vacation, and I hoped they hadn’t bloomed in my absence. I was not disappointed! They were just about ready.


This morning, I arrived at school anticipating something wonderful – and here is what I found:


The sight filled me with joy.

I observed the daffodils obsessively throughout the day. And they couldn’t have picked a better day to bloom.

It so happened that our big book read-aloud story for the day (as per our language arts core curriculum) was Leo the Late Bloomer by Robert Kraus. This is a story about a young tiger named Leo who couldn’t read, write, draw, or “eat neatly” like his friends. I introduced the story by talking about what it means to bloom – how flowers bloom and how people bloom, as well. I gave an example of my mother learning to play guitar in her mid-70s and talked about how beautiful it is to see someone bloom and how good it feels to bloom. I also mentioned that our daffodils were in the process of blooming today, and the children were eager to see for themselves since we’d been watching and waiting for so long.

But first we read the story. Young Leo wore a sad expression on his face throughout most of the book as he tried unsuccessfully to do what his friends were doing. His dad was worried, too, and told Leo’s mom that he’s afraid Leo is not a bloomer. His mom, however, had faith in Leo’s natural developmental rhythm and assured his dad that Leo will bloom in his own time. The dad tried not to worry, but as Leo continued not to bloom, he couldn’t help but worry. Again, the mom reassured him that Leo will bloom when he is ready. And at last…Leo bloomed! He was able to read, write, draw, and eat neatly. And he was so proud.

I love the message of this story. It saddens me that recent public education mandates have raised the academic bar so much higher for kindergartners, and as a result there is little tolerance for the natural developmental rhythms of diverse learners. I tell parents at the beginning of each school year that my primary goals for their children are for them to enjoy coming to school, to love learning, and to feel good about themselves. And yet, even in kindergarten, teachers are required to identify children who are not meeting grade level benchmarks and to provide them with intervention services designed to accelerate their learning so they will catch up and end the year where they are expected to be. Although I agree – and have seen for myself – that children are often capable of more than we may imagine – I worry that this approach may result in more young children feeling badly about themselves and feeling self-conscious about not measuring up. Some children are ready for the new, more demanding kindergarten curriculum, but others are not. I wish we had greater freedom to honor children’s developmental rhythms and to rely more on authentic assessment methods.

I really enjoyed reading and discussing Leo the Late Bloomer with the children. We talked about how poor Leo felt bad about himself and how his dad was worried about him – but also about how his mom had faith that he would bloom in his own time. I really stressed his mother’s attitude, hoping to get across the message that children bloom in their own time – and not to worry if something is very difficult for you because eventually it will get easier. Don’t worry or compare yourself to others. You will arrive in your own time. I have faith in you. Despite all the report card testing, benchmark testing, and progress monitoring, I have faith in you, and I know there is something each one of you does really well. It might not be something we assess in school, but it is important and valuable nonetheless.

After reading the story, we had snack time, and the children wanted to see the daffodils, so I took them outside one table group at a time. It was so beautiful to watch their faces light up when they saw the daffodils opening and beginning to bloom. 

We noticed that some of the daffodils were blooming more quickly than others. Each of them was growing and opening their petals at a slightly different pace. And each will become a beautiful, fully formed flower in its own time. 

We continued to observe the daffodils throughout the day, during recess and at dismissal.

We have observed the daffodils since we noticed the first shoots and talked about how people and flowers are alike in the way they bloom. And it seems my students have developed reverence for the daffodils in our little garden. They are protective of the flowers and remind children in other classes to be gentle and to keep a safe distance.


I hope that the ways in which our curriculum coincided with natural phenomena today deepened my students’ connection with the natural world. I hope they will grow to regard nature as a mirror of their own social, emotional, and spiritual selves and to find strength and hope in the metaphors offered so abundantly by the natural world.

The first of our daffodils will be in full bloom tomorrow.


And woe to any unsuspecting child who innocently attempts to pick one. I don’t think my students would stand for it!

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© Susan Meyer and River Bliss, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all photos, without express and written permission from this blog’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss (www.riverblissed.blogspot.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

On Retreat

On Retreat

“We are here to find that dimension within ourselves that is deeper than thought.”  -Eckhart Tolle

It’s a school vacation week, and I spent a few days on a solitary, spiritual retreat in a cabin on a hill in Van Etten, New York at a retreat center aptly named Light on the Hill. I have been visiting Light on the Hill since 1990, which was around the time it began, and have done so much deep, transformative work there that I feel “all my changes are there.” My husband and I even got married there. It is a very special place, run by a very special couple, Alice and Larry. 

I met Alice when she was a religious studies professor at Ithaca College. I enrolled in her Introduction to World Religions course and was so drawn to her energy and teachings that I took a course with her every semester. As her student, I recall Alice talking about her dream to operate a retreat center and how perfect it was that the man she was soon to marry owned some land. As she eased into retiring from academia, she and Larry were busy behind the scenes building their shared dream. To see how it has grown and blossomed since those early days is truly astonishing and inspiring.

Alice and I have remained in contact all these years. She became my guide in the Sufi tradition, she and Larry officiated at both of my weddings, and she assisted me during the homebirth of my son. I could go on and on about the important role(s) Alice has played in my life, but the purpose of this post is to describe the retreat process as I have experienced it at Light on the Hill.

I feel called to Light on the Hill when I am at a crossroads or in the “valley of unknowing” and seek clarity and direction. I embarked on this week’s retreat with a specific intention in mind. During the course of a retreat, one is drawn more deeply in touch with the divine Self each day.

To prepare for the retreat, I intuitively withdrew from technology for a full day before leaving. The four-hour drive to Light on the Hill (which included an out-of-the-way stop at my favorite waterfall in Ithaca) provided further preparation and a rare opportunity to photograph Ithaca Falls without anyone else around.

From Ithaca, it’s about a half-hour drive along country roads. Light on the Hill is located a mile up a dirt road that climbs a hill, taking you away from the distractions of ordinary life. And then you go even deeper as you drive slowly along the narrow road to the cottage. 

By the time you arrive, you have a sense of being nestled deeply and protectively in the sacred space on the hill. Such peace.

I stayed in the Meadow Cottage, which is also where my husband and I spent our wedding night. Over the years, I have stayed in every cottage and hut on the land. Prior to this week, I had experienced Light on the Hill during every season except spring.

There is no electricity in the Meadow Cottage, but it is heated and very comfortable. There is a kitchen, bathroom, and living room downstairs and a sleeping loft upstairs. The sofa downstairs also converts to a bed. The refrigerator and heat run on propane. There is a gas stove in the kitchen, and you turn on a generator for a hot shower and to flush the toilet.

The windows and sliding glass door open to a picturesque view of the meadow and distant hills. The sounds of spring were all around.

Here is the view from the windows by the table:

In the past, I have gone on fully guided retreats as well as unguided retreats. This time, I chose a partially guided retreat, which means that Alice visited the cottage to sit with me once (rather than twice) each day. She is highly intuitive and brings practices that she discerns will facilitate spiritual attunement and growth. I received some guided meditations on CD and inspiring conversations and teachings on cassette tape (with battery-operated players), along with some handwritten instructions for practices and a few quotes to contemplate. 

I spent the next 24 hours (until meeting with Alice again and receiving new practices) engaging with the meditations and practices, doing some yoga/movement, and taking walks.


Walking, meditating, resting, moving, dreaming – it’s all part of the process. Slowed down and removed from the usual distractions, I find that I intuitively know what to do, what to eat, etc. It feels as if my soul is guiding me, and I am still enough to hear it. The soul connection is much stronger than in normal daily life, and it deepens each day on retreat. There is a momentum that builds and is difficult to describe in words.

As I was settling in to the practices, I heard (in my mind):

Quiet, quiet, quiet!
Put your mind on a diet!

…which made me laugh.

Each day, I walked the 11-circuit labyrinth (based on the Chartres cathedral model), letting the 34 turns of the labyrinth work their magic on me. A symbol of wholeness, a labyrinth is different from a maze in that there is one pathway from the entrance to the goal (in this case, the center), with no dead ends. If you keep walking, you are certain to arrive. My time in the labyrinth was especially powerful and transformative. I don’t know if this is true for others, but there is a certain point in the labyrinth where the insights seem to come and really take hold. There is a pile of smooth rocks near the entrance to the labyrinth, and I carried one with me each time and offered it when I arrived at the center.

Not long after meeting with Alice in the late afternoon, Larry arrives with dinner in a lovely basket. In addition to being a dedicated caretaker of the land and facilities, he is a fabulous cook. The meals are vegetarian, as meat and sugar are best avoided while on retreat because of the effects they have on one’s energy field. I always look forward to Larry’s nourishing meals. This one featured rice pasta with a delicious, puréed sauce.

After the sun sets, I light the mantle on the gas lanterns on the wall and continue doing my work next to the warm glow of the wood stove.

Eventually, it’s time for sleep. I find that I go to bed much earlier on retreat than I normally do, and I think the retreat rhythm is closer to my natural rhythm. You have to climb a ladder to the sleeping loft, and therefore you can’t bring much with you. I bring a notepad, pen, and a small headlamp. Note: It is not necessary to climb in order to sleep, as there is a pullout sofa bed in the living room. Also, the woods cottage has downstairs bedrooms.

Multitudes of stars shone brightly in the clear sky through the window and skylight over the bed. So peaceful and comforting. I was tempted to do some astrophotography but felt it was more important to get some rest.

Dream work is an important part of the retreat process. I record my dreams on the notepad and work with the content the next day.

Here is the view to which I awakened in the morning:

The first morning, I woke up to a snow-dusted world. I drank some hot water with freshly squeezed lemon juice and watched the snowflakes dance through the air. My first insight of the day came from the snowflakes:

Water is not content to stay still.
It constantly moves and changes form:
A snowflake. A tear. A river.
A snowflake does not expect 
To remain a snowflake forever
But enjoys dancing its way to the ground.
In its brief time as a snowflake, 
It gives its all to being a snowflake.
Then the sun melts it,
And it is time to move on.
Let’s melt and become a puddle
Then soak down and nourish the plants
And then?
And then?
And then?

Thus spoke the higher Self.

Throughout the course of the retreat, I did experience guidance and clarity with regard to my original intention and also had some time for some unanticipated, additional work that Alice’s inquiry and intuition felt was important. I have complete trust in her, which is important when working with a guide. It is a trust that has developed through the decades, and I feel so blessed to have her in my life. She is an amazing teacher and healer.

I appreciate that the journey back home takes quite a while. After being on retreat, the energies of the world feel very dense, and I prefer to ease myself back in. I stopped again at my favorite waterfalls in Ithaca, and experienced more people than usual smiling at me and approaching me – remarking about my starry shoes or that I’m “obviously” a professional photographer (::smile::). I think I was radiating a higher energy than usual. The quality of my energy after being on retreat also reminds me of the value of making time for daily meditation, prayer, and reflection. I see the image of a dusty attic with the sun shining in through the window. Meditating is like sweeping the dust from the floor and cleaning the window. Doing this daily makes a difference in your life and how you view the world around you. It creates a sense of spaciousness. Going on retreat – especially a guided retreat – is like doing deep spring cleaning!

I find it rather interesting that as I was writing this blog entry, a cardinal landed briefly on my windowsill – just long enough to get my attention before flying away. I have been trying to photograph a cardinal for weeks and haven’t been able to get close enough. It’s as if this one came to me. Post-retreat magic!

You can visit Light on the Hill’s website by clicking HERE.

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© Susan Meyer and River Bliss, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all photos, without express and written permission from this blog’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss (www.riverblissed.blogspot.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Gifts from Dying Patients (and the Promise of Spring)

Gifts from Dying Patients (and the Promise of Spring)

This morning, I went to the river’s edge for the sunrise, and the dawn chorus was what I noticed most. The birds were all waking up for the day and singing their territorial songs of spring from their perches way up high. The ice that covered the river throughout January and February has thawed, and the river has assumed its reflective quality once again. Early in the morning, the water is very calm and mirror-like, which is a joy to photograph. 

And yet, it was only 18 degrees (F) this morning, and I spent most of the sunrise photographing delicate, glistening ice formations along the shoreline. 

Winter has not yet released the Northeast from its grip, but I put my faith in the birdsong, which heralds spring.

While sitting on the shore listening to the birds, I recalled a hospice patient I worked with back in my twenties. I don’t remember her name and only visited her once, when she was in the hospital. It was mid to late autumn, and this elderly woman expressed sorrow for not being able to live long enough to see the flowers come up in the spring one more time. I was young at the time, and her words made an impression on me. I had my whole life ahead of me and took the seasons for granted, not paying much attention to their gifts or to the flow of the year or time in general. She awakened me to the power and promise of spring and to the relationship one could have with the natural world. I bet she was a gardener.

For the past couple weeks, I have delighted in observing the daffodils that have sprouted outside my classroom door. They make me smile every time I see them and urge me not to be fooled by the wintry weather forecast: Spring is coming! Now I get it. I understand the words of the dying woman and the spiritual and emotional significance of spring.  

It is usually the case that when I remember one of my hospice friends, several more come to mind. Each one taught me an important lesson that was a blessing to have received so early in life. Today, I am starting more tomato seeds, and I realize that each of these people planted a seed in my spiritual garden. I agree with Elisabeth Kubler-Ross who wrote, “The best teachers in the world are dying patients.” The authenticity of dying patients is an incredible spiritual gift – a teacher that sows hearty seeds. 

Here are a few others that have taken root:

V. was a 98-year-old man who was deaf, partially blind, and had numerous broken bones because his skeleton was so brittle. He taught me about the power of communicating without words, since he could no longer hear them. Though I visited mostly with his wife, the moments I spent with him were profound. I held his hand and visualized white light entering through the top of my head and flowing down through my arm, into my fingers, and into his hands and body. I did this silent visualization twice while holding his hand, and each time I imagined light flowing through me and into him, teardrops trickled from his eyes – and I knew that a deep connection was taking place. I never got to see him again because he died the night before my next scheduled visit. But I have carried that profound connection with me all these years.

Then there was M., my first patient – a spunky woman who loved origami and had always wanted to learn how to do it herself but never got around to it. She inspired me to learn origami because it was something to which I’d also felt drawn. So I learned, and I love it, and I have her to thank for it.

Finally, there was a female hospice patient whom I visited at home. She was probably in her late forties or early fifties and was suffering from ALA (“Lou Gehrig’s disease”). There were framed photographs all over the living room walls that showed her smiling with her husband and children when she was in better health, and the contrast between the pictures and the way she looked as I sat with her in her living room was striking and memorable. (I would love to have photographs displayed at the bedsides or in the rooms of all hospital patients so caregivers could see who they were prior to their illness.) This was a woman who had lived a short but vibrant, loving life and was so much more than her current condition suggested. I realized her fate could befall anyone. Her husband told us about all the special things he was doing for her in a devoted effort to fulfill all her wishes before she became further incapacitated and eventually died. He understood that his time with her was coming to a close and put everything else aside to be there for her. Such love and devotion! 

Although my grandmother wasn’t one of my patients, I remember the last visit I had with her at her home three months before she died. At that time, she would have been eligible for hospice services; she had decided to let the cancer run its course rather than subject herself to further treatments that compromised her quality of life. We sat together on her front steps, and she spoke quietly of the joy and comfort of watching the wind blow gently through the trees. And I thought – that’s it – she had arrived. Her attachments to worldly concerns were falling away, and she was able to dwell in the stillness of the trees that are so rooted in being. When I’m kayaking on the river or sitting in the back yard and a gentle wind shakes the leafy trees like soft tambourines, I think of her and how we sat in stillness watching and listening to the trees that afternoon.

If only we could understand how much of an impression we make on others when we share our authentic self, even in brief encounters, when we are suffering, or when we feel we have nothing of value left to give! By doing so, surely we have a far greater impact on our world than we ever would imagine. And perhaps we can allow the petty concerns of our daily lives to fall away long enough to realize how fortunate we are for the opportunity to experience the gifts of spring once again.

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© Susan Meyer and River Bliss, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all photos, without express and written permission from this blog’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss (www.riverblissed.blogspot.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

An Open Letter to the Children in My Life

An Open Letter to the Children in My Life

This past week was a school vacation week, and it’s been a powerful time to dwell in the Big Questions as various circumstances converged. Yesterday I wrote down a “letter in verse” that was drifting through the air when I was tuned to that channel. Although it probably could stand on its own, I thought I’d provide a little context.

This week I have reflected on my role in the lives of the children in my care and engaged in some deep and honest conversations with my teenagers. The teen years aren’t easy ones – so many questions about “Who am I?” and “Where do I fit in?” and how to manage the challenging circumstances and conflicts that arise, with self-esteem intact. As I wrote in a previous post, I was blessed with a mentor who guided me throughout my teen years and beyond and became a dear friend. He passed on a week and a half ago, and I was honored to participate in an incredible celebration of his life last weekend. Rereading the letters he wrote me throughout my late teens and twenties made me realize how much patience is required of parents and mentors before they finally have the satisfaction of seeing kids “turn out” (in his words). You have to be really patient with the process!

At the same time, my dad came home from a two-week hospital stay for open heart bypass surgery following an episode of cardiac arrest. There’s something interesting about open heart surgery. There’s a sense of appreciation for still being alive and a desire to “return” (in my dad’s words) the outpouring of love, concern, and support from so many people. The heart truly does open up, and you feel closer and more connected to the people in your life. And when this happens to someone else, you are better able to provide support, having experienced it yourself as either a patient or family member.

Finally, in the midst of a very challenging school year, I set the intention this week to reconnect with the passion and guiding values that led me to a career in education in the first place.

If the following words resonate with you, I invite you to share them as long as you cite me as the author, along with this blog address. Namaste!

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An Open Letter to the Children in My Life


Dear Child:
 

The divinity in me
Sees the divinity in you
And from this perspective
Knows we are One,
Honors our differences
As expressions of the One;
We are brothers and sisters.

Our unique talents and gifts
Are to be celebrated
And cultivated to the fullest 
So that we may inspire and uplift
Others through our example
And experience the extraordinary
Flow of being in our element.
But, my darling, please take care
To avoid falling
Into the trap of shoulds
Or putting your gifts
On a pedestal above any others.
You must catch yourself
Again and again
For the ego is cunning.
You are special
And so is everyone else.
But this does not make you
Any less integral
To the symphony of Life.
Each of us has our note to play;
May we give it our fullest attention.
May we give it our all.
May the inspiration you find
Be a torch you pass to others:
The courage to be uniquely, authentically,
Fearlessly you.

My spiritual great-grandfather
Hazrat Inayat Khan advised:
Make your heart as soft as wax
To sympathize with others,
But make it hard as a rock
To bear the hard knocks of the world.
This, dear one, is why I must give you
Both love and limits
As you grow in the garden of my care.
Sunshine alone is not enough;
A garden must also be weeded
To fulfill its potential.
And know, too, that the rains of sorrow
Play an important role.
The water on our planet
Is always being recycled.
We drink the tears shed by others
And are never alone in our suffering.

Both warm-heartedness and resilience
Are necessary for this journey;
They go hand in hand
And I toil here in the dirt
So you may grow strong.
Do not doubt yourself
When things do not come easily
For it is good practice.
May you weave your heartache
Skillfully into the fabric
Of your life
And make the best of
Whatever life sets before you.

Sometimes the best way
To empower yourself
Is to take responsibility
For your own contribution
To any disharmony that exists
Between yourself and another.
This is a strength that allows you
To burst open the door of your cage,
For hatred and resentment
Imprison those who adopt them.
Let them go! Be free to fly!

Embrace each moment
With an inner YES
But do not fall
Into the dream of complacency.
Think for yourself:
How can I bring about positive change:
By transforming the situation
Or my attitude toward it? 
Never give away your power!
Let it glow close to your center.

Step away from the screen, dear child
And open your eyes
To the beauty and wonder all around!
Open your ears and all your senses!
You may be convinced there is nothing
To see or believe in,
But this is innocent ignorance.
May you awaken one day
To the miracles of life
With awe and delight
As you did when you were younger
And wonder what took you so long
To return!

How odd that we must
Experience such wanderlust
And leave in the first place
Wearing the dualistic glasses
The world fashions for us
Only to realize anew
The all-encompassing Oneness
Where all paradoxes are reconciled.
But somehow the journey is necessary;
It makes us strong and wise,
Turns us into better guides
For those who follow in our footsteps.

And yet, even as we are inspired
By the words and deeds of others,
We must do the work ourselves;
The responsibility is ours alone
Though others may cheer us onward.

Dear child, may you find your way back home
All the wiser and brimming with love
Thus leaving this world
A better place than you found it.
May you know this to be
The ultimate measure of success:
To have emerged from the chrysalis
Of your small, separate self and become
Love
Love
Love.

© Susan Meyer, 2013 
 


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© Susan Meyer and River Bliss, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all photos, without express and written permission from this blog’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss (www.riverblissed.blogspot.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Lost in the Woods

Lost in the Woods

Yesterday I took a walk in the woods, and it turned into a teaching tale relevant to these uncertain times and questions I ponder on a daily basis.

To begin with, I had to turn around after a few minutes because the shallow snow was crusty, hard, and slippery. I realized that I needed to better equip myself before going any further, especially since there were many hills and lots of uneven terrain to navigate. I returned to the house to get some ski poles (thinking that’s the best I could do), but my husband provided me with some crampons and a walking stick instead, which were far more effective.

Properly equipped, I returned to the forest.

After climbing a steep hill, there is an area on the trail in which the sun beckons brightly, drawing me toward it.

Sunlight illuminates the path, and I can’t resist walking in the direction of the light. I love that part of the trail. It makes me think of the importance of following our highest light as we navigate our life’s journey.

A little further along the path, there is a chair, which gives the feeling of a presence of some sort. It feels like a gatekeeper.

Almost immediately after passing this point, I lost the trail. I walked for a couple minutes on what I thought was a trail, but it turned out to be a dead end. Although I had lost the path, I still had my bearings and knew which direction the road was, and the stream. These were the perimeters of the forest. I knew which direction not to go and which direction I needed to travel; the problem was, I had run into obstacles in the form of heavy brush. And I was not in the mood to bushwhack (which in this case felt like forcing my agenda on the forest).

I became frustrated and perturbed that the trail wasn’t more clearly marked. I even called my husband and told him exactly what I thought of his trail maintenance. He tried to describe the way to me, but what he said didn’t make any sense. I kept turning around and going down different paths that resulted in dead ends, again and again. I still knew where I was in relation to the important markers and perimeters and had a clear sense of which directions were completely off course and must be avoided. I could see where I wanted to be but couldn’t figure out how to get there.

Then I recalled a few lines from one of my favorite poems, “Lost” by David Wagoner:

Stand still. The forest knows where you are. You must let it find you.

So I chilled. I became quiet and calm and entered the stillness, the soul of the forest. Almost instantly, the swaying pines started calling to me, making a whispering, rustling sound that they probably had been making all along, but that I couldn’t hear when I was so focused on the rantings of my small self that insists on separating itself from all else.

And then – just like that – I knew the way. It was an intuitive knowing. I found my way downhill to the tall, swaying trees with ease. From the start, it had been my intention to photograph this area.

There was a heart in the negative space where the treetops came together.

After putting away my camera, I began walking and once again could not find the trail. It was nowhere to be seen. I had missed the markers and even forgotten to look for them.

I became still and receptive again and noticed some animal tracks, filled with certainty that they would lead me back home even though I saw no signs of humans having traveled this way. I followed them, and they did.

While following the tracks, I didn’t know what kind of animal left them, although I felt it was one that could be vicious. When I got home and flipped through a track identification book with my husband, the fisher tracks caught my eye, and later a wilderness expert helped me to positively identify them as such. I was curious about the symbolism of the fisher, did a little research, and learned that the fisher is portrayed as a brave hero in Woodland (Native American) Indian legends.

The moment I stepped out of the forest, I realized that I had left my walking stick in the area of the tall pines. I had promised my husband that I wouldn’t leave it in the woods, so I felt I needed to go back and make good on that promise. I called him on his cell phone, and he was in the woods looking for me. We met under the tall pines and found the walking stick. He pointed out the markers and explained that he made the trails to be confusing on purpose. Having had this experience, I’m quite certain that next time I won’t get so lost in this area.

This morning, I was involved in a conversation about how challenging it is to raise teenagers in this day and age and how neither I nor the other person claims to have the answers. It could have been a conversation about the teaching profession and the crisis in our public schools or any number of social or personal issues with which we grapple. And then I thought of my experience in the woods, which became a powerful metaphor. (Actually, just as in dreams, there are lots of metaphors contained within the experience!)

Getting frustrated because the trail isn’t well marked.  (But it was designed that way on purpose!)

Becoming still and finding guidance.

Following the way of the brave hero. 

There’s also the idea of being properly equipped (with knowledge). When we come to the limits of our knowledge, that’s where intuition takes over. And I think that the integration of knowledge, experience, and intuition gives birth to wisdom.

I think we need to realize that we can’t find answers by sticking to “the shoulds” or believing there’s one single path (i.e. conventional wisdom, the way we were raised, scientific research, the “experts,” religion). But if we can become still and present in the moment – and be receptive and aware – we’ll know what to do. The answers will come; they seek us even as we seek them. It might mean taking a completely different route. But intuitively, we find our way.

I believe that such guidance is abundant and readily available to us if we become receptive to it – if we tune in to that channel. However, it does not come to us when we are in an egoic, reactive state because we are shutting it out. It’s a matter of tuning the dial of our awareness.

Though it may be tempting to take the shortcut and do what others tell or expect us to do, life becomes so much richer when we open ourselves to the peace and possibilities of the present moment, where new ideas are born. If we are willing to live an authentic, creative, courageous life, we discover that there ultimately are no clear cut answers, no one true way. However, we can keep our bearings with love as our compass.

These are confusing times, and the answers may be unclear when we remain inside our chattering minds and think too much about the obstacles in our way. But perhaps there is some peace in knowing that I’m here in the woods with you. You are not alone.

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© Susan Meyer and River Bliss, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material, including all photos, without express and written permission from this blog’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Susan Meyer and River Bliss (www.riverblissed.blogspot.com) with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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