The air is cooler now at night. The mint in the garden has gone to seed, and the basil is trying, as well. In recent years, the muted colors and mature textures of late-summer gardens have commanded my attention. If the natural world is a mirror, then perhaps it’s my fifty-something showing. Truth is: I’m quite drawn to them.
In youth, it’s the tender flower that draws attention. The outer show. But after all the colorful petals fall off, the plant quietly and discretely continues to mature. Without the showiness of the flower to distract, the patterns at the core become visible and intriguing in their own right. Somehow it all makes a little more sense: So this was behind it all along. More of the mystery is revealed in the bare bones mandala.
Earlier in the summer, I photographed a pink poppy in full bloom and returned today to discover that this stage of its life cycle is every bit as marvelous as the flower stage, in another way. You just have to look at it a little differently, with presence and wonder and without comparing it to something it no longer is, to behold its beauty.
Later in the flower’s life, if you look closely, you’ll see there is so much going on. Profound transformation. The plant turns its attention away from being physically alluring and focuses its energy on producing seeds to give as its offering to life. A shift from petals to seedpods: seduction to deep generosity.
The pollinators let it be, and it focuses on its larger purpose. The tender petals and vibrant colors give way to interesting textures, greater strength, and individuality. It’s less delicate and fragile.
In the time between the two images above, things get very real. Superficiality falls away. What do you want to give? What kind of legacy? What will you create with this precious life? You get down to business.
I’m walking the labyrinth this morning and noticing dewdrops on blades of grass as they catch the light of the rising sun. Patches of dewdrops are visible only from certain angles. Otherwise, they are present but unseen. It’s an interplay that depends on where you and the object are in relation to each other and to the sun. Timing is also a factor because of the dewdrops’ transitory nature.
I recognized this immediately as my daily metaphor. Nature is a mirror that helps me to make more sense of the ambitious curriculum of Schoolroom Earth.
I can tell the labyrinth received some TLC recently, probably yesterday. It was neat and tidy and perfect for walking. Feeling appreciative, I stood at the end of the willow branch threshold and didn’t step into the labyrinth until I arrived fully in the space and could feel my feet on the ground, hear the sounds, and feel the breeze on my skin. Ground, sound, around.
As I walk, I notice the shadow pictures on the recycled slate steps of the labyrinth and think of all the different images that went unnoticed until I looked in a new way, and they became visible. Then I couldn’t believe I’d never noticed them before.
Isn’t that just how it works, though? You’re blind to certain realities until you’re in the right place and ready to see them. Visually and otherwise. Even when they are right there in front of you and had been all along.
All of a sudden, in one moment, breath, or footstep, it seems so obvious, and you can’t unsee the thing. I remember the day I first noticed the shadow pictures. It was like a new world opened up, and from then on, they were plain as day. Then I started noticing other kinds of shadow pictures. It was a new, expanded way of perceiving the world.
Sometimes other people can help us open our eyes. For example, one of my photographer friends shared a picture of geese floating on colorful, autumn reflections. Her image spoke to me and planted the seed of longing to notice and photograph the interaction of birds and reflections. Sharing her perspective made me aware of a new possibility.
Shadow pictures, others, self: It’s all the same. When the blinders finally come off, you see (and then can’t unsee) things that previously passed under the radar. We evolve by becoming aware of blind spots and expanding our field of vision and awareness. Sometimes it happens when there is a pressing need and we’re actively seeking a new perspective, and sometimes it happens when everything lines up just right. And when it does, there’s no value in regretting that you hadn’t seen it sooner. For whatever reason, you weren’t ready.
Just be glad you finally did, and go on from there.
It’s incredible out here on the dock this morning. There’s a refreshing river breeze. It’s even a little cool, which is welcome relief from the heat and humidity of the past few days. The waves are lapping against the shore, the sunlight is sparkling on the water, the warmth of the sun is caressing my skin, and the birds are singing. If the water weren’t so choppy, I’d go out in my kayak. But honestly, I’m glad to have an excuse to indulge in a different pleasure this morning: playing my singing drum on the dock.
I’ve had the drum for less than a week but have wanted one for quite a while. Actually, I wanted a hang drum, but they are very expensive and harder to come by. So I began exploring alternatives and then kind of forgot about it until a couple of weeks ago.
I love to play my singing drum. Especially on the dock on a bright and breezy, summer morning.
There’s road noise to contend with. Always is here on the busy side of the river. I hear the familiar vibration of the steel deck bridge and the cars and trucks only a few yards away from my spot on the dock. But I’m trying to keep my attention on what’s most important: what uplifts me and feels most right in this moment. Just letting all the traffic noise be and not pull me away from my own be-ing.
Making music while all this other stuff goes on is this morning’s meditation practice. Choosing to feel and express my interconnection with the sparkling sunlight on the river, the eagle flying over the island, the wind, the movement and rhythm of the water. Focusing on that. Making music with that.
I can’t control the road noise. But I can control where I put my attention and whether I am in harmony or disharmony with my surroundings. Does my music embody union with the sparkling sunlight on the water or resistance to the rumble of traffic rolling by? Am I expressing wholeness or separation?
The state of your mind and heart is an integral part of the music you offer the world, literally and figuratively.
My advice? Play what you love. Focus on what you love, what brings you joy, meaning, satisfaction, grace. Can you keep your focus on that when all the other stuff is going on around you? Can you tune the other stuff out so you can co-create with life? Or even better, can you incorporate it into the totality of what you are living and embracing this very moment and express unconditional presence?
I sense our music is of a higher quality – less fearful and more authentic – when we play (talk/listen/act/love) from a state of presence and interconnection.
It’s all part of a larger practice of being more improvisational and not relying on notes (of one kind or another) on a page. Expressing from the heart in the moment and trusting that whatever arises is what’s most needed and real and true. That’s the leading edge of my practice these days.
When I hit the record button on my phone, I noticed a subtle shift from expressing to performing. From letting the notes and rhythms flow uninhibited to wanting to sound good and be appealing. But that’s a practice, too. A continuum. My intention is to push the record button and remain in presence, whether I’m communicating through music or words. It’s the same basic practice whether it involves playing music, interacting one-on-one, leading a guided meditation, facilitating a meeting or workshop, addressing a group, or teaching a class of young children. In my case, all my early childhood teaching experience has become a foundation for the rest.
Cultivating deep authenticity and trust…in myself and the wisdom inside me. And also in the magic of connection that happens in the moment, that transcends any stories I create in my head about relationship.
I looked to others for guidance and validation my whole life. But that need comes from the false self, which is a layer I’m in the process of shedding. Because it’s time, and I have a feeling that hormones are finally on my side. Now what I want most of all – more than any kind of worldly success or status – is to trust and follow my own guidance. To be MORE present, improvisational, inner- and inter-connected, and LESS self-conscious, rehearsed, and influenced by others. To express my inner being rather than try to be who I think others want me to be. The latter has had a long enough run! It’s time for a new experiment. It’s kind of scary. But even more, it’s exciting.
So this morning, I brought my singing drum to the dock and allowed the sparkles of sunlight on the water to be the notes I played. They looked like this:
And if you’re curious, they sounded something like this:
Aside from logistics, I didn’t really have any expectations for it (which is often beneficial in such situations). And the logistics went something like this:
We needed to be settled in at the retreat center in time for the purification ceremony the evening before the quest. Once the sacred ceremony began, we’d remain in silence for the rest of the evening, the entire next day, and through breakfast the following morning until we completed our opening meditation.
In addition, we’d fast for at least 24 hours, from before the purification ceremony until the vision quest ended the next evening.
I’d chosen and marked my vision quest spot months ago. It was nestled between four trees, at what I believe is the highest elevation point on the property, only a few yards from where we buried my son’s placenta 21 ½ years ago. This spot offered a view of the surrounding hills. I’d also considered a streamside location. However, I felt drawn to a more open, expansive setting with a view and some personal history.
I had to be all set up in my vision quest spot before sunrise (6 AM) and would remain there until sunset (a little before 8 PM). Fourteen whole hours.
My spot consisted of an 8-foot circle, and I was not permitted to bring anything with me except: protection from the elements, something to sit on, water, toilet paper, and a small shovel or trowel. No devices of any sort. Not even a watch to tell the time or a notebook to record insights. Actually, not having access to writing materials is what concerned me most. However, it would be a one-day experiment and an opportunity to try something new. I had to trust that if something really important surfaced, it would come back again.
I also was concerned about the weather forecast, which called for lots of rain and even a thunderstorm. But since I couldn’t do anything about the weather, I’d just have to be prepared and make the best of it.
Although I’d be alone in my circle, I wouldn’t really be alone. Fifteen of my classmates would be vision-questing simultaneously in their own circles scattered throughout the retreat center’s 236 acres. And many years of Hidden Treasure classes before ours had gone through it, too, and were praying for us. I had complete trust in Alice, my spiritual director of more than 30 years who leads the program. I just had to trust the process.
The weather ended up being exactly as forecasted. I barely had time to get set up before the rain began. It was still fairly dark when I secured an overhead tarp to four trees to keep me dry. I also put a tarp on the ground and brought my meditation cushion, yoga mat, and a sleeping bag for warmth.
And so began a long day of relating to my mind and the elements. There were periods of rain – downpours alternating with cloudy or even partly sunny sky at one point. But the rain is what I will remember most about the day.
I mostly practiced various forms of mindfulness meditation (sitting, standing, walking, and lying) and was surprised that very few thoughts and feelings took hold during the 14-hour vision quest.
The experience reminded me of childbirth – knowing it’s going to go on for a long time and having to stay in the moment so as not to become overwhelmed by it. There was plenty of opportunity to go into impatience, dissatisfaction, and frustration over conditions I could not control (i.e. weather and time). However, I kept catching myself and bringing myself back to present moment awareness:
my ant’s-eye view of the ground and the diversity of plant life emerging from it
the dewdrop at the top of every blade of grass – and its eventual disappearance
thousands of maple buds expanding into baby leaves
the sound of birds – quieter during storms, more active in between
the reflection of maple branches and buds in a small puddle on my tarp
my water jug magnifying whatever was behind it
the sound of my roof tarp blowing in the breeze
the mist dancing around the hills after a storm
sensations in my body
thunder and lightning.
It was interesting to see where my mind went to and what resources supported me when circumstances were beyond my control. The resources that carried me through the quest included: gratitude, mindfulness, knowing that this shall pass, and feeling interconnected with nature and my classmates.
Oh yeah, and the mantra: I am a badass. I mean, seriously: I was spending 14 hours in an 8-foot circle alone with my mind and whatever nature served up. Somehow those four words seemed to reframe the whole experience and empower me to keep on keeping on even when the rain was coming in slanted, and only a small spot of tarp remained dry.
Then I thought of the homeless folks I know and how they do this all the time, but not necessarily in a safe place or with the promise of a nourishing meal and a hot shower at sundown or an emotionally and spiritually supportive community to return to.
One moment in particular stood out above the rest. During the brief interlude of mid-day sunshine, I removed my jacket and noticed a tick crawling on the inside of it. That pulled me out of presence and into fear. A few moments later, I saw another tick, roughly the size of a pinhead with legs, crawl across the tarp I was sitting on. All of a sudden, I felt unsafe and questioned the prudence of making myself vulnerable to ticks for 14 hours in the pouring rain.
I wondered if continuing the vision quest experience could become another example of self-betrayal. What if I were to get Lyme disease from the vision quest, which I was doing because I was expected to do it? I latched on to that thought for a while, until I checked in with myself and realized that continuing the quest felt more right than spending the remainder of it in my car.
Killing ticks isn’t easy. However, I managed to liberate both of them from their present incarnations by bashing them repeatedly with my bottle of homemade tick spray. After all, I had plenty of time. And I was a badass. 😉 And ticks fell outside my circle of equanimity and compassion. (More about that later.)
After the tick incident, I spent most of the remainder of the vision quest huddled inside my mummy-style sleeping bag with only my eyes peeking out, feeling like I was in a cocoon.
Not eating or writing wasn’t a problem. It was a one-day experiment, and those were the rules. I was deeply grateful for my mindfulness meditation practice and for an unexpected interlude of sunshine.
It was hard to keep track of where the sun was in the sky because of the thick cloud cover in the afternoon, but I tried nonetheless. In the evening, it was hard to discern whether the sky was getting darker because another storm was approaching or because dusk and the end of the vision quest were drawing near. When I estimated that I had another hour and a half to go, I was delighted to see one of my classmates drive by. Even if they were early, the end was near!
And then it was over. My intuition gave me the green light, and I broke down my setup gleefully and headed back to the retreat lodge, where a comforting meal of carrot-ginger soup, tossed salad, and lemon bars awaited. And a hot shower. After all that (and a thorough tick check), I began to write about my experience.
Processing the Quest
The vision quest itself wasn’t nearly as juicy as processing it was. At first, I didn’t think I had much to write about. I even felt like I didn’t do well with vision-questing and assumed others went deeper and experienced higher states of consciousness. However, when I started writing, lots of stuff came up, including associations with my everyday life. And the comparison and failure scripts in my head were patterns to acknowledge.
Our class, guided by Alice and two other leaders, spent the next two days processing everyone’s vision quest, one at a time. All 16 of us! This was a lot like group dream interpretation. It was rather fascinating and powerful to witness each person processing and integrating their experience. The guides honed in on statements that seemed especially weighty or meaningful and inquired about how the statement applies to the individual’s life. Some deep, emotional processing took place.
I won’t go into great detail about the inner significance of my quest other than to say that the tick incident was probably the most noteworthy part of all and carried the greatest emotional weight. One key statement I made went something like this: “I looked at the tick on my tarp and thought, ‘You could ruin my life!’” I felt fearful of the tick, afraid that more of them would invade my sacred circle, and angry because ticks take me away from connecting more with [my true] nature.
There were some books in the center of our group circle to help us recognize and interpret the signs and omens of nature we came in contact with during our vision quest. I couldn’t find anything about ticks and considered what they represent to me.
Basically, they speak to me of boundary breaches that could result in a chronic condition that can seriously compromise quality-of-life. They get in the way of me doing what makes me feel most in my element, and I felt sad and irritated about that. Disempowered.
I recalled the moments during the quest when I questioned whether I was betraying myself by putting myself out there as tick bait because someone else expected me to do it. Putting other people’s expectations and approval above my own welfare.
There was the issue of ticks during the vision quest, but the larger question was about feelings of fear and self-betrayal, in general. How do they apply to my life? I’ve been close to Alice for more than 30 years, and she’s never led me astray or betrayed my trust, so it wasn’t about her. What did my response to the ticks remind me of? What was it showing me?
The basic theme was about not doing what feels most right, out of fear. Feeling it’s not safe to be my true self. There was lots of processing around that – childhood stuff, current stuff. I even dreamed the night before (after the vision quest) of speaking up and telling my dad how his critical comments in the dream made me feel. It was an “I have a right to be me!” dream that fit perfectly with my vision quest themes.
Don’t let anyone get under your skin and prevent you from living your life! Thus spoke the tick on my tarp.
My marching orders had to do with recovering my self-worth by standing up for myself in certain ways, to certain people. Not giving away my power. Alice suggested some practices that might help.
When I got back home, I googled “tick symbolism”, and what I found resonated strongly and enriched my understanding of what the ticks were showing me.
“This species of arachnid is letting you know that you have too many people in your life that are draining your energy. It’s time for you to step away and learn to set boundaries. These people just have too many expectations of you. It’s not up to you to fix their stuff… Engaging will only instigate ‘drama trauma’ and distract you from your own journey.”
Boundaries. So many opportunities for having healthy boundaries in my life, as scary and intimidating as it may feel. The lesson keeps returning until you finally learn it. If not now, when?
The Big Takeaway
I had my own vision quest that I’m still processing. But what provided the greatest lesson of all was hearing about everyone else’s experiences and listening to them being processed.
We were 16 people who had 16 entirely different vision quest experiences. Rain, hunger, and time were our common challenges. But everyone had a different relationship with them. Seeing my own experience within that context was illuminating.
Some of my classmates appeared to be under-prepared but had a pleasant experience. Others had really good gear, but that didn’t guarantee a pleasant vision quest. Some felt bad because they judged their experience in comparison to others. Others just had a lovely time, and some felt shame because others might envy their experience and wish they had an experience more like theirs. Some didn’t have a tarp and made do. Others took time the evening before to create a comfortable, welcoming space. Some did a lot of planning in advance. Others did virtually no planning.
Nobody else seemed as bothered by ticks as me, though a few discovered embedded ticks after returning home from the weekend. Some dealt with the tick problem by using heavy-duty repellant. Others didn’t really think about it at all until I brought it up. Even though Lyme disease is a serious health concern, and it is wise to protect yourself from ticks when you’re in the great outdoors, nobody else talked about ticks on their vision quest. This helped me to see that my reaction to ticks on the vision quest was my issue and pointed to something deeper in me that called for attention.
The vision quest also highlighted some of my strengths and resources and showed how different we are in terms of resourcing our lives and the gifts we contribute to the world.
I learned that nobody’s experience is any better or worse than anyone else’s. This applies not only to vision quests, but to life in general. They’re all different due to the unique combination of nature and nurture that are at play in our lives. We all have different challenges and resources, and passing judgment on anyone else ultimately says more about how we relate to ourselves than what is true about them. Other people are reflections of us that reveal our blind spots, shortcomings, fears, values, resources, aspirations, etc.
Sixteen different people, the same weather conditions, and 16 completely different experiences that provided me with a new perspective of my own journey and how I can be with others on theirs. Our differences can be our greatest teachers. Learning about our differences can help us to heal and grow, by making us aware of our issues and blind spots, in the first place. Understanding that everyone has challenges and struggles (though they might look a little different from ours) assures us that we are not alone. All beings want to feel happy and at ease, and all beings have challenges that get in the way of that.
So yeah, I have my work cut out for me. But I’m grateful to have greater clarity about how I get in my own way and what I can do about it. And I know I’m not alone. We’re all questing simultaneously in our little circles scattered throughout the planet every day of our lives.
Today was a great day for a field trip to our local park. It’s been rainy lately, but we lucked out.
We had a guided tour led by one of the park educators, followed by time for free play and exploration of a couple of learning stations set up in the pavilion. One of the learning stations was simply a plastic bin filled with soil and lots of worms. Want to know how to keep preschoolers focused and engaged for long stretches of time? Give them a bin of dirt and worms! It works wonders.
During the free play time, one of my preschoolers came up to me to give me a tiny treasure that at first glance appeared to be a gray stone. Then I realized it was a painted turtle hatchling about the size of a dandelion flower! It was early in the year for hatchlings, but there it was.
The little boy, with binoculars dangling from his neck, told me he found it in a spot where it was in danger of being trampled by our active group. Then he went back to exploring the park’s play garden. I was amazed he was able to notice the turtle in the first place because it was so small. All its appendages were tucked inside its shell, and it was an excellent camouflager.
At first glance, the turtle seemed rather lifeless. But as I held it in my hand and studied its eyes, I reconsidered that assessment. Poor little thing was probably terrified of the giant beholding it with awe.
Eventually, I felt some movement tickle my palm, and the tiny turtle pushed out a leg. Seeing it was alive, I decided to move it to a safer location closer to the pocket wetland. A group of children followed me, and I released the turtle on the ground. We watched it make its way to the pond, climbing over every obstacle in its path with fixed determination.
I captured the image below a split second before it plunged in.
I’m fascinated by how baby turtles find their way to water. It seems they just KNOW. I think we all have an inner guidance system that calls us in the direction of our true nature. An internal GPS that’s hardwired into us. Do we feel it and follow it? That’s the question.
Or do our thoughts and conditioning get in the way and prevent us from moving toward what feels most deeply right and diving into new territory?
The guidance is there, whether we tap into it or not.
Then with a silent plop!, the baby turtle was in the water – I’m guessing for the first time. And it was a natural swimmer. This little turtle was made for the water and was in its element. Yay! Every move it made sent ripples into its watery environment.
The image below makes my heart happy. It speaks to me of a goal attained and the sweet satisfaction of following your inner knowing and being in your element.
My son, who’s finishing his junior year of college, has been downhearted this week. He’s been questioning some of the choices he’s made and the path he’s on. We had a conversation in which I explained how life works, based on my own experience. I told him that new possibilities unfold with every step you take – possibilities you can’t see when you start out or encounter challenges. Or end-of-the-semester stress. You hold a vision and work to make it a reality, and some days you might wonder or even doubt whether you can pull it off.
Then all of a sudden, it dawns on you that you hold a key that will open a door that won’t open for anyone else. Because they don’t have the key; you do. You just have to find the door. And then your son comes home from elementary school that day, and when you greet him at the door, he announces, “Look what I found today on the playground!” Then he produces a rusty, old-fashioned KEY from his pocket. True story.
Or maybe one of your preschool students walks up to you and hands you a baby turtle that offers a metaphor that awakens you from the trance of self-doubt and affirms your inner GPS is working just fine.
And you keep going in the direction of your soul. Maybe you’ll even encounter a friendly giant who will have your back.
Needless to say, the dandelion-sized turtle provided my daily dose of inspiration.
Then the observant little boy who found it took my hand and asked me to look for more animals with him. After a little more exploring, guess where we ended up?