The last day of summer

Depressed by a Book of Bad Poetry, I Walk Toward an Unused Pasture and Invite the Insects to Join Me

Relieved, I let the book fall behind a stone.
I climb a slight rise of grass.
I do not want to disturb the ants
Who are walking single file up the fence post,
Carrying small white petals,
Casting shadows so frail that I can see through them.
I close my eyes for a moment and listen.
The old grasshoppers
Are tired, they leap heavily now,
Their thighs are burdened.
I want to hear them, they have clear sounds to make.
Then lovely, far off, a dark cricket begins
In the maple trees. 

--James Wright

Centered

The Apotheosis of Washington. Looks like he's waving at us, doesn't it?

Anyone who ever looks at this blog understands perfectly how much I adore the U.S. Capitol dome. It is the head of the United States (capitol means head, you know). That big ole iconic head anchors my village of Capitol Hill, orients us, watches over us. It is graceful and intricate and always looks good which is one reason it is featured in my pictures so often.

I love the outside of the dome, but I especially love the inside, the rotunda. It is a magnificent room, a huge room. In the very center of that room, the four quarters of the District come together. Once upon a time there was a hole at the center because they kept an eternal flame burning in the crypt below the rotunda floor. It is covered now with some white stuff that doesn't match the marble floor in any way. On that spot, Lincoln lay in state after he was assassinated, JFK, too.

You would think that with all the powerful, swirling energy, the rotunda would feel crazy, but it doesn't. Maybe because it's big enough to hold all that swirling and coming together, there is a great sense of calm in that room. It's big enough to hold the history. It is so cool!

Gazing up into the dome is always an experience of awe and wonder for me. The painting, the Apotheosis of Washington, is truly fabulous in every way you can image. I stare until I get a crick in my neck, stare some more. I can't take my eyes off dear George gazing down from his perch in Heaven. 

Prior to 9/11, I used to go into the rotunda at least a couple of times a week, to sit and meditate, gaze into the paintings around the perimeter and the Apotheosis and enjoy the serenity in the room.

On August 17, 2001, a group of my cohorts and I cast a triangle of stillness around the center of the rotunda. That triangle crystalized in some way we hadn't expected. All of us involved in that ceremony could "see" the crystal shape filling the dome. It was really interesting. 

On September 8, 2011, the last time I was allowed to enter the rotunda, the crystal inexplicably vanished. Three days later, everything changed. After that, the rotunda was closed to the public except for special tours. My heart was broken - for so many reasons, of course - but including the fact that I no longer had access to my very favorite room.

Since 9/11 I've only been in the rotunda three times. Once with a friend who works for Congress, once on the official tour, and yesterday to witness the Congressional Gold Medal presentation to Aung San Suu Kyi.

I'm in awe of her, her fortitude and conviction. It was an honor to be invited to the ceremony.

But can I be honest here? Far better than witnessing the ceremony was the fact that I was inside my favorite space in Washington, in the galactic center of our city, sending Reiki into the center and up into the Apotheosis, gazing at the paintings, luxuriating in the serenity, feeling the layers of history gently swirling around and around.

God I love that room.

I sat five feet away from the center of the vortex yesterday. It looks like it's glowing, doesn't it?

Merrily down the stream

Do you believe in coincidence? I would like to, but I'm not sure I do. Timing is something I pay close attention to, since synchronicity is a significant part of the shamanic lifestyle.

Here's my trippy sequence of recent events. I dreamed recently of finding Hitler and my ex husband, dead, in my bathtub. It wasn't an upsetting dream. There was no evidence of foul play as they say on TV detective shows. My ex and Hitler were arm in arm, eyes closed, heads together. It was a peaceful scene (as can only happen in dreams). In the dream I was waiting patiently, with Jake by my side, for the police to arrive and take care of the bodies.

Considering that earlier this summer I at last walked through the exhibit at the Holocaust Museum, the dream felt just right. I faced something frightening and subsequently discovered it wasn't nearly as scary as I had imagined.

A few days after that first dream, I dreamed I found two very exquisitely crafted porcelain figures in my toilet tank - Hitler, and my ex husband. I was in awe of the figurines. They were beautiful. I remember thinking in the dream that they must be quite valuable. Of course I was astonished to find them in my toilet tank. Even in the dream I wondered what it meant.

The two dreams suggest that I am shedding internal symbols of tyranny - powerful, iconic symbols - that no longer have power over me but are in some weird way very precious to me. It is a gentle letting go, thank God.

Yesterday a neighbor told me that this coming Saturday morning, the Aryan Nation will gather in Lincoln Park, 3 blocks away, then march down East Capitol street past the chateau. Well. The timing of their march is incredible in terms of my personal story, relevant not only to my recent dreams but also significant because the march will take place in the midst of the High Holy Days.

Will I step out into the front yard here to read the energy, or remain indoors, drinking coffee and hanging out on Facebook? I'll let my intuition guide me.

Life is so crazy. You can not make this stuff up.

Happy Wednesday. Shalom.

The beauty of decline

Autumn is making its way, bit by bit, into the midatlantic landscape. Summer has worn itself out at last. I for one am thrilled.

In Chinese medicine, this is the season of metal, the season of the great letting go. The canopy will turn colors, after which the leaves will fall. Gardens will shrivel, the grass will turn brown. The light will noticeably wane and the nights will grow crisp and cold.

Oh man do I ever love the great letting go! It's such a relief.

One quality associated with the metal element in Chinese medicine is awe. Oh yeah. In Judaism, too, the high holy days are often called the days of awe.

I'm feeling it: awe, reverence and that sweet melancholy that's always a part of this season. I am deep into the days of awe this year. This is excellent.

Shalom.


I listened to a lot of horn playing yesterday. Not exactly a shofar, but it was definitely loud. L'shanah tova!

Onwards and upwards to 5773

Tonight at sundown, the Jewish high holy days begin. If I finish working soon enough, I'll go down to the west steps of the Capitol to watch the sun set. I like to listen to John Coltrane on Rosh Hashona, too, usually after I get back to the chateau. He blows a very fine shofar, oh yeah.

When I used to have a car, I would drive around honking my horn which was not nearly as sonorous as listening to 'Trane, and annoyed other drivers as well as pedestrians. When I was married, I always asked my husband to play one of his saxophones, loud. I love the baritone saxophone, which is what he usually blew on Rosh Hashona.

The one tradition I strictly follow on this holy day is the eating of apples dipped in honey. I'm not completely out there, after all. In fact, I bet there are Jews who observe the holiday in much crazier ways than I do.

After tonight I will submerge myself in a contemplation of this past year, figure out if I need to offer apologies or clear up interpersonal tangles. This is very traditional. I'll be praying about my work for the coming year, looking clearly at all the mistakes I made in the past year so that when Yom Kippur arrives, I can let go of all of it, hence be open and clear as I move into 5773.

I love the high holy days. They are so Reya-esque! Thanks, God.

One thing I don't get about the Jewish new year is the timing. Why is early fall the beginning of a new year? The green world will soon die away, after which it will get dark and very cold. That feels like the end of the year, not the beginning. I like the Persian new year which begins at spring equinox. That makes sense to me, though winter solstice as a new year makes sense, too. I'm sure there must be some good reason for the timing, but I have not even the foggiest idea of what that is.

Of course, the timing of the Jewish new year is only one of many many many mysteries I will never understand. I'm good with that. I like mystery. I like knowing there are many things I'll never get no matter how hard I try. I find it liberating to know in my heart of hearts that this world, and the universe itself, is impossibly complex. I must try to understand, because that struggle makes me kinder, wiser and more compassionate, not to mention more humble! But to achieve understanding of the world? To even imagine such a thing is crazy, hey?

We humans think well of our minds, but really, all our high toned thinking can only take us a tiny fraction of the way into the beauty and terror of all there is. This, I think, is a blessing.

Happy Sunday and Shalom.

The Layers

The Layers

BY STANLEY KUNITZ

I have walked through many lives,

some of them my own,

and I am not who I was,

though some principle of being

abides, from which I struggle

not to stray.

When I look behind,

as I am compelled to look

before I can gather strength

to proceed on my journey,

I see the milestones dwindling

toward the horizon

and the slow fires trailing

from the abandoned camp-sites,

over which scavenger angels

wheel on heavy wings.

Oh, I have made myself a tribe

out of my true affections,

and my tribe is scattered!

How shall the heart be reconciled

to its feast of losses?

In a rising wind

the manic dust of my friends,

those who fell along the way,

bitterly stings my face,

Yet I turn, I turn,

exulting somewhat,

with my will intact to go

wherever I need to go,

and every stone on the road

precious to me.

In my darkest night,

when the moon was covered

and I roamed through wreckage,

a nimbus-clouded voice

directed me:

“Live in the layers,

not on the litter.”

Though I lack the art

to decipher it,

no doubt the next chapter

in my book of transformations

is already written.

I am not done with my changes.

What is God?

The light right now, just before autumn equinox, is pure gold - even orange by the time the sun sets each evening. Everything looks great in that light.

I don't remember how I first came across the book "What is God" by Etan Boritzer. It was a long time ago. What I remember, and am still struck by, is its eloquence, thoroughness, and precise articulation of the God I worship. That book still blows me away.

I used to always have on hand a dozen copies of the book in case I came across anyone who might be willing to forego their sophisticated standards of mature intellect long enough to read a "children's" book seriously. Over the years I'm sure I've paid a significant portion of Mr. Boritzer's royalties. It is a powerful book. Profound, clear, beautiful. Is it for children? It works for me and I'm 59. 

I've read many books on theology - really good ones, I should say. I love nuanced thinking and elaborately written texts. However nothing I've read before or since, even by the people recognized as the greatest of theologians, nails the idea of God like this book. It is spot on, no frills, just the facts, ma'am.

This morning, right on the brink of Rosh Hashana, I'm remembering one of the first community High Holy Days services I attended, back in the late 80s in San Francisco. Some friends invited me to join them at their Berkeley hills super hipster hippie style havurah celebration of Yom Kippur. Prior to that my only knowledge of the Jewish High Holy Days came directly from my father's interpretation which was (do I even need to say?) deeply skewed. By the time I reached my mid-30s, it was high time to do some research into the way other Jews observed the holiday.

The first thing I did on the morning of Yom Kippur was attend the children's service. One of my ongoing mantras is Start where you are. There is no point in rushing to the completion of anything, as it is the journey, not the destination where satisfaction can be found. I learned that the hard way, of course.

At that time, I was at square one with Judaism, hence I sat in the back of a room full of squirming children while the excellent teachers lead the kids through the Yom Kippur order of service, stopping whenever necessary to answer questions. The kids asked important questions that I would never have thought to ask my friends, let alone the hipster rabbi who conducted the services. By attending the kids' class, I was able to lay a clear foundation for the evolution of my personal theology around this holiday and my version of Judaism.

Out of the mouths of babes, as they say. In the case of the book, it is out of the mouth of someone who is purposely writing simply, for children.

And - well - for the likes of me.

Why do we adults always have to be so fancy, so sophisticated? What purpose does it serve? Good lord.

Happy Friday and Shalom.

At the fountain in the National Gallery sculpture garden yesterday.