Joanna Macy is currently in hospice, and not expected to be with us for much longer. The world will be losing a profound voice for ecological and social justice with her passing. Renowned for her groundbreaking work in systems theory and deep ecology, Macy has inspired countless individuals to transform despair into action through her teachings and workshops. Her ability to weave together insights from Buddhist philosophy and modern science provided a framework for understanding our interconnectedness with the earth upon which we all depend. As a prolific writer and speaker, she’s addressed critical issues such as nuclear threats, environmental degradation, and the deep grief associated with planetary loss. The absence of her wisdom will leave a significant void in the ongoing struggle for a sustainable future, while her legacy will continue to resonate with those of us seeking hope in the face of overwhelming challenges. May her extraordinary life continue to be a beacon to us, we ordinary people, to hold onto hope, so vital not only for warding off despair, but for fostering resilience and igniting change. May we, for the sake of all who share this beautiful planet (and for those not yet born) commit ourselves to taking meaningful action, remembering that our choices today shape the world of tomorrow.
So much of what Joanna Macy has said and written has touched and taught me, far too much to even begin to distill within the context of a blog post, so I’ll simply leave you with this, “If the world is to be healed through human efforts, I am convinced it will be by ordinary people, people whose love for this life is even greater than their fear.”
I watched an excellent video today by one of my favorite wisdom seekers – Gabor Mate. Daniel Mate, his oldest son, accompanied Gabor. The two focused on the relationship between adult children and their parents, providing insights for both. If you’ve never listened to Gabor Mate before or read one of his books (or even if you have), he and his son are well worth a listen. Daniel and Gabor have written a soon-to-be-published book together, “Hello Again: A Fresh Start for Parents and Their Adult Children” and will be producing a podcast as well.
I watched an excellent TED talk this morning by Caroline Myss that I encourage you to check out. Here’s one of the gems that she offers, “Every single choice we make is either going to enhance the spirit or drain it. Every day, we’re either giving ourselves power or taking it away.” And here’s another, “Never blame another person for your personal choices – you are still the one who must live out the consequences of your choices.”
What do I see when I peer into the mirror? I see change. I see experience. I see the Byram eyes. I see the wrinkles around my mouth. Age spots. I see a neck that is crinkling and lines in my forehead. I don’t see ‘me.’ At least the person in the mirror doesn’t feel like me. She’s not the woman that I saw for most of my adult life. She’s not the pretty, soft eyed woman that could turn heads. The one who seldom wore makeup and simply trusted her natural beauty. In all honesty, while not quite a stranger, this creature who looks back at me and whom I recognize as me still seems somehow unfamiliar. I most definitely haven’t caught up to this face yet.
This woman in the mirror doesn’t appear as approachable as the one that I had the luxury of taking for granted for so long. She doesn’t look as soft or as gentle as the one who lives inside of me. This one looks like she’d probably suffer no fools and would tolerate no back talk.
I direct her to smile, and she immediately obliges. Still, no matter how hard we try, she and I, that smile doesn’t convince me that she’s, well, truly me. Could this be what experience and life wisdom does to a face? The question surprises me. After all, it’s been my lifelong mission – the acquisition of wisdom. Am I offering up a psychic trade? Beauty for wisdom? Or maybe I’m merely acknowledging a simple truth. You don’t get to approach wisdom without traveling a significant distance, suffering lots of fools (including your own foolhardiness), and encountering (and even embracing) so many (often painful) opportunities for growth. And all of those take a toll on a face.
What kind words can I say about this face before me? If I’m truthful, I need to admit that no such words come to mind at the moment. Clearly, I haven’t made peace with this face. I miss the old one. I really miss the old one. And yet, I prefer this version of the woman who claims the face in my mirror. She’s so much happier and, yes, wiser than the younger, prettier one.
And now I gaze at the woman looking calmly back at me, smile at her warmly, and send her love.
In preparing for “Meeting 2021 with Gratitude, Hope, and Intention,” a brief workshop that I’ll be offering tomorrow, I came across a poem that I’d written in the early spring of last year when we’d lost 46,000 to COVID-19.
Today it’s official, 400,000 have now lost their lives to COVID, and it strikes me that while there are over 350,000 reasons more to despair then when I wrote the poem, we also have so very many reasons to hope.
What Gives Me Hope
“The old Maple outside of my window has started to bud,
And the loons have begun their lonely calling.
There have been muskrats spotted coming out of their dens,
and the red-winged blackbirds have returned from southern skies.
Spring keeps her promise once again this year,
that what appears dormant or even dead
can rise again.
And yet not one of the more than 46,000 Americans
lost to COVID in these last days of winter
will be returning.
Still, while the death toll rises,
from Florida to Thailand
endangered turtles have built more nests
on the beach than in the past 20 years
and dolphins swim
in the canals of Venice.
Italians serenade one another from their balconies
and stuffed animals, candles and images of rainbows
are placed in windows for the world’s children.
Hundreds of Thousands in Europe
form a volunteer army sworn to
soothe, feed and comfort both neighbors and strangers.
And though COVID-19 makes it harder to breathe,
satellite images reveal that folks
in Italy and India can breathe easier.
A Spanish Doctor pleads for letters
to encourage and soothe the ill
and the dying,
And to his amazement,
tens of thousands of them come pouring in.
Young children in cities who have never seen the night stars
gaze up in wonder at them now.
Coyotes wander down a Chicago street.
And on the 50th anniversary of Earth Day
a young Indian boy who has never ventured beyond his village
encounters the Himalayas, long obscured by smog, for the first time.
And so, while I sit in the dark holding despair in one hand,
I don’t believe that I’d be exaggerating when I claim that 2020 has been the most challenging year in the lives of so many of us around the world. In the United States, tomorrow marks the beginning of a new year, one that is predicted to lead us initially into even greater peril – a “dark winter.” This ominous warning stirs up more than a little unease inside of me, as I have never been particularly comfortable in the dark. And so I gently remind myself that there is a significant amount of growth taking place in the darkness and that beginnings and endings are always intermingled.
I’m meeting this new year with more than a little bit of anxiety as well as a determination to step over this annual threshold with more appreciation and intention than I have in years past. Appreciation for so many of the gifts that have accompanied the anxiety, heartache, and restrictions of 2020, and intentions that will hopefully enable me to move through 2021 more consciously and with deeper gratitude.
There will be no new year celebrations with friends and family tonight, and that’s not only the result of the sane and responsible decision to socially distance, it’s also in response to my need to journey deeper into my life than ever before. With well over 300,000 American lives lost to COVID (and climbing at a horrific rate), it feels only fitting that I hold my own more closely and live it more deliberately.
I began my preparations for New Year’s Eve with a long and meditative walk along the Androscoggin river, a walk that Gunilla Norris might call a ‘soul- walk’ where we “bring along a good question, one that cannot be answered immediately.”
Upon returning to my warm house, I played Windham Hill music, lit a candle and incense, and settled in with my journal, being mindful of another of Gunilla Norris’s assertions that “tucking a good question into your heart is like having a faithful friend. It will keep asking you to grow and to discover what you somehow already know at a deeper level. It will open you to yourself.” And so, I asked myself the following questions:
What was the overall theme of the past year?
What risks did I take?
What did I give to others?
What was I given?
What do I want to release?
What lessons did I learn?
What did I learn about myself?
What lessons do I most want to take into the new year?
I also created a vision board to capture my intentions for 2021, a visual map to hang on my wall to remind me of what truly matters, and what I most want to cultivate and embrace in the coming year.
Tonight I’ll spend some time with my journal once again, committing my intentions to paper, asking myself even more questions.
What will be my ‘word’ for the coming year? A word that Christine Valters Paintner suggests might “nourish me, challenge me, a word that I can wrestle with and grow into.” A word that can serve as a companion and guide during the months ahead.
What’s something that I really want to do this coming year?
What’s one thing that I would really like to learn?
What’s one small act of self-care that I am ready to add to my daily life?
Who are the people that I truly want to spend more time with during this next year?
Who do I want to support more this coming year?
Who do I want to make sure I thank?
What is one thing that I want to add more of during the coming year?
What message does my wise self most want me to carry forward during the coming year?
Tomorrow I’ll be joining a group of incredibly special women on Zoom, women who’ve met each and every New Year’s day for thirty years. While for the first time, we won’t be spending time in one another’s physical presence, we’ll still connect to each other in a beautiful and meaningful way and will carry significant messages for the New Year away with us when we part.
And finally, I’ll re-read one of my favorite poems written for a New Year by reverend Jan Richardson.
The Year as a House: A Blessing
Think of the year as a house: door flung wide in welcome, threshold swept and waiting, a graced spaciousness opening and offering itself to you.
Let it be blessed in every room. Let it be hallowed in every corner. Let every nook be a refuge and every object set to holy use.
Let it be here that safety will rest. Let it be here that health will make its home. Let it be here that peace will show its face. Let it be here that love will find its way.
Here let the weary come let the aching come let the lost come let the sorrowing come.
Here let them find their rest and let them find their soothing and let them find their place and let them find their delight.
And may it be in this house of a year that the seasons will spin in beauty, and may it be in these turning days that time will spiral with joy. And may it be that its rooms will fill with ordinary grace and light spill from every window to welcome the stranger home.
Rev. Jan Richardson
Wishing you so very many blessings…
Tammie Fowles
Oh, by the way, you are warmly invited to join me on January 6, 2021 from 6:30 pm eastern standard time until 8:00 pm to explore how you might best fully inhabit 2021 with gratitude, hope, and intention. You can join us on zoom by clicking on the following link:
I have a sister tree, for over twenty years she has peered in at me as I sit at the desk in my office. Today she is providing a resting place for what appears to be a rather well-fed crow. I play “Jack’s Crows” by John Gorka while I study the crow, a symbol of change and transformation, and a fellow moon and sun worshiper. It seems to be calmly gazing back at me.
On the longest night and shortest day of the year, the winter solstice marks the official beginning of winter, although here in the north country of Maine, winter settled in weeks ago. And while I’ve never welcomed winter, the solstice represents a sweet sense of possibility and connection to me. I am imagining my Celtic ancestors celebrating the festival of “Alban Arthuan” which translates as “light of winter.” Each year on this day they would gather around a central fire and light a log from the previous year’s solstice celebration in order to conquer the darkness and request blessings for the coming year.
Tonight, I’ll keep company with the darkness for a bit before I light my own small fire to banish the dark. I’ll acknowledge these cold winter days and even more frigid nights as reminders to slow down, turn inward, and allow what is currently a mystery to incubate. A bit later today I’ll create a winter solstice soul collage, a mini vision board for the coming year and then I’ll bundle up and take a winter walk along the river. But for the next few moments, I’m going to commune with the crow outside my window. I’ve loved crows since I was a little girl who begged her mother to tell her once again about the pet crow that her great, great grandmother shared her home with. The devoted bird would proudly present her with shiny objects on an almost daily basis that it had scavenged and sometimes stolen from neighbors. When she died, the family legend held that crows gathered around the house cawing mournfully. Remarkably, when her daughter died just a short distance away from where I was staying in Connecticut, it was the clamor of a murder of crows that woke me up just before I received the call that she’d passed. Strange, I know, but absolutely true, I promise you.
The crow outside my window flew off and then returned during the short time that I’ve been writing this post. It’s been sweet company. What simple gifts – this day, that crow, the warmth of my house, the scent of sandalwood, the music playing in the background, and the promise of one more minute of sunlight each and every day until the summer solstice.
Following are a few resources for if you choose to mark the occasion:
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Theo quan niệm của một số tôn giáo và nền văn hóa, con người gồm thể xác (mang tính vật chất) và linh hồn (mang tính phi vật chất). Khi thể xác chết, linh hồn xuất khỏi thể xác. Nếu linh hồn đó không có cơ hội đầu thai hoặc nơi trú ngụ chung với các linh hồn khác mà tương tác với cõi thực có con người sẽ gọi là “ma”, “hồn ma”, “quỷ”; nhưng nếu các phần phi vật chất đó tương tác với cõi thực của con người theo tình cảm, theo trách nhiệm được giao của các tôn giáo thì lại gọi là “hồn”, “linh hồn”, “thánh”, “thần”, “thiên sứ” .
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