TRIUMPH OF SPIRIT IN LOVE, NATURE & ART

Flowers

Notes from a Very Noisy Mind

Presence.  Stay in present.  Stop projecting into future.  Stop the negative daydreams.  Worse than nightmares.  “What if”, “what if”,”what if” ad infinitum.  Put ice yogurt on grocery list.  Add potatoes.
Is Tom getting a cold?  Flowering plant blooming.  The “spirit” of mother.  Her secret sign.  Our doctor appointment soon.  Afraid to go.  Pandemic fear.  Pandemic fear.  Pandemic fear.  Leak in wall.  Will super come?  He doesn’t respond.  Annoyance.  Will they have to bash the wall in to fix?  Will they have Covid 19 and bring it into our home?  What will happen??  What?  What? What?
Untense your back.  Feel sensation.  Relax body.  Deep breath.  Fear of losing Tom.  Stirrings of a migraine.  Can not stand mind anymore.  Eckhart Tolle said similar thing.  Concentrate on senses.  A flower.  The sky.  Can’t see much sky.  Buildings. Screen.  Windows.  Apartment.  Other lives.  Other deaths.  Look back at the flower.  Flower responds to attention.  Eckhart Tolle says flower does not know it is pretty.  Responds to attention.  Have heard this before.  Plants feel sensation.  Plants have responses to people.  Russians researched this.  Be like a plant.  Feel sensations.  Not fears.  Thoughts are the enemy.  Only for planning.  Avoid thought.
Time to meditate.  A few seconds of peace.  Fight sleep. Fight thought.  Just look, don’t fight thoughts. Just observe.  Follow the breath.  Almost over. Peace for a few seconds after noisy thoughts.
Will I ever be present?  I once was.  Long ago.  Medication fought psychosis but blocked presence.  Can I get there again?

Flitting and Flirting on a Flower

Butterflies mating
on a flower petal bed
The perfume of love
in a plethora of hues
Fleeting moments
of life
of the present
past in a blink
of the eye
or the flutter
of a butterfly wing.


Infrared Spring

and one lone color red


Transformation

Fears and tears
in the sunshine
of April
“The cruelest month”
New life
overcomes
the death
of winter
and with it
its hope
of escape
in dying
Can’t it
just end
Samsara
No poetry
No muse
No spirit
Oh, April,
the killer
month
The Soul
Snatcher
The menacing
life force
that most
revel in
kills my
will
to join
in the spirit
of rebirth
I see only
the cruelty
of Samsara

**********

April raindrops
dry tears
and Spring clouds
sooth
my parched soul
and bring back
will and spirit
to join
the living
once again.

 


Dying, Lying Croci

This year the Croci

may die cause they told a lie

saying it was Spring

what they said don’t mean a thing

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for Spring arrives on Friday

and what the weathermen say

this year the winter just won’t go

and they’re forecasting snow

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Bees Buzzing, Fuzzing and Fading

Beautiful fuzziness going strong

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But not for long

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Fading fast

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They will not last

Please  act fast

and sign the petition below:

 http://act.credoaction.com/sign/syngenta_bees?nosig=1&t=1&akid=11795.2247563.eaCuKn


Apology

To all of you who have “liked” my posts over the past week, a heartfelt apology and a mighty THANK YOU!!!  I would have liked to have stopped by your blogs but am following WAY, WANY too many people and can’t keep up.  I keep following more and more people when I am manic and then feel hopelessly unable to keep up when in the depressed cycle– which is where I am now.  I am clean out of words, in a downward spiral, and on day 3 of a mighty migraine.  Hope you’ll stop by again sometime in the future so I can visit your place.  


My Cathedral

The wilderness
is my cathedral
Spring Trees at Sunset  (digital photo)
The sky
my steeple
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 The trees
my buttresses
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Hay bales
my statuary
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 Flowers
my stained glass
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A babbling brook
my organ
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Frogs and toads
my choir
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Fields of wildflowers
my incense
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 Thunder storms
my high mass
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A very diverse congregation…

From cows

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to snails and turtles

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to gazillions
of insects

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Deer sometimes come round

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Butterflies abound

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Moths, too

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Birds of every hue

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All that’s missing is you

but you worship your own way

doing charity every day

more than I can say


What Katydid…

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What Katy said…


Nature’s Prayers

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Still yourself

and fold your hands

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humbly

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stand in awe

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radiate His light

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with eyes upwards

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towards

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the telephone

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to the sky

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and comtemplate

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the glory that is He


The Cycle of Life

Youth unfolding


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in the bright sunlight

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 blossoming in shade

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‘tainted’ by age

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becoming fragile

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the delicacy of death

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From an old Dahlia series, attempting  to show the robust beauty of new life as it grows older,  finally reaching the unsung beauty of death.


Starburst

 

“Dear ones, the light of God is moving through me this day… I am in His sea of Light, in that eternal land.  Wherever I am, in this life or beyond, I am always roaming in that eternity.  I want you to come there also, for you are my brothers an sisters and I cannot bear to see you left in delusion.” 

Paramahansa Yogananda


Bee in Dahlia

Click on link below for short article on the ongoing bee disaster…

http://www.theguardian.com/environment/2012/jan/13/honeybee-problem-critical-point


Humble Lily

 

After the crash

from

mania

to

depression…

humility

shame

gratitude

grace


Russell St. in Yellow and Green

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 Saugurties, NY

Signage and blue predominate in the photograph above, along with activity on the right,  but the simple yellow dandelions and green grass and fire plug jumped out at me and demanded a shot.


Image

Lily with Raindrops

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Resurrection

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“From winter’s tomb of lifeless blossoms, thou, O Christ, art resurrected in new buds of roses, marigolds, bluebells, jasmine, and worldful varieties of flowers.  Ever-mutating, multicolored flowers of lifetrons growing in the gardens of the astral land are fragrant thrones of thy Presence” ~  Paramahansa Yogananda

Hallelujah!  He is risen.


Child Days in Vermont

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Long ago, when I was very young, we used to go visit my great grandfather in Vermont. “Pop,” we called him, was a minister.  He was a minister at Riverside Church in New York City, just two blocks from where my husband and I have lived for the past 25 years. Pop and Nana, my great grandmother, spent summers in Greensboro, Vermont, right on a lake, facing the White Mountains of New Hampshire. The lake was pristine. So clean you could drink the water. So cold even in summer, you had to wait until afternoon to swim.  So cold fires burned in the fireplace in the mornings.  I was scared of fire back then and remember crying and Pop took me back to his little office in the woods where he often had a fire going, to give me a lecture about fear.  He told me if you were careful and knew what you were doing and had respect for it, fire was safe in the fireplace and I should not be afraid.

Early in the mornings my Dad and Pop and a neighbor would go fishing for perch for breakfast. They would come home with many fish and then would clean the scales into a bucket off the kitchen. Nana would cook them and serve the fish with fluffy eggs, and soft, buttered toast.  And there was sweet, home-made marmalade with bits of peel to relish. We would eat out on the sun porch at a long table in the warm, but not hot, bright yellow sun.

Usually I went to Greensboro with my parents but sometimes Pop would  drive me up at nighttime.  Twelve hours on old back roads, passing through dark, sleeping towns. There were no highways then. I loved Vermont, and Nana and Pop’s house on the lake. I loved walking along the brook that flowed through their backyard.  I loved looking at the blood-red poppies in their garden. But I didn’t like the swarms of gnats that hung in the fresh, warm air. Nor the snakes. Neither did Nana.  I remember Nana using a garden tool to cut a garter snake in half.  This seemed horrific and puzzling at the time, and seems even more grizzly today. I didn’t understand why we had to kill the snakes.

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Nana was very strict, an old New England schoolmarm.  My pajamas had to be neatly folded under my bed pillow or else they wound up in the “pound”, a big wooden chest, filled with other untidy things. A child had to pay money to get things out of the pound. I had almost no money then so this was a very effective form of punishment.  It is true I was given a modest sum of money when we went to the general store in town. With it I would buy colorful fake wax miniature soda bottles. You would bite off the waxy top and drink the sweet liquid inside the pretend soda bottle. I learned a valuable lesson. The liquid was gone in a second– there was a flash of intense pleasure– and then you were left broke, with an unpleasant wad of wax in your mouth.

Town was miles away. The mail boxes were far away but you could walk to them along the driveway.   And the nearest neighbors were far away, too.   You had to walk along the lake, through the woods, to get to their house.  Upon arrival, the grown-ups would have drinks and play cards and talk about this disease you got in the winter when the snow would cover the front door. It was called “cabin fever.” My mother tried to explain to me what kind of sickness it was but I never understood.

The neighbors had a young teenage boy named Andy and I had a crush on him, declaring him my boyfriend. He barely spoke to me but nevertheless when Nana gave me chocolates, I saved them and brought the bag of chocolates through the woods to the neighbors’ house for Andy.  The gift went unacknowledged.  Even in those days of relative innocence, I had found my first of many love obsessions. It would be several failed relationships and 30 long years spent in pursuit of love before I would find someone I loved.  Someone who has loved me back, mental illness and all, in a marriage of almost 25 years. Not that long in the scheme of things.

Pop dying was the first loss I experienced. I remember not understanding death at all, sitting on Nana’s lap and asking where he had gone.  She could not answer me.  Nana and I corresponded by letter after that until she died many years later.

It was in those days of cool summers that I fell in love with nature and the countryside, although as a city girl, I was scared of the pitch black nights.  It would take me 50 years before I would escape the city when my husband and I got a little barn in rural upstate New York.

As I sit recuperating from a recent illness, I ponder the turns my life has taken and wonder what lies ahead, not without fear, but with growing equanimity.

For memoir continuing the above click on:

“Eye-locks and Other Fearsome Things”

 


Electrified, Giggling Flowers, Talking Trees, and Thanksgiving with Visuals

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Mom told me one day why Dad’s African Violet plants in his office flourished.  “He talks to them,” she said.  “He teases them and tells them jokes.”  That was very Dad.  Once, on a trip to Gloucester, we sat eating breakfast and were admiring a rowboat on the front lawn, planted full to the brim with pansies.  Suddenly it began to rain.  Big drops fell on the pansies and my father insisted he could hear the pansies giggling.  It was then, I think, I thought about the interesting connection my father had with flowers.  Mr. Macho Dad had a soft spot for the flowering plants, well, more than a soft spot, a communication.
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He wasn’t the only one who spoke of these things.  I spent much time in grammar school at the house of my Polish friend whose mother was an artist.  She told us about trees talking and, she used to say, talking to them made her feel happy.  At the time I did not think much of it.  But now, many years later, on walks, occasionally a tree will say something.  Utter a benevolent greeting.  And now, I find myself so in love with trees, I shoot portraits of them constantly, singly or in groups, with their “friends and relations.” P1120427 copy

Any doubts I had about trees communicating were put to rest when I read in this paper, in J.Gordon Douglas’s column in the now defunct Dutchess CountyRegister Herald, about how trees in an area communicate with one another in planning their reproduction strategies for the season or warning each other chemically about caterpillar infestations.  Scientists are not sure how.  Maybe through the roots.

Not only do plants have feelings, they can also generate energy.  See the website by artist, Caleb Charland.  He used apple trees to generate light.  Perhaps one day we will use plants for alternative energy– just another amazing aspect to nature’s ways:

http://www.fastcoexist.com/1680497/turning-apples-into-alternative-energy-and-surreal-photographs?utm_medium=referral&utm_source=pulsenews#comments

Of course, hearing them “talk” is a little different.  However, Valerie Wormwood, one of the world’s leading aromatherapists, in her book entitled The Fragrant Heavens, tells us not only does the earth hum but it emits a low frequency radio signal known as the ‘Shumann resonance” and this signal can be detected coming off trees. She relays that researchers in America wanted to know if this signal could be altered by human thoughts or feelings.  They had a group of people circle a tree and say Native American prayers, sending the tree love.  They attached electrodes like those measuring human brain waves to the tree. A response not only registered but the sensors went off the scale.  Clearly some form of communication went on, confirming my Polish friend’s mother’s belief and many others as well. When trees are cut down we are not only destroying the tree we are cutting down and giving it a terminal sentence as firewood or worse, but we are also upsetting all the trees around the “victim.”  The surrounding trees must witness their friend and neighbor being chopped down.  Do they feel outrage, fear, sadness?

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We do know now that they feel something.  Wormwood tell us that in 1966 Cleve Backster, a lie detector expert in New York, had a group of students go into a room with 2 plants next to each other on a table.  One of the 6 students was chosen to “murder” one of the plants, hacking it to bits and then they all left the room.  After the attack Backster attached the lie detector to the “survivor” and had the students enter the room again one by one.  The sensors were quiet as the “innocent” students entered but when the “attacker” entered they started jumping “wildly.”  I think of this as I weed the gardens in the summer. Sometimes we are forced to cut down a tree and we must pick vegetables to eat.  And we have to weed the gardens.  But perhaps it is in how we do it.  If we can express gratitude and appreciation and maybe an apology.  Or if we could ask permission perhaps, as the Native Americans do.  When they take from the earth they give an offering as well. Scan10_edited-1

The Native Americans had the real idea for giving thanks, for thanksgiving.  It was not about stuffing oneself with sweet potatoes and gorging on gravy and turkey.  They gave Thanksgiving to Spirit in the earth, in the trees, in the animals, for whatever they took. Flowers “giggle” and trees “talk”.  If only we would be attuned enough to listen.  Sentient beings surround us and we must follow the lead of the Native Americans at Thanksgiving and give thanks for what we take from the earth, and, of course, from the animal kingdom, and give back something in return.  Even if it is only words, but words with heart behind them, words that understand the sacrifice made by sentient beings for us, words that capture the true spirit of Thanksgiving.


My Former Life

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In my former life I was a bee.

Why else would I keep sticking my nose

into the private, pollinated parts of flowers?

In my former life I was a turtle.

Why else would I hunch my shoulders

into a seeming shell, my back a carapace

to shield me from a sometimes dangerous world?

In my former life I loved thee.

How else could I account for my “knowing” you

from before the first time we met,

 for “seeing” the you in your inner depths?

Some would say  I risk damnation

for a belief in reincarnation.

Yet this answer satisfies me on so many levels

and requities my thirst, quieting my myriad of questions

that the old belief system did not.

Unpopular in the west,

woven into the fabric of life in the east

in which I clothe myself,  sewn by a strong affinity,

a strange familiarity,

attraction mystifies.

Most of us cannot remember

the details of the other lives,

and are left with fractured fragments of the past

glistening like sea glass in our hands, on the seashores of our minds,

trying to piece together a picture

of a previous existence.

Love is timeless and mysterious

and though I dread the inevitable,

the loss of our life together

in this life,

I know we will be together again in the next and the next

ad infinitium

for something as sacrosanct as our love

is eternal.


A Microcosm of the Macrocosm

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To see a cathedral in a flower,

 to be drunk with its nectar,

under an opalescent sky.

*

Infinity is our Home.  We are just sojourning awhile in the caravanserai of the body.”

Paramahansa Yoganada~

 

(Click http://www.independentauthornetwork.com/ellen-stockdale-wolfe.html  for information on, and to purchase my Bipolar/Asperger’s memoir.)

 


Starbursts

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Starlike

explosions of blue

with an

out of season

dusting of snow

a foretaste

of  the approach of winter

a sugary confection

one is tempted to ingest

a similar temptation

(I suppose)

as those tempted by coca.


A Wee Life

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Oh wee one

how I envy thee

trudging up and down

the raindrop slopes

of rain and nectar

safe within the confines

of radiant yellow

 succulent pink

in a self-contained

world of beauty

however short-lived thy life.


Heresay Hear Today

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In

sin

u

ation

over

what

Katy

did

or

didn’t

do

to

Dahlia

is

here

say

prattle

of

goss

i

ping

blooms

filled

with

en

vy