Futures

I am noticing how much I live in the future, even when the future is only a few minutes or hours away.

I am cleaning today because I use visitors as my excuse for keeping things nice and orderly around here. Normally, I don't mind a little dog hair or a few piles of books and papers. But when someone will be coming over, well, I guess I have my pride.

So as I pull out the vacuum, instead of just rolling it out into the living room, paying attention to its weight against my arms and how it picks up the thread a dog freed from a rope, I realize that I'm thinking about what needs to be cleaned before my friend arrives. What's next? What's next? What did I forget? What's next?

THERE IS NO NEXT!

This is it, baby! Enjoy!

Time Out

For the last month, I have cut myself off from about 95% of the news. I am not anti-news, and I am not against being informed. I just can't find the benefits to being the recipient of harsh events, usually slanted in a way I may not even be aware of, dished out to the public over and over and over. When something awful happens, we are exposed to commentary, video, and sound bites many times over the next few hours or days, until something else grabs the media's attention so they can dump that on us again and again. The nervous system was not created to handle such deluges. And when we are helpless to do anything, when the event takes place somewhere across the country or world, the helplessness we feel can be another whammy slamming us.

Even though we don't have a television in our home, and I don't listen to any radio that gives the news, I still know most of what is going on in the world (the internet makes sure of that). I just don't have to be repeatedly exposed to it.

I had set out to avoid news for the month of September. I figured that everyone else in the world could take care of the big things for a month while I focused on what was happening more close to me. It's not like we can't help the world if we don't stay on top of the news.

Now that it is October and my thirty day trial is over, I find I actually have even less desire to open myself up to receiving constant — or even sporadic — news. But for some reason, my phone decides on its own to alert me to certain breaking stories. It does this once, sometimes twice, a week. And this morning, the first thing I read was about the shootings in Las Vegas.

When I read about the shootings, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I immediately held myself and listened to my sadness. Then I told myself, "I am here for you. I will always be here for you."

With a history of not being available to myself, always believing that I needed to put myself aside for others, and letting myself down by offering near-constant criticism and harshness, I am noticing how kind it feels to finally know that I will do the most loving thing for myself. And from that full place of knowing that someone has my back, someone cares, I am able to open my heart as fully as possible to others. 

I don't think I could have found this space of peace and tenderness while in the midst of being thrown about by the media's stories. And aren't peace and tenderness qualities so very needed in this world?

In These Times

"One person,... one person of integrity, can make a difference, a difference of life and death." 

- Elie Wiesel

When our leaders don't lead in the direction of our own moral compass, we have the opportunity to rise to leadership, lighting the way in kindness and unity. As Glennon Doyle says, "We are made for these times." Leadership begins right here.

You who are reading this blog right now... Thank you for being a voice of wisdom in this world that needs to hear that voice. 

May You be the Best You You can Muster

A friend of ours who lives in the eastern part of our country wrote about his fear and how hard he's finding it to process the events that occurred in Charlottesville, Virginia yesterday — the gathering of neo-Nazis and the hatred and violence that came with that.

Here is my reply:

It must be hard to be so close to do many boiling pots. You probably feel the tension around you.

I watched live video of the brawl yesterday, and it was stressful. I wondered what I would do if that action was taking place here.

I can't know that answer until it's not a hypothetical question, but the only kind actions I saw were from those who helped people who were suffering after being maced or hit. And then there were people who helped the injured after the car plowed through. Maybe if something like that happens here, I will go to help those who need it. But there would probably be others doing that, like there were yesterday, and they might not need more bodies in the craziness.

I value kindness. I don't value fear, but it comes sometimes. So I focus on what I value, and I go there. What others do is none of my business. It's my business to live in kindness. Cancer has taught me a lot about what is my business. I can't do a thing about cancer or how Michael is dealing with it. My work is to be kind, and I've seen how fear has gotten in the way of that. This racism is a cancer. It is not new, but the symptoms are more evident right now. I can't do a thing about the cancer of racism that has been here since the beginnings of this country, and I can't change how people act upon their beliefs. I can only focus on kindness.

You are a kind person. That is what we need. We don't need fear or retaliation. We don't need to lose our heads when those around us are already doing a good job of that.

Have you seen the Wavy Gravy Movie: Saint Misbehavin'?  We watched it the other night. I loved it, and recommend it. One of many things I got from it: He says this beautiful, sweet prayer, and he ends it with "and help me be the best Wavy Gravy I can muster."

May I be the best Carol I can muster. May I love, even when — especially when — it breaks my heart to do so.

Thus I end my sermon for this beautiful Sunday morning, with birdsong out my window and the sound of dog paws on wood floors outside my bedroom door.

Remembrance Dawns

Early morning rain; 
creates soft, gentle light, and
I am reminded how still 
you are,
offering up 
your warm lap. 
Ever here, 

you sing "Come,
come, rest your constant
worries and need for doing.
Snuggle your cheek 
against my chest. I will 
tell you stories
of the many ways
I've loved you 
since before time." 


- Carol Barrow, July, 2017

And We Danced

We moved most of the furniture out of our living room and into our screened-in porch, rolled up the rug, hiding it in the garage. We looked through all of the music Michael has collected, and chose the best dance songs, trying to cover varied tastes. We had already sent the invitations. They carried this quote: 

"While I dance I can not judge, I can not hate, I can not separate myself from life.  I can only be joyful and whole. 

This is why I dance." 

- Hans Bos

Then, some of the most glorious people on the planet showed up. And we danced. We could not judge or hate or separate ourselves from life. We could only be joyful and whole.

It was beautiful.

Starstruck

With sticky, putty-like stuff, I stuck glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling above my bed. A year or so ago, I had bought these stars for a creative endeavor, but my idea hadn't worked out. Last week I decided I either needed to throw them away or put them on the bedroom ceiling.

At night I look at these stars and wish that I was motivated enough to stand on the bed and move some of them. That one would look better over there. I don't like the pattern those four make. But I don't get up. I leave the stars where they are. I could form a constellation with them, but I'm not all that interested in that. I wonder if God debated the location of each of his stars.

I remember waking during the first night of my first wilderness quest. Alone out in the silent desert, I looked up at the bits of light strewn across the immense night sky, and I wept. Until that moment, I hadn't realized how much ceilings, windows and walls separated me from life. As I took in the silent hugeness of the night, I remembered who I was — a creature connected to all life. I wept in sadness for all the years of forgetting, and in gratitude for that moment of remembering.

My last quest was in 2011, and I have not slept outside since. The stars above my bed, though a fun addition to a blank ceiling, have no depth, no life. They don't inspire awe. I sleep surrounded by walls and windows, under a roof that holds in the heat. We animals are not made for this.

Excuse me. It's dark out, and though the city lights remove all but the brightest of stars from my view, I think I need to go listen to the night sky and, once again, remember my place in this universe.

Singing Beauty

Songbird sings its wake up song 

outside my window the morning

after news reports informed the world

that we had bombed a country whose

refugees we refuse. Do we dare

sing our song when so many 

suffer? Yes, we sing beauty 

even more, like a mother 

tenderly soothing her sick child.

Carol Barrow

April, 2017

innocence

child-like joyful innocence
hides beneath the storied 
costumes of adult, soldier, politician.
we get caught up in our stories

and forget what is real.
all there is, is This,
right now, woman types
on keyboard, furnace hums 
its song, words are read,
thoughts are thought

innocence loves this moment
stories want more
more excitement
more purpose
more attention
more gadgets
more friends
more comforts
more
more 
more

child-like joyful innocence
hides beneath the storied costumes.
let's undress and dance
see? we're safe 
and huge 
and free



Carol Barrow
March, 2018

Seven and a Half Hours

My eyes open slowly to the day's sun. I look at the clock.

6:10 a.m. My last memory slowly arrives. I was turning off the light.

10:40 p.m.           Where have I been for the last seven and a half hours?

This body was resting in bed, eyes closed, brain for the most part

turned off. That is what I've been told.

I can't prove it.     Where have I been for the past seven and a half hours?

As far as I'm concerned. I have not been. I have not been

anything. Between lamp and sun, there was no I. In no

I, I rested.        But if there was no I, what was there to rest?

This body, surely.

And the need to be someone. This

is the lusciousness offered in sleep: we give up,

we surrender, and our thoughts of selfness vanish. This

is the lusciousness offered when we shed our roles and walk

naked into the day, welcoming without opinion

all that comes.

Carol Barrow

March, 2017

Imaginations

What is "past"?
Can I find "future"?
I look at You 
in the golden morning light, Your 
silent stillness in which 
waking bird songs sing, 
distant traffic hums, 
a dog yells "wake up!"
This now-ness is alive;
There is nothing else. 
Your immediacy opens each moment 
like a rose,
like this breath 
giving way to 
this one, 
now to this one.
Ahhhh...
We are so here, 
together, 
now.
I can't find time 
for imaginations of 
things 
that 
don't 
exist.


Carol Barrow
March, 2017

First Thing in the Morning

I listen.
I listen and wait.
                      I wait.

Silence welcomes day's first light
lapping at my bedroom window.

Skin nests into soft sheets, blanket's weight
snuggles the curve of my back.

Air generously offers itself to every breath
and caresses my cool cheeks.
A thought comes, followed by another.

I remember to listen.
I listen and wait.
Listening listens.
Waiting waits.

Heart beats,
breath breathes.

You are the stillness 
                   inside me, 
                        around me.
I am newly born.

I love these quiet moments with you.


Carol Barrow
March, 2017

Missing You

He was my first love. A skinny, long-haired guy who I dated throughout my junior and senior years of high school. For the last forty-four years neither I nor anyone I knew had any idea whether or not he was even still alive. But last summer he found me on Facebook, and a couple of weeks ago we met for lunch. Over the two hours we spent together, I felt like I found some missing pieces of myself. Still, forty-four years changes things, and if it weren't for common memories, I would have sworn I was meeting a stranger. He had grown up, carrying a responsible position in a large corporation for more than three decades. He was confident. A man.

The "letter" below is written to the beloved who was once my long-haired boyfriend. It's written to the loss of innocence and youth, And it's written to the Beloved who shows up as boyfriends, girlfriends, grown-ups, trees, the sky, everything. So often we forget Who it is that stands right in front of us.

Dear Beloved,

Where were you when I showed up at the deli according to our plans? A nice-looking man told me he was you, but I wasn't sure I should believe him. He was much older than I had imagined, didn't have the mannerisms I expected. Still, I decided to stay and chat. He was friendly. And kind. A lot like you.

We talked for two hours and shared memories that no one else could know. Did you school him on our past? I swear there were times when a familiar look in his brown eyes made me feel at home, and I considered the possibility that the person before me was you wearing him as a disguise. 

With one last bit of hope, I searched for you in the touch of this stranger as we hugged goodbye. I truly wanted to believe it was you. I put my arms around him, breathed in his scent, and felt his cheek next to mine. But my senses found nothing familiar. I had been right all along. You were not there.

I'm grateful you sent such a kind and generous representative. That was a sweet tease. But the next time we make plans, I hope it will be you who shows up. I miss you so much.

Love

Carol

That Might Keep Us Very Busy

A man yells "Get out of my country" before he kills
his brother wearing skin a different shade.
A witness tries to stop him, acts so unafraid
we call him hero,
though he says he did what anyone would do.

I say his act was love.

I say let's spread love by naming it.

Love keeps drivers in their lanes, calls 911
when mistakes are made. Love adopts
the child loved enough to be let go. It flies the sparrow,
grows the corn, and rains the reservoirs full.

Love is a wind clearing the air, promises
kept, an old woman's prayer. Love
is the sun and the quiet of night. Love
for a country can lead one to fight those
who love peace and basic human rights.

I'm not saying it's easy to find love
in the man yelling poison, or the senator
erasing rights of young girls and boys; I'm
just saying as long as we're keeping score,
dividing our lives into what is good
and what's abhorred, let's play fair
and spend our days noticing
all the love that comes our way.

Let's spread love by naming it.

That might keep us very busy.



Carol Barrow
March, 2017

Waking Up

Realizing that sharing my daily writings here means that some readers receive an email each day, I have decided that after today, I will reduce my postings to two or three times a week. I hope the daily emails haven't been too much.





I am frightened.
The days feel darker than 
this February weather.
Questioning if I am enough
for the challenges before me,
I tell you my troubles,
my worries, 
my fears — you 
are so kind to listen like this.

My stories fall through you
like snowflakes through air, melting
into the warmth of your bosom. 
You don't see my problems, but 
you hold me, anyway, 
singing sunshine songs
to wake me up.



Carol Barrow
February, 2017

Arguments

I am giving up these useless arguments,
thrown at you when I think I know better.
You offer no resistance as I take a swing
and fall to the ground
looking around to see if anyone has noticed.
It's really quite embarrassing.
After all this time, it would seem that I would realize
you've been you throughout eternity
while I am young in this moment.
Let me make amends 
for my rascally know-it-all ways.
Will you accept my heart as recompense?
It is broken, but wholly yours. 



Carol Barrow
February, 2017

Oh!

You are everything. I,
in my expectations,
have often failed to notice. I
thought you were your lipstick,
the way you walked, and your hair. You
are so much more. And yet,
you are no thing at all. I
get lost in you, yet 
in you I am more me. 
Oh! I am you. 

Carol Barrow
February, 2017

Q & A

Q: Beloved, what am I to do when the ways of the world hang heavy in my heart?

A:  Love is the light that illumines heaviness. Turn your head. Love is hiding in plain sight.


- Carol Barrow
February, 2017

Everything

These thoughts of mine, 
they keep trying to figure out
if you are really everything, 
and if you are everything, 
  why you would show up as 
  a murderer,
  a ravaging disease, 
  or the man who's leading our country?

But then you say my name, 
and I turn to you. 
Your love envelops me,
and I forget my questions. 

Carol Barrow
February, 2017

A Lovely Day

I'm curious. 

You are everywhere,  
  but sometimes I don't notice. 
You speak to me in many ways, 
  but I get caught up in thought 
and forget to listen.

Do you take it personally 
when I leave you out of my social circles 
and go on as if you aren't here?

Ah, yes, that's right. 
     You are impossible to miss!  
My every thought and action is yours. 
     You are all there is. 

Well, then, 
let's have a lovely day together. 


Carol Barrow
February, 2017

Blessings

What blessings, 
these moments 
when I stop my busyness 
and invite you to visit. 

What? 
    You are always here? 
           How is it I don't notice? 

Right now, your touch is sweeter 
than the most enticing thoughts 
that could come my way. Let's 
stop all this talk and 
lie in each other's arms. 

Oh! I want to do this more often! 



Carol Barrow
February, 2017

Last Night

Last night I held you. It was

as if I were holding nothing. That

 may sound crazy — some would say

it's an insult — but I loved your

lightness, your lack of need to be

something staking a claim to my

somethingness. In your nothingness,

you invite me. And I accept your

invitation. I want to fall into

your silent space, to be the ease

that is you, that is me before this

story I just thought up.

Carol Barrow
Feb, 2017

Remembering

Oh, how I can count on You.

            You are the light

that breaks the darkness,

and the darkness that woos me into rest.

            Your love is the only constant

on which I can rely.

            I hear you've been doing this

for millennia. So how is it that

            I am able to forget You

                        for even a moment,

when each day all I need

is given me as if I were

the most celebrated queen?

           

Thank you, my love,

            for each heartbeat,

                        the air that gives this body life,

                                    the sun that grows us all,

                                                and water to quench our thirst.

            Most of all, thank You

for Love from which Life comes.

            I am because You are.



Carol Barrow
Feb, 2017

Beloved

A short while ago, I realized that it wasn't long after waking each morning before I would remember the state of our country, then I would feel a heavy sense of dread. This dread — or something like it — is a common feeling for many of us these days. But it isn't useful to dwell there every moment (maybe not at all), and it doesn't help the larger situation when we are in a place that is quiet and safe but we continue to be on high alert.

So each morning I have begun having conversations with God (or whatever you want to call her — I sometimes use the name "Beloved"). I write these conversations down, and I am going to start posting them here. They may not be helpful for anyone but me. My only hope is that, if you find yourself feeling the heaviness, maybe you will discover a practice to help you to stay light and clear at this time when we so need light and clarity.

Here is my conversation from Day One:


Beloved, I wake early,
and look around. You 
are nowhere to be found. I 
pull the covers over my head. 
The world is too dangerous 
without you.
In here alone, beneath the warmth
of blankets, all is still.
What? Is that you, Beloved? 
Ahhh. 
I feel your breath
breathing me, 
your stillness is my joy.
Silly you for hiding
in the last place I'd ever look!


Carol Barrow,
Feb, 2017

Taking a Gander at Thought, Goose, and Gander

With lights turned low, music turned high, they danced, each of them carried by a current of sound. She closed her eyes and released any resistance, letting arms, spine, hips, and legs be owned by God's breath. Nothing else was happening.

Suddenly his voice entered the current, and instead of just floating past and letting it be, she stopped in an eddy of thought. "How dare he interrupt this flow?"

Turning to him, she admitted, "I don't like my thoughts when you talk." That honest moment dispelled clouds of judgment. The sky broke open in laughter.

***

With the sun hanging low, silence turned high, they walked the streets, each of them pulled by dogs with leashes of purple or green. She released any resistance, letting arms, spine, hips, and legs be owned by God's breath. Nothing else was happening.

Suddenly the sound of goose debates entered the scene, getting louder and louder. She stopped to watch, her head falling back to view feathered underbellies moving through the blue sky above.

Turning to him, she offered, "Birds, like thoughts, move through spaciousness, never hanging around, just here for a moment. I'm so very grateful for that for if it weren't so, we would all be hidden in layers of worn-out thoughts and the shit of goose and gander.



Carol Barrow
February, 2017

Upon Seeing Video of My Friend in the Wind

thirty-five to forty mile per hour winds
with gusts
her hair looked like 
it would blow off her head
i told her
your cares all blew away
she seemed fine without them

we hold our cares
so close
we hold on tight
so they won't blow out of our heads
i tell you
i want my cares to blow away
i think i'll be fine without them

Lessons from a Tiny Tree

Lessons from a Tiny Tree

Leave your gifts

with no tag announcing "to" or "from."

Don't solidify yourself as the giver

because, without the whole world's help,

what would you have to give? Joy can be offered

in the least likely places. Let it shine through

your being like rays from the sun. You never know who

might need to find a hidden treasure today.

Carol Barrow

January, 2017

Do You Hear What I Hear?

I have resurfaced after four months of intense study and writing in preparation for a teleconference talk I gave mid-December.

I had never given an hour-long talk before. I had given very few talks of any length or kind. When I accepted the offer to speak, it was not because I believed I had an hour's worth of words in me, and it wasn't because I felt confident about my ability to create and offer a talk. My willingness came from two things. One, I had been going deeply into a practice of listening and I thought it might be helpful for others. Two, I knew that this would be a good stretch for me.

The months of practice and preparation were intense and beautiful. I am grateful for the fact that I had the time to invest in such a life-changing experience.

I named my talk, Do You Hear What I Hear? It was about "pure listening." I see pure listening to be not only a practical skill in our world, especially in these times, but also a practice that helps to reveal our natural essence. 

My definition of pure listening: 

Pure listening is putting down our agendas, our need to be right, our need to be anything, opening ourselves to the fullness of life. We open to receive not only the words of others, but also the sensations in our bodies, and the messages from our environment. 

We receive these messages purely, as they are offered, without piling on our opinions and reactions, listening to what shows up in the moment. And this listening happens through our whole being.

I often refer to listening as whole being pure listening because we receive messages through all of our senses. So, when I speak of pure listening, I'm not limiting the listening to just the hearing of sounds through our ears. 

French philosopher, Jean Klein said it much more succinctly when he said, "Listening has no center, it is multi-dimensional welcoming.” 

If you would like to listen to my talk, you can do that here: