Life as a Dog

I try to learn from Dharma and Rumi. Neither of them takes things personally or cops an attitude toward the other when sat upon, stolen from, or made to go second for dinner or treats. I try to put this into practice when someone cuts in front of me in traffic and when Michael doesn't do what I used to think he should do. There are endless possibilities for exploring this practice of not taking things personally. Will I know that I have achieved a good level of it when I come back as a dog?

What I Really Was (Am)

(with Gratitude to Elias, Various Nondual Teachers, and Wonderful Friends)

Dear Carol,
Today I read some of your journals,
your scribbled print, non-linear dates,
incomplete thoughts, moments of clarity and immense joy
and, often, disturbing searches for peace to fill the vacuum
you thought you were.

You thought you were.

You thought you were required
to be what you weren't
before you'd be worthy
to be.

You thought you were special and damaged and right and wrong and,
if you only did more
yoga poses,
meditation,
reading of wise books,
and saying of smart things,
you would no longer be what
you thought you were.

Dear Carol,
When I read some of your journals today,
your scribbled print, non-linear dates,
incomplete thoughts, moments of clarity and immense joy
and, often, disturbing searches for peace to fill the vacuum
you thought you were,

I knew the words were not
the clean white sheets
of paper,
and it was so very obvious
that old beliefs rehearsed quite often
never touched the clear beauty of

what you are.

Love,

Love

The Day the Sun Never Rose

Dear Dear Friends,

I'm typing on Michael's laptop in a small house we have rented for three nights. To get here, you drive through Moab's congestion of bikers, campers, and jeeps pulling ATV-loaded trailers, head south out of town, and don't fall off the road that hugs a cliff. Here, silence. Here I can forget that anyone exists except Michael and me. Oh, and the bird nesting outside the window. A western kingbird, I believe. Its light yellow belly and tendency to hover and dive lead me to believe this, though I am not a birder, and I could be wrong.

We got up early today. 3:45 a.m. All was utter darkness.Three hours of sleep due to snoring, heat, and windows whistling with wind. Our goal: to drive to Canyonlands to watch—and photograph—the sunrise on Mesa Arch.

By the time we reached the arch, a little after 5:00, the slightest hints of light illumined the clouds blanketing the sky, and we, along with about forty other hearty sun-worshippers, had high hopes that we would not only witness, but also capture on disk for all posterity, sunrise's iconic orange glow on Mesa Arch. People jockeyed for position. We waited. Sand blew in eyes, mouths, and expensive cameras. We shivered. We hoped the clouds would part. We waited more. And on this day, the sun never rose. Well, that's not quite true. I believe it did rise, but it never showed its face. The arch never oranged.

We walked back to the car in muted daylight, and that's when we saw in the landscape a rainbow of color, previously invisible during our dark walk to the arch. Purple lupine, white evening primrose, and some sweet, yellow flower, whose name I do not know, littered the desert sands. It was glorious. But too bad we hadn't seen the sunrise oranging up the Mesa Arch.





Now, post-nap, as I type this from the small house we have rented for three nights, my eye keeps catching Ms Kingbird flitting in and out of her nest.Through every window, beige rock formations can be seen guarding the land. All is silent, except the sounds of wind whistling through the window and Michael preparing dinner. We have no photos of the sunrise oranging up the Mesa; we have no goals. This day has been perfect.

Love

Carol

All Decked in New Greenery

It's Springtime,

and she's all decked in new greenery,

            designed by this cool, gray-skied

                        artist named April Showers  who arrived late,

in May.  She's never been one for calendars.

Thinking I wouldn't need them—

after all, it is May— I'd put away my sunshine glasses,

            good for warding off any darkness

                        that might come creeping in on a day like this,

                        so when you told us that guilt has nearly drowned him

            because he failed to stop her            

from drinking herself to death, I couldn't tell

whether it was rain or tears soaking

my cheeks. Oh, precious friends, we

cannot

            stop

                        this

                                    rain,

and surely we would if we could,

            being the sun-worshippers that we are.

                        Dry shelter is all we have to offer.  

                       

I wanted to hold you, to let your pain

            be diluted in both our tears. But you were across

                        the room, and this was not the time.

           

Maybe he thought that, too, the day

            she drank herself into springtime,

                        all decked in new greenery.

Carol Barrow

May, 2016

Lambs at School

Sheep dot the hill above the school where children yell. And play and learn. Around me, basketballs fly like popcorn, and jump ropes crack against blacktop.

I am overwhelmed. By silent, wooly innocence on the hill, contrasted with schoolyard voices raining down like a thunderstorm this spring day.  By the heart of that teacher over there — so obviously adored by happy little lambs of unchained energy and potential.

That teacher is of my body. I've known her since before time.  And, yet, I meet her new today, watching her confidently shepherd her flock from playground to classroom.  Her long chestnut hair plays with the breeze, she moves with ease. She is in her element, loving, teaching, providing  ground for the profound journey each child must take alone with the help of so many, including...

My daughter, the teacher. Sleepless nights spent dreaming of you, rocking you, waiting up for you, worrying about you, and mostly loving you. It all led to this day. This day of sheep and lambs and pride and love so big it can't be held. And I am broken. Wide open. In one of the best ways possible.


Carol Barrow
April, 2016

Homecoming

"I invite you to the world of no past. It's the only sane place to be." 

- Byron Katie

If you aren't familiar with Byron Katie's work, you may think that she is insane when she offers quotes like the one above. Maybe she is. We might investigate.

This past week, something inspired me to do a Google search for the leader of the cult I joined not too long before I turned eighteen. Wham! I hit the jackpot! I found a website that's been up for a couple of years. It was created by two ex-cult members who thought that maybe they could connect with others who had been wooed by the cult leader at a young age when people are ripe for such things,  .

Because of that website, I have now had phone conversations with Gary and with Chuck — men who were good friends, oh, about forty years ago.

A couple of days after finding these friends, a different man sent me a friend request on Facebook. He was in my life even earlier than the ex-cult members. He, my high school boyfriend of two years, was someone who helped set in motion my road to Cultville. Shortly after high school graduation I called Rick's house, and his younger sister answered the phone. "Is this Carol or Sharon?" she asked. I had heard of Sharon before, but I didn't worry about her. Now I understood why Rick hadn't been very available for awhile. My friend and I gathered every album and stuffed animal that Rick had ever given me, loaded them into my car, and dropped them all on Rick's porch while he watched and said nothing. At that time, I felt that I couldn't share with anyone the exquisite pain that radiated from my heart throughout my body, so in my brokenness I befriended anorexia.

The next spring, I found love in the cult.

Only there wasn't much love there. Mostly rules and control.

All of this reunioning over the last few days has been fascinating, and it's given me the opportunity to look at ways I still live in a cult mentality without actually belonging to a cult. There are many ways people do this. My preferred (and painful) cult drug is living my days feeling like I'm auditioning for a part in the play of life, trying to be good enough to not be left out when all the parts are given out. I'm beginning to understand that the casting director isn't who I thought it was.

I'm also exploring my feelings about Rick, and, in typical Byron Katie lingo I ask, "How do I feel when I look at a photo of a 61 year old man, and I believe that he hurt me?" Who would I be without that thought? Who would I be if I looked at the photo of 61 year old Rick and saw a nice-looking man who I don't know? Because the truth is that I don't know him. Is it fair to anyone to think we know them other than in this fresh moment?

Today I removed the mulch that had accumulated in the daisy bed in our front yard. Brown, brittle maple leaves - remnants of summer past - were blocking the light, not allowing it to get through so that the daisies could do what daisies do best - grow and blossom. Letting go of thoughts that create a "world of past" is kind of like that, isn't it? It lets us do what we do best — grow and blossom. We can only do that in the present. Maybe the world of no past is a sane place to be.