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:

October

It is an experience that I share with so many. My twin boys were due in October, but born in August, one a preemie — now a tall and gentle soul of a man — the other born still.

It is a powerful force that, all of these Octobers later, can still bury me in leaves of depression so thick it takes weeks to find my way out.

It is beautiful that this month of October, 2016, so far, has been kind to my head — the leaves gentle, graceful, and allowing the view of the clear blue sky.

It is precious that today I read for the first time that October is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month. This declaration was made on October 15, 1988, seven years to the day after my due date. The exact month and year that hell visited my head for the first time, only to continue on through every October.

Except not this year. Not as of October 18th, 2016.

It is a stunning show of grace that I now know that, should depression still visit this month or any month again, I can do it. I can look it in the face, embrace it, and love it, be it. No more resistance to the wisdom of the body. This woman-animal is willing to trust life, and to allow her native voice to speak its truth. Bring it on. Or don't bring it on. I am fine, either way.