The Door of My Heart

By choice I go through life with my heart wide open. Long ago I removed the hinges from the door of my heart and threw them and the door away. It was a strange and risky feeling at first. I argued with God about it, which I have a tendency to do at times. It seems that though I argue I usually do in the end surrender to the guidance I receive. I did in this case as well and actually went through the physical motions of it in a meditation and unscrewed each screw and threw all of it away. It was a powerful and unusual meditation and it changed my life.

I did have a question though, as I got used to the feeling. “It feels like it could just fall right out of my chest. What happens if it does?” The response I received was simple, “Good. Watch where it falls, for there love will grow in abundance.”

There wasn’t much argument I could make in the face of a statement like that. Instead I learned to not just live with it, but to enjoy the feeling of a wide open heart. A wide open heart is more in touch with the wonder of life, it can receive more freely when there is no door to knock on and conversely it can give more freely as well.

It wasn’t an easy thing to get used to though. There are times when the feeling of vulnerability was overwhelming. I had to learn to be really still with that feeling and move forward anyway knowing that I was safe, knowing that my heart was strong and trustworthy. It led to the learning that beneath and supporting my human heart was an unbreakable heart. A heart that was untouched by the things in life that made me feel vulnerable. A heart that knows the truth of who I am. A heart that is the place where the Divine resides with the human within me. I began to learn to live from that unbreakable heart.

There are lots of moments when I really wish I had something there to protect the oh so human heart though, and I certainly still forget to live from the unbreakable heart at times. There are times with that door gone, when it feels like someone or something can walk up and throw a hand grenade right in and blast the place apart. There are plenty of people I meet who don’t believe it’s genuine the way I live. I’ve learned to be still with that and let them get to know me and decide for themselves. I have even had moments of thinking about just replacing that dang door. Whenever I tried to put up a barrier in anyway though, it felt so unnatural and uncomfortable and quite frankly just not who I was anymore.

Despite the hand grenades occasionally chucked in, I wouldn’t live any other way now. And having that door gone is even helpful when the explosions come along – the fragments that get blasted loose don’t get lodged in the heart so easily. They fly free of the heart where I can see them better, where I can pick them up and honor them and release them. Not much fun at times I admit, but worth it at the end of the process (yes, I kid myself that there is an end to the process!).

The best part though is getting to share from my heart with no barriers, loving in a way I had not loved before – and that includes loving myself as well. Coming to know the heart that resides within me has been a great challenge and a great joy – a journey I would walk again in a heartbeat.

Gifts of the Leap

I’m a leaper. Truly, I have been all my life, though as an adult there was a time when leaping seemed more frightening than it does now. I’m just not one to sit on the edge of the nest or the cliff and choose to only look and not leap. Have I always launched into glorious flight? Well I guess technically yes, but some times I was only in flight for a few seconds before I plummeted and other times I took glorious flight to places unknown and had grand adventures. Other times I simply learned to glide gently to the ground so as to avoid that whole plummeting thing.

This morning on my walk I received a reminder about the times when my wings didn’t open in time or when the branch snapped as I leapt. As I was walking along the canal path I heard a loud crack and subsequent splash. I turned to see branches and leaves falling from a tree beside the path and ripples spreading out across the water. I then heard splashing sounds from the water followed by a scrambling sound coming up the bank. A soaking wet squirrel scurried up the bank and back up into the offending tree. I had never seen a squirrel fall before. I have often been amazed that they don’t fall more often given the tiny branches that sway and droop under the weight of their mighty leaps. This was a first. This squirrel was lucky I suppose to have fallen in water rather than upon pavement. Was the squirrel sitting there being grateful for that water that broke his fall? Probably not. Was the squirrel angry at the branch for breaking, for not supporting him? Probably not. Did the squirrel lament his drenched fur in the cool morning air? Probably not.

From the looks of it and the way the squirrel was clinging to the tree he was unharmed and back to the business of being a squirrel. The leap and subsequent fall had not changed much from his perspective. He was not injured. He was damp, but would dry. Clearly he had the power to deal with the consequences of the fall in his ability to swim after he hit the water. I doubt he would be afraid to leap again; after all he is a squirrel. I took a moment to honor him and his fall and apparent well being afterward and wish him well.

As I continued on I thought about how many falls I have lived through physically and emotionally. I have not been as lucky as that squirrel; some did leave physical or emotional marks. Yet, looking back there has always been water of some sort, usually in the form of those I love, to break the fall. I have always been able to make it back to the bank and scramble back up afterward. I admit that I have occasionally held onto anger at the branch for breaking or more often anger toward myself for forgetting how to fly. Of course, that became part of the lesson of leaping; forgiving and eventually gratitude for the fall. I also have to say that often my perspective has indeed changed after a fall, but that is the beauty of the gift of the leap, whether I take flight or fall, always I learn.

Most of all, I’m glad to say that I have always been willing to climb back out on the limb and leap again, knowing that falling and flying are both part of the journey. Thank you friend squirrel for the reminder.

Robin's Egg Blue

Inspired by a robin's egg this morning on my walk...

Robin’s Egg Blue
Lynda Allen

Upon the ground
a tiny mirror of the sky
Why so blue robin’s egg?
Does the sky find herself in you?
Or are you a reminder of potential,
of what lies beyond the fear of the first leap?
A delicate reflection of above
held gently in the arms of branches and twigs
feathers and grass.
A glimmer of the aching blue
that calls my soul to flight
each morning.

Now the flutter of wings
for me to find myself in,
Baby robin’s freedom
a reminder of my own.

Robin’s egg blue calls us home.

The Flow of Grace

There but for the Grace of God go I. That is a phrase that just never made sense to me. As if God would withhold Grace from another person and yet grant it to me. That never felt right, based on what I have come to know of God.

About six years ago, I started writing about Grace – frankly because I never could understand the concept and never found a description of it that made sense to me. In the midst of that writing and meditation process, it suddenly struck me that if I turned the phrase around it miraculously made more sense to me.

There but for I, goes the Grace of God.

There but for I! In my writing about Grace it seemed to me that Grace is something we all have access to, something we can all be a channel for. What then if the only thing stopping Grace from flowing freely in the world was me? There but for I, goes the Grace of God. What if that person who is “worse off than me” would feel the touch of Grace if only I would open my heart and allow it to flow through me? What if just by looking at them and acknowledging them as a fellow person, a fellow expression of Spirit, what if by that simple act I could touch them with Grace?

That moment of recognition, of shared connection could be all it takes for Grace to flow freely between the two of us. And then what if the truth were that in that moment, Grace was also flowing to me, I was not just giving, but in the act of giving, also receiving Grace? Wow.

What then if all it takes to change the world is one moment of Grace? How would I act then? How would I look at each person I pass or interact with? What if every single moment is an opportunity for Grace? What if it’s not? So what! If it’s not true then what harm can it do to practice Grace anyway? And if it is true, what unimagined beauty could it bring? I, for one, am more than willing to find out. There, through me, goes the Grace of God.

Morning Light

There is a gentleman I frequently see on my morning walks. Whenever I look up and see him down the street and know that our paths will cross, I smile to myself. I look forward to seeing him for one reason, well two really, his smile and his eyes. I think of it as one reason though, because the two go together. When he greets me with a smile, as he always does, his beautiful blue eyes light up. Yes, they light up enough that I can see the color of them as we pass in the street. I’m sure he doesn’t know that I look forward to seeing that light. I do though, because every time I see that sparkle, it reminds me of the light in myself. It’s as if each time I encounter that light in him my own light flickers in response.


I started to think about that on my morning walks. I always try to greet each person I pass on my way by looking them in the eye and smiling and saying hello. Sometimes they do the same and sometimes they do not. Once I passed a group of women walking together and one of them looked at me and said hello, one looked at the ground and said some sort of hello and the others didn’t acknowledge me at all. I didn’t take it personally, as they were having a conversation, but I did notice as I continued on that it did make a difference in some way. I realized that with just that small smile, moment of eye contact and hello the one woman was in some way acknowledging my existence. Not a validation, mind you, but simply a recognition of another being sharing the experience of this life. That moment made me sparkle more than the greetings or lack of greetings from the others. I was grateful to all of them though for the learning, because from that moment on I realized the importance of my morning walk and the greetings along the way. I knew I had the opportunity each time I saw someone (or even a bird, dog, flower or tree for that matter) to offer them a moment of recognition as an individual, a moment of sharing the journey and a reminder of their light by reflecting it back in my own smile, in my own eyes. I receive that gift so often on my walks from many people, what a joy to discover that I can give that gift in return. Perhaps I had been giving that gift all along, but now I could do it consciously.

I don’t know if that particular gentleman, or anyone I cross paths with on my walks, feels the gift they give or receive from a smile, but I will continue to gratefully give and receive them and enjoy the morning light that shines on me.

Vibrations

For my global family in Japan, where my thoughts and love have been since Friday...

Vibrations
by Lynda Allen

I don’t know where to begin
I haven’t words big enough
for the little things that are forever lost.
For the eyes that will never meet
for the jokes that will go untold
for hands not held
for curls not brushed aside
for laughter never heard
for love that will remain unspoken
What words for loss so vast?
They are shallow
compared to the depths
that reached such heights.
They are weak
compared to the strength
that shattered homes and hearts.
They are empty
compared to the fullness
of their grief.
No words,
only the cries of loss
echoing around the world.

I take up the echo
sent across the sea,
allow it to fill me
until I am with them
in their sorrow.
There I find the words,
floating among the debris,
heard amid the cries.
I turn and repeat the echo,
send it back as a new wave.
I love you.

That vibration stronger
than any other,
stronger than pain,
stronger than sorrow
stronger than the ache
of feeling alone.
Strong enough to bring
pieces back together
to heal broken lives
to bring the memory of hope.
Strong enough to raise up
what was brought low.
Strong enough to be felt
through the loneliness.
The vibration of love,
the tremor felt round the world.
Let me be the epicenter.

Lessons of the Emptiness and the Fullness

Like many people I’ve been watching the river this week, but I watch her often. For me she is Mother River. I can’t begin to accurately describe the serenity I find on her banks or the myriad lessons I’ve learned by simply being still at her side.

This week the lesson I learned was about emptiness and fullness. I didn’t realize that was why I had gone to see her yesterday though. I simply went because I had been feeling called to and someone at the bus stop that morning had reminded me of her. So off I went to see how high the water was and to enjoy the peace despite the little bit of chill in the air and the gray skies.

For about a week I have been going through a process of emptying out, emotionally and spiritually. It’s a process that I am working with in general this year, being empty and refilling. The empty part has been challenging. It is not easy to be still with emptiness because it feels like loss at first. Yet, I’m discovering that is not what it is at all.

The first time I went through the process last month I spent a week experiencing intense feelings of separation, from people, from my Source. It was a real challenge. I had been given a gift before that week began though, a glorious moment of oneness spent with a Great Blue Heron that served as a reminder to me that the feelings of separation I was feeling were just that, feelings, not the truth. It is a delicate difference and yet made all the difference that week as I returned to remembering my truth that I can never truly be separate from my Source. In the end, what I found in the stillness of the emptiness was an incredible sense of joy.

This month the initial feelings were similar though slightly different. It was more a feeling of being alone. I know that sounds the same as separate, but it didn’t feel that way. The gift I received to help me through it this time was an opportunity last week to share a story with my daughters from when I was 18 years old. It was a soft, quiet moment that changed my life. At the time I was feeling more alone than I ever had before (including all the drama of that feeling that goes along with being 18!). I had some pretty good reasons at the time because I had moved away from all I knew, all I had grown up with, the summer before I headed off to college, lots of major changes. I was feeling a great deal of despair one night and I looked out the window of my room and through the branches of the trees there was a star. I had seen it there before out my window but in that moment I knew it was there for me. Because the light of that one star brought me a knowing that as lonely as I might be feeling, I was not alone, I was never alone. That moment changed my life and I knew from that moment forward that I would never be alone. Having just told my daughters about that night, served as a reminder to me this week when I was in the midst of feelings of being alone and empty.

Please don’t misunderstand me, I am willingly going through this process of being empty and full in a spiritual sense. It is a great learning for me this year and I am grateful for the opportunity and the gifts I am receiving to help me through it.

As I went to Mother River yesterday to sit in the stillness of the emptiness, she showed me something. The water between her banks was still quite high from the rains of previous days and I knew more rain was coming that would raise her levels even higher. What she helped me realize as I sat there watching her, was that she felt the same to me despite the rushing waters. The essence of her, her spirit, felt the same even though she was very full. I then thought about the times I have sat beside her when water was scarcer and realized she felt the same then too. The difference had been in her physical expression only; her essence remained the same whether she was empty or full. Honestly, I was stunned by the realization. It was so simple and yet for me so profound and until that moment I had not seen it. I am in constant awe of the lessons she willingly teaches if I simply listen and observe.

This morning I remembered something else about my times with Mother River when she was empty. Last summer we were able to wander to places we could not normally reach when she is full. In those places we found great treasures that we would not have found if she had not been empty. So this week I am deeply grateful to Mother River and for the treasures found in the emptiness as well as the fullness.