A Wish on a Shooting Star

The tradition is to make a wish on a shooting star. Well I do have a wish to make, but not on your traditional shooting star from the heavens. It’s more related to the kind of shooting star referenced in the Bad Company song by the same name. The lyrics keep running through my head, Don’t you know that you are a shooting star – And all the world will love you just as long – As long as you are – A shooting star.

I don’t really get into the whole celebrity culture thing, though admittedly I did when I was younger with posters of U2 and Sting in my room.  And there aren’t a whole lot of TV shows I get hooked on anymore. However, my daughters did get me to start watching Glee a few years ago. For me it’s kind of like the Breakfast Club in TV form, where all the misfits (even the popular ones) find a place to be themselves and feel accepted.  Only in Glee, they sing about everything.  It’s a fun show that we like to watch together.

As you probably already know, one of the “stars” of Glee, Cory Monteith, recently died due to a combination of drugs and alcohol. He was 31 years old. For me it also brought to mind the death of River Phoenix, an incredibly talented actor who also died young. I remember feeling so sad at his death.

It set me to wondering about these shooting stars. Of course we will never know exactly what drove them to the choices they made and I know that no one forced them to do the things that they did, but I do wonder about this celebrity culture we have created and where our responsibility lies. I believe it’s worth thinking about. I also wonder about the loved ones they left behind.  

So here’s the wish (wishes really) I would make on Cory’s shooting star. I wish for a culture where we don’t put you on a pedestal. I wish for a world where just because you are a well-known actor, we don’t make you out to be more than just the human being with normal human feelings that you are. I wish we didn’t make it so easy for you to have access to the things you can take that will hurt you. Because I’m willing to bet that our overcrowded prisons are not overcrowded with the people who sell drugs to celebrities or with the doctors who give them prescriptions for things they might not really need. I wish we had a justice system that actually held you accountable for your actions, rather than letting you off easy the first 50 times. I wish that we held ourselves accountable for the pedestals we put you on, and for the way we treat you in public, as if you owed us something just for being famous. Most of all Cory, I wish we didn’t overvalue you and your beautiful self, so that you could come to know how much value your life has all on your own. Perhaps then, you might still be with us today to continue shining that bright light of yours. Finally, I wish I never have to make this wish again.

Negative Space

Just last week I completed my training as a volunteer at Mary Washington Hospice. I sat in on a writing group that is available to those who are grieving. Little did I know that this week one of the writing topics for the group would become so personal.

It’s not so much an empty chair, as an empty spot in the circle. It’s not really even a circle anymore, because there is a hole where she used to sit.

Now I truly understand what they mean by negative space in art. Wikipedia defines it as, “the space around and between the subject(s) of an image. Negative space may be most evident when the space around a subject, and not the subject itself, forms an interesting or artistically relevant shape, and such space is occasionally used to artistic effect as the "real" subject of an image.”

In this case, that hole in the circle, that negative space truly is the “real” subject of the image in my mind. It is an image of a school room lit by sunlight with a carpet at one end for sitting upon when it’s time to gather and share, or for sitting upon when it’s time to work.  It is an image of a safe space where children are the focus and where teachers are friends and guides, partners in learning. It is an image that includes my young daughter’s face either intense with concentration or filled with the excitement of having learned something new that she wants to show me. It is an image of a peaceful place of learning. Before this week, in that image there was a dedicated woman, a dedicated teacher offering the gift of a lifetime of joy in learning. The unexpected and tragic loss of her life is what now creates the negative space in the image of that circle in my mind.

Due to the sadness I feel, I’m tempted to label the space negative in the sense that negative is bad. However, I can’t label the space that way due to the woman that used to sit there. What she left behind is much too positive for that. She was gentle and giving, patient and kind. In truth that space where she used to sit isn’t empty at all. It is filled with the love she gave, it is filled with the lessons she taught, it is filled with the laughter of children, the excitement of learning to read, the joy of friendship. That space is positive because it still radiates the love she offered to so many children, it still radiates the joy of learning that she instilled. The circle is complete after all, despite the ache I feel.

For Miss Sibylle

July 3, 2013

It's a Wonderful Life

There are moments when I am overcome with wonder at the incredible array of life on this planet. It is simply breathtaking. Have you ever looked at the blossom on a mimosa tree? It’s a thing of beauty and so unique with its look of puffy softness, created by hundreds of tiny fingers of color reaching for the light. Or the colors and patterns on a turtle’s shell, different on each turtle. Miraculous! The variety of shades of green and blooms in our garden is mind blowing! The heck with those shades of gray, have you ever really looked at trees or the grass or a garden and seen how many shades of green there are? I think Crayola could do a box of 64 just for green.

Then there are the birds! I recently did some birding with my sisters and going through the bird identification book made me laugh. Identifying them depends upon the slightest variation in color on the head or curve in the beak or length of the legs. And it was true, there could be two white birds wading through the water in front of us and one could be a snowy egret and the other a great egret or even an immature little blue heron, and don’t even get me started on the sandpipers and dowitchers! Or take a look at trees. There are 60 species of oak trees native to the US alone each with a different shape to its leaves or a different texture to its bark. Of course, let me not forget the amazing humans in our world. Even they come in a vast assortment of skin colors and hair colors, some with freckles, some with long fingers or small feet or round bellies, all with beautiful smiles.

For me it is a joy to bear witness to the magnificent expression of life on this lovely planet. What a gift to be able to watch with wonder the bounty and beauty all around.

The Dam that Sorrow Built - Gratitude for Writing

I realized last night that it’s 2013. I did actually know that was the year, but I didn’t remember the significance of it until last night. The realization was that 2013 marks ten years since a pivotal moment in my life. To be precise it was March 19, 2003. I only know this because luckily computer files track the date they were created. That was the date I began to write. It happened over night. One day I wasn’t a writer and the next I was. Seriously.

On March 18, 2003 I went through a spiritual discernment process with a friend. She walked me through 12 questions and ideas and we sat in meditation together and listened together and talked. The goal was to find a question and then find the answer. The question in this process is always, What is mine to do to ______ and you fill in the blank through meditation. My question became, what is mine to do to be happy? The answer was one word, write.  I remember thinking, well that’s not really very helpful, I’m not a writer. The key to the process though, was that even though I had no idea how writing would help me be happy, I said yes anyway. I took a leap, a giant leap and hoped I would learn how to fly and fast!

I’ve been flying ever since. I found a vast and boundless joy in writing. I found the place where my soul sings its song most truly. I found the space where I feel most connected to Spirit. It is that space where I sit, wide open and listen for the words. I am so deeply and profoundly grateful for that moment in my life when I said yes, despite not really knowing what I was saying yes to. There have been moments when that yes was more difficult to live with than others, like when writing the story Maria about a woman in a concentration camp. Yet, the communion I feel with the people in the stories and words that flow is an amazing gift. I am grateful for their company and their trust in me in sharing their stories.

The first thing I wrote was difficult too because it was a moment when I could feel that leap and I was in mid-air and didn’t know if I had wings. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t look down and let me fingers move on the keyboard. That’s when the dam broke.  This is what I wrote that first day:

The dam that sorrow built

The pain runs deep but I can’t feel it.  Too deep to fathom too deep to feel.  The sorrow settles in my chest, in my soul but it hides biding its time.  When will the release come?  How will it come?  Is it a flood or a trickle?  I’d like to blow the dam up myself but I’m afraid of the consequences.  Homes and villages will be destroyed.  Lives will be lost.  Will I be able to recover or will I be swept away in the flood.  Who will I be after the dam breaks?  Will I recognize myself?  Will my soul be intact?  Will it bring the freedom I long for?  The joy?  I can’t see past the dam but I can feel it weakening.  Soon it will have no power over me or my emotions.  I can feel my pain now, pressing against the dam.  It is weakening still.  Can love fill up the hole that sorrow will leave?  I know it can but I am still afraid.  Give your sorrow to me and I will learn to let it flow through me and let love take its place.  Somehow.  Without losing myself.  The sorrow is near yet it will not defeat me in the end.  I will rise above it and create a new world of love.  Thank you sorrow.

The dam was the one I had built after September 11, 2001. I had felt so much collective sorrow that I was overwhelmed by it and couldn’t stand to feel it all. So I walled it off. That wall came down that day in 2003. And it turns out that the writing was prophetic for me. I didn’t remember how it ended until I read it again this morning. “Give your sorrow to me and I will learn to let it flow through me and let love take its place.” I know that sounds dramatic, but I can’t tell you the number of times I have done just that since 2003, and while it is sometimes challenging I have gained so much and been able to give so much through allowing the words to flow and so allowing the energy to move.  So yes, I am grateful to sorrow and that dam it built. And I’m grateful to myself for saying yes, for surrendering and allowing that dam to be blown to smithereens by the powerful flow of both sorrow and joy that came in the form of words. Each moment of writing is a gift that I am grateful for and looking back over ten years of it fills me with such awe and wonder. I wish I could describe the connection I feel in those moments; though I’m sure the words will eventually come. For now I will simply say thank you to my willing heart and thank you to all who have read and shared the words that flow through it.

With deep gratitude,

Lynda

There Is a Brilliant Light

Last night I sat in meditation on light. Once I felt the light radiating from within, I intentionally focused some of it upon the people of Oklahoma who are coping with the aftermath of a devastating tornado. To my surprise I could then see others turning and offering that light to another and another all around the world. Then these words began to come. So I now pass them and the light they carry to you. Feel free to share them both.

There Is a Brilliant Fire

Lynda Allen

There is a brilliant fire,

One that will not burn the flesh.

Sitting beside it I feel its warmth

And am renewed.

The flame leaps

And I draw nearer.

Looking into the heart of fire

I know it is not for me alone.

My hand moves unafraid

Into the core.

The heat caresses my skin

And does no harm.

There is a gentle flutter in my palm

As I pull it from the fire.

A tiny spark flickers

And grows

As I smile upon it.

I know it is not for me alone.

Lit by the light of the fire

I turn

Hand outstretched

To you.

The gentle breath of love

Fans the flame,

A tiny spark leaps

From me to you.

We know it is not for you alone.

Lit by the light of the fire

You turn

Hand outstretched

To another.

One by one

The flame is passed

Love its fuel

The world is lit.

These are the candles I lit during meditation.