Each Spring, my wife and I are happy when it's
time to head back up to the river, to reopen our little house on the Upper
Delaware. It's usually still cold, and a little barren, but there's that
vitality starting to percolate with the early birdsong, and the green shoots
everywhere, fighting skyward. As always, the Spring brings me a new chance to
reconnect with my angels, and myself.
My city meditations are calming and
inspirational, but at last, again, I get to unfurl my blanket on a rock by the
river, and tether my serenity to the simple magic alive in every natural
moment. The early neighbors, mostly red-shouldered blackbirds, don't mind that
I open with an audible OM.
My voice breaks, unsteady at first, but I manage to round off
the changing syllable, and drop an octave to a solid end.
Almost immediately, thoughts become rather
superfluous (thank God). Voices of my angels and ancestors begin to arise as I
settle in to the gentle cacophony of the birds' chorus, and the light
effervescence of simply being springs open in my heart, and surrounds my
mind. I ask my "guardian angel," if I may enter that special place.
“Of course,” she answers, "...of
course."
A Canadian goose honks past on the wing, and
suddenly, a bright, creaky cry puts my meditation on hold. Just down river, a
matched pair of Bald Eagles take perch, sitting in their stately patience,
welcoming me back to the edge of their river. Life is really alive. The sun rises
over a slight saddle in the hills, directly above them, and pours a
reflection onto the water, in a line from the pair to my heart.
Then, the voices of my angels arise, not like
someone talking in my ear (don’t call the men in white coats…yet), but as
intuitive understandings, originating in my heart. My guardian angel tells me,
"Be yourself." My favorite childhood aunt says, "We love
you." Our late uncle, a famous
philosopher and author, tells me, "Keep writing." Our cat Max, who
passed over two years ago, says, "I will help you keep your heart
open." My gnostic angel says, "We have work to do." My Buddhist
angel advises, "Just sit, and be." It gets a
little noisy, being so peaceful.
As the evidence of this deepest magic, when we
visit Max's burial site in a fern grove above the house, the path leading to
his marker is already dark, exposed earth – when all around are old leaves and
forest debris. It looks like it's been raked, even though we haven't set foot
there for nearly seven months. Obviously, somebody has. There are cat paw prints– bigger than I
like to see in the neighborhood. Next to them are deer hoof impressions, and
other signs. They've all been visiting our friend.
I end my meditation with a stronger, clearer OM, and know that
all of this peace and magical connectedness isn’t just imaginary. I've died,
and come back to life so many times – this Spring is no different. This
meditation is my path back into my truths.
When I return to the city, there will be things
that need to be done. There will be talking heads barking the latest. Crowded
commutes. Franchise coffee. Clients who wanted color – but not that
color! I ask you,
does our reality live in this insistent, numb bombardment of "what must be
done," or down that miracle path of meditation, to what truly is, within us, and without us, all? I
think you know what I know.
As always, this meditation – like every meditation – is the
rediscovery of my spiritual spring.
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