Last night, I settled down by myself

As always, I laid out my pipe and tobacco. After smudging everything with white sage, I opened my computer to the file where I keep all your prayers. Some had come in last-minute, and I was glad they slipped in under the door, so to speak. For each prayer, tobacco was offered and placed in a silver bowl. I added mine last. The bowl held prayers for the Earth, for certain loved ones, for help with relocations, right livelihood, new endeavors, hard times, and all our relations. There were prayers for healing, for gratitude, and for wisdom.

With all the prayers resting in the silver bowl, I began loading the pipe and calling in the seven sacred directions. Hannah, my dog, came and settled in beside me. Darter the cat rested on the ottoman at my back. The fireplace was warm and glowing, calling out to us with merry little crackles and sparks. Upstairs, Carter was in his favorite chair, watching the football games. Occasionally, I would hear him cheer on the teams with a hoot. The dishwasher was slogging along in the kitchen…

Sometimes, I take my pipe out somewhere to a private place to do ceremony. Last night, I found a certain sweetness calling in the sacred in the midst of the ordinary machinations of the household.  It reminded me that the holy is in all things at all times.

What I noticed in particular with this month’s ceremony was the quality of the smoke itself. It fairly poured out of the pipe in thick, blue bellows. I thought that it looked like water, unleashed from the binding tethers of gravity. It flowed through my fingers, slowly as though it carried much weight. Up it lifted, high into the room, covering the air above me in a cloud of gray fog. A message—”All will be well”—rose out of the pipe bowl and streamed in thick plumes to the fog above my head.

I sensed the presence of Wisdom Keeper, and also the hearts of many, many relations—both two-leggeds, but mostly the others, those precious others that add so much richness to our lives. When I finished the last puff of tobacco, my pipe bowl was so hot I could not touch it. The beeswax coating on the bowl had even melted. I’ve never had this happen before, and I sat with the pipe a long time at the close of the ceremony, pondering what I’d seen, felt, and heard.

I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be able to carry your prayers each month. It is an honor and a joy, and I never finish a pipe without feeling full to the brim with hope and peace. Thank you for sharing with me, and special thanks to Cindy, and to Leslie, who I know were praying along with me in different parts of the country. I felt you both.

This coming Sunday

February is the second moon of the year, and the spiritual home of Wisdom Keeper, the protectress of sacred traditions and the guardian of friendship. For those of you following along in The Thirteen Original Clan Mothers” by Jamie Sams, you’ll find a wealth of lessons about how this Clan Mother helps us to understand the unique wisdom of each life form. Wisdom Keeper also guides us on our path toward self-development and expansion. We can call on this Clan Mother for help in seeing the truth in all things, all traditions, all experiences, and all beings.

My birthday is in February, so I believe I have a special responsibility to honor and emulate the gifts and wisdoms of this Clan Mother. Sometimes I can get so caught up in “my truth,” that I forget to consider the many layers of truth regarding all things and all situations. And, I must admit, seeing the truth of my own actions is sometimes the most difficult truth to own.

If you have prayers you would like me to add to the pipe this month, please send them soon. I will keep them confidential, that is, I won’t post them on the site. I’m not sure how many will be attending this prayer circle yet, but know that even if it is me alone, I’ll be sitting beside the spirits of the seven sacred directions and Wisdom Keeper, so your prayers will be heard and carried by a host of angels.

I’m not a good traveler

Five years of regular meditation have made me (blessedly and) painfully aware that discontent arises in me not from anything on the outside of my skin, but from within. Within two weeks of our arrival in Florida, I was feeling anxious, unsettled, rudderless, and aching for home. Back here at home now, I am able to find some perspective on the out-of-proportion anxiety that gripped me in the warm, flatlands of Florida. But it was nearly impossible to do so while I was there. My reflections on our time away are proving to be bountiful and varied, and there is one particular aspect of these musings that I want to share here…

Let me offer a bit of back-story to begin. Years ago, when my friends and I offered a series of summer workshops in the Rockies, attendees would rue the end of our days together, saying, “I don’t want to go back to the square world yet.” My teaching buddies always referred to our workshop time together as “living in the round world.” It was a good phrase to sum up the feeling of living in a time apart from the craziness of regular life, with all its societal inanities. The round world was somehow protected from all the dead weight of what most of us would refer to as “real life.”

Without realizing it, I began a years-long project of crafting a round world that I could stay in all of the time. Here in Indiana, I realize that my life looks pretty darn Round. Our house is private and enchanted. Because we no longer work, there is rarely any need for us to be in social settings with any other than people who make us happy and who enrich our lives. We are surrounded with wildlife, silence, and beauty. We haven’t been to a mall in many years, except to walk when the weather keeps us from heading into the forest. I don’t take current events personally. We’ve created a pretty tightly crafted little universe for ourselves.

I won’t say whether this is good or bad. I think everyone crafts their own personal universe, whether they do it consciously or not.  But in traveling to Tampa, I became very much aware of just how deeply entrenched I am in my Round World. Leaving it for anything other than another Round World of like minds and hearts is no easy thing for me anymore. Traveling to Tampa was stepping way, way out of my comfort zone. And I didn’t do it well, I must confess. I learned that I am not a woman who blends into any and every situation with flawless grace. And I learned, too, that part of my reason—perhaps all of it—for crafting myself my particular brand of Round World has everything to do with my health.

In my ongoing efforts to heal myself from chronic depression and fatigue, I have learned that nature and animals are cornerstones to my wellbeing. They ameliorate stress, and stress is something that completely derails me. I don’t live in pretty places because I think it is cool. I live in beautiful natural landscapes because I will die if I don’t. Strong words, but true, true. Urban landscapes deplete me. I can’t think of any other way to say it. Sometimes, I think the state of my mental health is entirely contingent upon how many birds, squirrels, frogs, and flowers crossed my path that day. I don’t just “enjoy” these other relations in my life. I need them, maybe more than most. Maybe I have some kind of nature pathology. I don’t know, but I do know what I need.

Carter’s kids are twenty-somethings, living a military lifestyle in a big city, holding down jobs while raising their first child. They are techno savvy, as most young adults are these days. They like to shop. They like new things and new styles. Round world living is a world you can construct when your choices are primarily your own. When your world includes work, mortgages, car payments, infants, and the whims of the economy, most likely, you are living in a world not entirely of  your choice—the square world. Tampa was a square-world experience for me, and I struggled to adapt to the sights, sounds, pace, and possibilities of so different and fast-paced a life.

When I realized I was having a devil of a time fitting my round peg into a Tampa square cube, the question became, what to do? My first idea was to leave Carter with his family and fly home. As I said, I am not as gracious and smooth as I’d like to be when my feathers get blown every which way. But as it turned out, my salvation was near at hand, because there were two things Carter’s kids DID have that fit my need for some round space They have a dog named Toby, and a wilderness park just across the road from their big, new subdivision.

Toby is a plump black and tan chi-wiener dog. Chi-wies are a mixture of chihuahua and dachshund. Toby has one big, flopping dachshund ear, and one large, fully erect chihuahua ear. His legs are short as wine corks, and his tail is always wagging. Toby was the baby of the family until Taylor came along two years ago.  I think Toby was glad to have someone need him again as much as I did. He moved out of the master bedroom and onto my inflatable bed in the guest room two days after our arrival. And there he stayed each and every night, with his pointy little nose aimed toward the bedroom door and a soft growl in his throat (all bluff, of course) at any sound of possible danger. I called him my little man, and he was not two feet away from my feet whenever we were in the house.

I’ve not had what I call a “shadow dog” for decades, that is, a dog who “shadows” your footsteps and is always close at hand. Toby is such a dog. Because he is so very short, I sometimes forgot that he was at my feet from morning until night, but my unsettled heart knew he was beside me and drew comfort and peace from his presence. The moment I would alight in a chair or on the floor, Toby would crawl up in my lap with an air of great certainty and confidence. Circling my lap a few times, he would plop down with a sigh. He simply oozed acceptance and nurture, and I soaked up every drop. First thing each morning, I would let him out back to pee. We would take a look at the day, and say hello to the lizard who lives on the electrical box on the back side of the house. One morning, two of the Sandhill Cranes who live in the subdivision walked right past us, looking supremely elegant with their slow, measured steps and tall necks.

Carter and I try to walk every day. At first, we strolled around the subdivision with Toby, but then we found a special jewel tucked unobtrusively just across the street from the subdivision’s formal walled entrance. A sign set back behind a tree draped curtained with Spanish moss announced a wilderness preserve that included miles and miles of horse and hiking trails through Georgia pines, palm trees, oaks, and sand. Toby was in heaven, and I found an unpaved piece of nature where I could go and find myself at least once a day. Some days, Carter and I walked in silence, lost in our own musings. Some days, we talked.  Some days, I went to the wilderness park alone—just me and Toby—and talked to myself out loud, either chastising myself for my faults, or cheering myself on. Toby was an easy dog to walk with. At home, our dogs Hannah and Mazel Tov go walking with us each day, but neither is as fine a walking companion as Toby. Hannah runs far and wide, often coursing out of my range of sight for long periods of time. She always finds me again, but she’s not much company. Mazel is crazy for sticks, so as we walk, I need to be constantly tossing sticks as far as my arm is able. For Mazel, it is never far enough. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him worn out on a walk, but he sometimes wears me out with his intense demands for “stick hunt.”

Toby simply trotted from side to side on the path, occasionally veering off for a moment or two to dash after a squirrel, but always returning quickly. He kept his eye on us. Walking with Toby, I could let my mind wander off, and never fear that when I came to my senses, he’d be long gone or dancing around my legs begging “Stick! Stick!!!” He was the perfect escort: watchful, well-behaved, and enthusiastic. In those weeks when I felt ungrounded and unrecognizable to myself, Toby and the wilderness park brought me back to earth again and again, and settled me back into my body.

I had to learn how to be a grandmother in Tampa. Taylor, my granddaughter is smarter than I am, and certainly more rambunctious. I found I did best when I sat back, took deep breaths, and reminded myself of all the tiny wildlings I had cared for over the years. That mindset helped me find a door into my granddaughter. I have never been a mother to a human baby, but I’ve mothered a lot of wild creatures. And that was how I envisioned my granddaughter—vocal as a baby robin, fast as a fox kitten, limber as a coyote pup, and energetic as all of them. At only two, Taylor didn’t seem to be suffering the ills of domestication yet. She was still a wild child, and I could relate to that. I taught her how to collect acorns, stems of grass, and tiny wildflowers growing in the unmowed grasses at the edge of the subdivision. At night, she would creep up to my bed with goodnight kisses for me, and kisses and a hug for Toby. “Oh Toby,” she would whisper. “He’s the best dog.”

Now that we are living in 2012, a year that round-world-inclined people have been talking about for what seems forever, I sometimes find myself in discussion with myself or others about “end times,” economic collapse, “the great cleansing” or some such. I ponder how I would handle catastrophic times, and in my mind’s eye, I see myself bearing whatever comes with creative determination. Then, I whoosh off to Tampa and find myself in a state of calamity for no good reason, and I tell myself that if the times get really tough, I have no idea how I might manage—or mismanage—it.

Tampa humbled me. Life humbles me on a pretty routine basis, and this winter, it was Tampa. I learned much about myself while there, things I will be processing for the rest of the winter. Another thing I learned is that humbling experiences often go hand-in-hand with grace. I think of grace as a gift from spirit one never really deserves, but that is given anyway. Toby was my gift of grace in December. Taylor was my gift of grace. Toby, Taylor, and those dusty trails through Georgia pines and moss-covered oaks.

May you be blessed with such gifts of grace the next time life stirs you around a few times in its crucible.

So, for all of you have been following along in our monthly new moon prayer ceremonies, I steered you wrong. But then again, I think that Becomes Her Vision is a fine Clanmother for very first moon of the New Year. The Clanmother who really presides over January is Talks With Relations, the mother of nature.

We are in the waning days of Talks With Relations (who is probably my personal favorite of all the Clanmothers), but there is still time to honor her ways and reflect upon her unique wisdom. Talks With Relations is the keeper of the natural rhythms, the weather, the seasons, and the tides. She is guardian of the languages of all our relations, including the stones, the trees, and the creatures. She teaches us how to understand the unspoken languages of nature, how to honor cycles, and how to enter the sacred space of other relatives with respect.

If I could have one gift of mystery, it would be to understand and to speak the languages of all our relations. I can’t know such a wonderful thing, but I can dream about it.

In the next few days, I’ll be posting about the next prayer ceremony, which will occur on Sunday, January 22nd. More to come!

Christmas Eve here in Tampa

This was my first Christmas Eve in many years that was not chilling cold. I kneeled on the damp lawn and withdrew my pipe stem and bowl from the bag I carry it in. The pipe bag itself is the upper body pelt of a gray wolf, shot decades ago by an arial hunter in Alaska. I came by the wolf skin hanging by its nose in a Jackson Hole curio shop. When my eyes fell upon it, I felt shocked and sickened. I’d never seen a wolf strung up that way before (I’ve seen many since…) “If I put that wolf on layaway, will you take it off that hook on the wall?” Yes, the clerk told me. It took me a long time to pay off the shop, but eventually, I brought the wolf home and decided that I would make its pelt into a ceremonial tool, so that it could be honored in some small way. The wolf has held my pipe ever since, its eye holes watching me every time I conduct a pipe ceremony…

A pipe is never to be stored away intact, with bowl fixed onto stem. Both pieces are kept in their own separate bags. When the two pieces are smudged with sage and joined together with prayers, the pipe comes alive. My pipe bowl was carved for me out of the elbow of a pine branch. My teacher had sat beneath that tree on his first vision quest and thought to himself, “That bend in the tree looks just the shape of a pipe bowl.” He took the piece of pine home with him and carved it into a pipe bowl. His intention was to use it for his own pipe, but he got the message that this bowl was feminine, and wanted to be in the hands of a woman. The bowl was gifted from him to me. He also made me the cedar pipe stem to go with it, and told me to decorate it with my medicine.

I have carried this pipe with me for the past twelve years, through four Sundances, my house fire, and countless moves. It has become more alive with each prayer activation. At this point, I just show up and let the pipe work her magic. I supply the tobacco, matches, and words, but the pipe is the healer, the listener, and the miracle worker.

My pipe bowl is kept in a small purple velvet bag, the stem in a red and beaded bag. I open the bags after I’ve carefully smudged my hands and body with sage. The wolf pipe sack I always place in the east, facing west and facing me. I place the pipe parts, the tobacco, a smudge stick, lighters, a candle and bowl just in front of the wolf’s nose. Sometimes, I place some of the spiritual tools on his paws. He is as much a participant in this ceremony as I am. Perhaps more.

With prayers, I hold the bowl and stem up to the sky, and I pray. The prayer is always different. I’ve been told not to memorize any prayers or ever say my invocation as a rote recitation. Doing so would dishonor the spirits. I join the pipe and then begin the sweet process of loading it with pinches of tobacco for the seven sacred directions. I turn to each cardinal direction in turn, welcoming the spirit winds of that direction into my pipe, and thanking them for their blessings, their teaching, and their wisdom. I do the same for Mother Earth, Father Sky, and All My Relations.

When the pipe is fully loaded with the tobacco filled with prayers (from all of you, and more if others are praying with me), I take up a lighter and work to bring the tobacco to a fully lit bowl. My teacher has told me I puff on the pipe like a lamb on a teat. I’ve been told not to inhale the tobacco, as it is not for me but for spirit. Others fully inhale the sacred smoke as part of their tradition’s teachings.

When the pipe is lit, I take in four puffs of smoke and blow the smoke out to each of the seven sacred directions, while offering the mouth of the pipe to the spirits. Each spirit is invited in this way to smoke the pipe. Then, if others are with me, I will being passing the pipe around the circle. Participants will take the pipe bowl in their left hand, stem in the right. The left hand is believed to be the closest to the heart. They will smoke the pipe, or—if they are not able to smoke for health reasons—they will tap the pipe gently to each shoulder and pass it on.

Sometimes the pipe will make several trips around the circle before it is fully smoked out. Sometimes, just one. When I am alone, as I was this time, I smoke it all myself. Alone, I am able to more fully sit with the meditative aspects of the ceremony. When there are many others in the circle, my job is to be fully present and hold the space for everyone. It can be a distraction, but a very meaningful one. I like it both ways—sometimes alone, sometimes with others.

Last Saturday, I was alone and very focused on the pipe, the tendrils of thick tobacco smoke, and the fact that this would be the last pipe of 2011. Next time I perform this ceremony, It will be 2012—a date with great meaning to many. While I smoke, I try to be aware of anything or any thought that captures my attention. Messages often come through the pipe. This Christmas Eve, I noted that there was a steady, gentle breeze coming from the north. North is the direction of transformation, rebirth, and the hard lessons in life. This tender winter breeze did not let the smoke idle in the air. Rather, it sent the prayer smoke steadfastly to the South, the home of abundance and growth. South is where our dreams take form, where love on the physical plane is highlighted, and where the energy in our bodies is strongest and most vital.

I smoked until the last tendril of smoke hurried off to the South, smiling in my cheeks the whole time. Giving thanks, I unlinked the bowl from the stem, and let the hot pipe bowl cool off in my hands. I don’t know about you, but my life right now is fully caught up with Northern energies. It’s not just because this happens to be the winter—the season associated with the North. It is bigger than that. I feel like the message coming to me these days is “transform or die.”

How sweet that the smoke drifted so confidently to the South. That here in the North of my life right now, the spirits remind me that I can count on those lively, positive, abundant energies of the South. South is also the direction of growth. I believe the pipe was telling me that there were good energies coming to assist me—and all of us—in the transformations and rebirths these challenging times demand of us. Growth awaits us as we tackle these difficult Northern times.

Suspended here between old and new years, I am at peace and my heart is hopeful for myself and for all of you who pray along with me. May the new year bless and teach us all.

Our next Medicine Pipe Ceremony

As a gray-haired, somewhat jaded adult, I find that Christmas Eve still holds magic. Perhaps it is just old habit, or perhaps it is because magic does indeed happen on that night of December 24th. No matter. I still can conjure up a sense of the mysterious and the holy on a late night, star-studded Christmas Eve.

Not coincidentally, The Thirteen Original Clan Mothers must have sensed the imbedded holiness of the 12th month of the year, and assigned that special month to Becomes Her Vision:

Becomes Her Vision is the Mother of the Alchemical Changes and Rites of Passage into Wholeness, Keeper of Emergence of Spirit into Physical Form, Guardian of Transformation, Transmutation, and Personal History. She teaches us how to become our visions and own our wholeness, how to release the old Self and step into the realized dream, how to honor the process that brought us through our transformation, how to mark a Rite of Passage into Wholeness and Celebrate the vision we have become.

This is magical stuff, indeed. But in our culture, we call that awesome potential for rites of passage into a greater wholeness “New Year’s Resolutions,” and have long since stripped any magic out of the event. In that precious month when the light begins its return to us, our culture traditionally celebrates this sacred time with noise and drunkenness.

Surely, there are many prayers to be shared as we lay to rest this dying year and fire up our hopes for the new year coming our way. Becomes Her Vision will carry this alchemical energy for us into 2012. As our prayers float up on sacred smoke into the mystery, we can be assured they will be carried in the hands of a most powerful Clan Mother.

Those of you following along in these prayer ceremonies know the drill: Please send me any prayers you would like me to put into my medicine pipe for this Christmas Eve ceremony. I’ll keep them private for you.

Those of you new to this ceremony that I am facilitating each month, read all about it here, under the Post, “Calling All Prayers.”

I send you all my prayers for an abundant 2012, full of transformations of the most blessed kind. I’ll be conducting this ceremony here in Tampa, Florida, so expect some alligator energy coming your way!

Days later than planned, we headed off in the newly repaired car, with my newly updated computer, and several bottles of cough syrup. We arrived in Tampa, Florida, three days later, which is where we’ll be through the holidays.

Through all this upheaval, I am happy to say that our November Pipe and Prayer Ceremony came off without a single glitch. Three of us sat in my living room with the pipe resting by the wood stove. All of us had many prayers to offer, and I put a pinch of tobacco into the pipe for each of the prayers you, my dear readers, sent to me. We were all in tears as we passed the pipe. Many of the prayers coiling upward in smoke were intense and tragic. But the pipe carried them peacefully, as she always does. Her power as a sacred tool is humbling and awe-inspiring. Over the years I have carried this pipe, she has shown me that she has a personality and a calling all her own.

The Clan Mother for this holiday month is Gives Praise, and with all the mayhem of these past few weeks, I have thoroughly enjoyed honoring this Clan Mother as I finished off each evening with prayers of Praise and Thanksgiving: “Spirit, thank you for keeping the car repair bill under a thousand dollars. Spirit, thank you for keeping this virus in my nose and out of my lungs. Spirit, thank you for the gift of aspirin—such a miracle!” While many of my prayers were light-hearted and silly, just as many were deep acknowledgments for the wonder of life, the opportunity to serve, the lessons learned along the way.

So, here I sit writing to you from sunny Tampa, Florida. My little granddaughter has a year of growing under her belt since I saw her last. Toby, the chi-wiener dog has grown wider if not taller. Yesterday, Toby and I surprised a young alligator in one of the lagoons that are part of this new subdivision. I suspect each “lake” has it’s own resident gator or two or three. What an unexpected sight, these alligators! Just one more Christmas miracle, I say. Spirit, thank you for these armored monsters cruising so gracefully through the pond and canals. And thank you for the gifts of chaos and upheaval, which help so much to delineate all those peaceful, healthy, abundant days in between that I sometimes forget to remember.

tree spirit helpers

I’m a believer in helping spirits—beings and energies that work with us to help us along the way. For some people, these spirits show up in dreams, in unbidden visions or quiet voices of advice and guidance. For myself, I have to remain aware enough to call on these spirits, or I can miss their powerful presence. It’s part of the loner in me to keep myself in my own head and heart, frequently forgetting to reach out to those precious, sacred, helping “others.”

This morning, I woke up thinking about helping spirits. I blessed them in my prayers, and gave thanks for all the helping spirits in my life. And it suddenly occurred to me that there are many, many more helping spirits that work with me than I commonly acknowledge.

Obviously, I recognize many animal spirits that walk with me—some for many years, some for just a moment or two when needed. Wolf, Elk, Hummingbird, Owl: These beloveds I know well. I’ve sat with them in formalized shamanic journeys, in quiet meditations. Sometimes, they show themselves to me in their physical forms, and I nearly shake with excitement in those moments…

Here in Indiana, I have come to recognize the helping spirits in the trees around me. They carry a strong, stabilizing presence when I allow myself to see them in a sacred way. I’m ashamed to admit that I can blunder through the forest wrapped up in my own stupid thoughts for long periods of time without really seeing and thanking the trees for being with me. Because they are not as dramatic a presence as a wolf or elk crossing my path, I can easily dismiss the presence of the trees, not seeing them as the steadfast, helping spirits they are.

Inside the house, I am beginning to recognize a host of ready helping spirits that I have never truly seen as such: The sourdough starter sitting on the counter, the pesto that lives in the freezer, the gurgling jars of fresh kraut in the fridge, the herbs I smoke for my asthma. Foods are helping spirits, just like totem animals. The nutrition and medicine we take into our bodies comes in the form of spirit energy, and has a personality in its physical form that is all its own.

sourdough spirit helper

I was explaining to a friend the other day about the process of maintaining the sourdough starter I’ve been nursing along on my counter the past few months. This starter makes a bread that is truly the food of the angels. The sourdough mixture requires regular feeding and attention. “Sounds like a pet,” my friend said. She was right. To keep that starter hearty and strong, I have to have an ongoing relationship with it. In particular, I need to remember it is there, on the counter, needing to be seen and tended. Like a relationship with any living thing, it takes time and attention. This is true with our relationships with helping spirits as well—they take time and attention.

I’m beginning to “see” this sourdough starter as a sacred friend and helper. I feed her and respect her and gives thanks for her, and she works with me to create a food that is healthy and healing for my family. I make my own sauerkraut for health reasons, and—like the sourdough starter—it is literally a living food, teeming with enzymes and good bacteria. I think I will start treating my krauts as sacred helping spirits, too. These humble foods bring healing energy into my life. Is this not a helping spirit? While not as majestic as an owl or a fully matured oak tree, these kraut spirits work with my family in deep healing ways.

kraut spirit!

So, I’m going to start talking quietly to the kraut when I take a heaping spoonful of her onto my plate. I’m going to thank her for her gifts, her wisdom, her healing. And I’m going to do that to the pesto I keep in my freezer, made up of the beautiful herbs that gave themselves to me so abundantly from my garden this year. The basil, the rosemary, the savory and sage—all are sacred spirits teeming with profound and ancient vibrations. Each had a personality in my garden all its own. Now, in a happy commingling of ice and oil, this food spirit rests in our freezer, ready to bring joy to my tastebuds and energy to my body. I thank the helping spirit residing in that pesto.

And I thank the helping spirit who shows herself to me in the form of bathwater springing hot and bubbly from  the faucet, bringing healing to my achy body and a lift to my heart. She is a totem, too. A medicine teacher. A power animal in an elemental body.

The morning sunlight through my bedroom window touches the cherished red fleece blanket on my bed. I smile. Both are helping spirits.

Great, beloved Mystery. Thank you for reminding me this morning that the world around me is overflowing with helping spirits in many forms, all of them awaiting activation by the simple touch of my acknowledgment and appreciation.

I’m going to do a bit of rambling in this blog piece, but if you stick with me, I will be pulling it all together by the end. The title—Little Steps for Little Feet—will provide the container for lots of ingredients/experiences I’ll be adding along the way.

First, as many of you know, I went off of antidepressants just a few brief months ago, after being on one or another for about 20 years. I know that many of my readers suffer from depression, and you’ve asked how I’ve been managing going off medications. It’s been a learning journey, and somewhat of a crooked path, but I’m still stumbling my way along, drug-free. I sense in myself a tendency to be grumpier than usual (I’ve blogged about this recently…), and a tendency, also, to be more emotional than usual—which I really like, as I’ve not had my full range of emotions available to me in 20 years. I’m relearning how to live with them…

My current spiritual quest (see blog entry, THE QUEST) is to teach myself peace and happiness, and to make these attitudes my automatic emotional set point, rather than my current set point of grouchiness, resentment, and overwhelm. I’ve been casting about for simple techniques to help me on this quest, as complex techniques and practices just serve to make me more grouchy, and more resentful. Perhaps some of these little things might be helpful for some of you. Perhaps not. But, I can tell you, it is helpful for me–spiritually and emotionally—to write about them!

One of my little “tools” has been to ask Spirit for help each day in reminding  me that I am not alone. I have a lifelong entrenched habit of thinking I am always alone at the core, and that if anything is to be accomplished in my world, it needs to be me alone that makes it happen. Needless to say, this kind of thinking makes me feel grouchy, resentful, and overwhelmed: Sheesh! I’m all alone here! Dammit! Grumble grumble…

This prayerful request has resulted in me “seeing” in my minds eye a translucent presence on my right side who I am turning to many, many times a day when I feel that old overwhelm coming down. I have not forced this sweet and comforting vision to appear. It seems my prayers conjured her. When I turn my gaze to my right and seek her, she is there, always whispering to me, “daughter.” Her presence is light and affirming.

On Saturday, I went with Carter to a local auction, and while he was bidding on old tools, I took the dogs for a walk into the hills. I asked myself as I walked, “Spirit, what do you want me to notice in the forest today?” Immediately, my eyes rested on the incredible tangle of branches, twigs, and underbrush that I had to fight my way through to keep up with the dogs. “Tangles,” myself told myself, and instantly I felt a grab of discontent in my gut. I did not like the look of them, all gray and confining and full of thorns. Tangles. The notion and the sight filled me with a sense of uneasiness.

So I let the uneasiness just be and wandered about in that mind state for about fifteen minutes. Without my thinking about it, I had turned my feet back downhill, and soon found myself in an open section of forest floor. No more tangles. Just wet, colored leaves under my feet. As soon as I became aware of the easy passage on the smooth forest floor, my whole body breathed a sigh of relief.

I wordlessly asked the presence at my side if there was a message for me. “If you don’t like the tangles, don’t walk that way.” Yes, yes, I know this is simplistic beyond belief, but for me, the most important messages are often simple. They are little and big at the same time. I smiled inside and out. Many times in life, I walk into a tangled situation. Many times, all I really need to do to extricate myself from the mess I’ve wandered into is to simply turn my feet the other way, and walk back out.

This small forest stroll reminded me that I can go to nature anytime and learn something, if I just ask. In those moments of awareness, my depression—which still stalks me—lifted. And I didn’t need to take a pill to keep it at bay.

I’ve picked up and begun rereading Eckhart Tolle’s “A New Earth.” This morning, his words prompted the title for this blog piece:

Many poets and sages throughout the ages have observed that true happiness—I call it the joy of Being—-is found in simple, seemingly unremarkable things. Most people, in their restless search for something significant to happen to them, continuously miss the insignificant, which may not be insignificant at all…In other words, the form of little things leaves room for inner space, and it is from inner space, the unconditioned consciousness itself, that true happiness—the joy of Being–emanates. To be aware of little, quiet things, however, you need to be quiet inside. A high degree of alertness is required. Be still. Look. Listen. Be present.

So this morning I remember Gives Praise, and in her honor I give praise for all those not insignificant things that open the door to my joy of Being: The clarity of a raindrop on my window in the first blush of dawn. The sound of Carter opening up the creaky door on the woodstove to build our first fire of the day. My favorite red fleece blanket, all wrapped around my body on this cold, cold morning. My fingers tapping out this message to you—all of you—and sending a heartfelt blessing your way.

My life has the hiccups these days.

While none of these little things seem to be related, it feels like they are all related to some vibe in the ethers. It feels like the universe is giddily tossing bolts into the gears of my life.

First and foremost, my bank quit speaking to my online money manager. Finances have been a very weak part of my skill set for my whole life, so I was thrilled when programs began to show up on my computer that could help me keep a handle on my money and where it was going. Suddenly, that security is gone. Mess with my money, and I start to go crazy…

Yikes! My fingers have been clicking on the keyboard furiously, searching for help so that I can once again know that my financial world is in order. So far, the bank remains mute and the “let us help you” reply emails have proven unhelpful.

Also in the techno world, many of my online payment accounts have been telling me I can’t log in anymore. “Invalid Password or Username. “ ‘Scuse me? I’ve been using that name and password for a year—what happened?

My email account informed me that it did not want to let me in because of “suspicious activity.” Just kicked me right out. So I called Apple and said, “Is something going on funny with my computer?” Nope. All’s supposedly well in the guts of my Mac.

I hurry to Staples to purchase new money manager software for my computer. Quicken, maybe? “Sorry, but your computer is too old to work with this new software, “ I’m told.

My mind starts running away with me. Is it sunspots? Is China hacking my machine? Is the whole Internet going crazy and taking me with it? Or are all these glitches only happening to me?

Don't I smell gooooood!

Now the hiccups in my technical world have spread to infect my sourdough starter. I’ve had nothing but raging success making bread the last couple of months, and suddenly, I take something from the oven yesterday that looks like a cast-iron pot lid (see photo).

My self watches myself begin to morph into paranoia. How silly, says my Big Mind to my Little Pissy Mind. Just let it go like water off a duck’s back.

Shut up, says my Pissy mind to my Big Mind.

My Big Mind grabs hold of my body and sends me off into the forest in the midst of a cold, wet drizzle. The dogs are so happy to come along! Mazel shoves sticks into my hand to throw for him, and Hannah dashes off across the ridges to chase squirrels who saw her coming and are long gone. Darter, the cat, follows along, yowling loudly because she’s getting her toes wet. My feet slip on soggy leaves, and I stop to watch Carter bend over to pick up a small fossil of some ancient worm.

For that time in the forest, sanity is restored to my soul. When we return from the forest, we return wet and refreshed and baptized, and I cut a piece of bread from my pot-lid loaf. It tastes pretty good, actually.

I hear a soft rustling from behind me, and turn to face Cookie, who has discovered the cat litter box. Her happy face tells me how grand a morning she has had, drenching herself in damp cat urine.

And so it goes…