Watching the Garden Grow

Ni hao. That's Chinese for hello in honor the of the Chinese New Year. Knowing I’m a cheerful member of the joy luck coincidence club, Happy Friend from last week’s installment sent me a link to a website about synchronicity. Did you know there are “two symptoms of enlightenment?”

Fascinated with the energy body and the chakra system, I’m always on the lookout for symptoms that could portend a major domo insight. So, what’s the word for a hypochondriac in the spiritual realm? I’m keenly interested in discovering any indications that a transformation is taking place within me toward a higher level of consciousness.

Well, the first symptom is that “you stop worrying.” The fine print states that people and events no longer bother you. Drats! I’m certainly not afflicted with that one yet. The second symptom of enlightenment is that you begin to notice an increase in the number of coincidences that are lining up around you. And of course, the more you notice them, the more you get.

Rumor has it that synchronicities can escalate to the point where we begin to experience the miraculous. What is a miracle anyway? How about an absence of time between a desire and its fulfillment?

I may not suffer from the first warning sign of enlightenment (no worries), but I’m definitely experiencing the indicator behind door number two, the following examples are lifted straight from this week.

Riveted by the idea of coincidences and miracles, check out this line from “Frida a novel” by Barbara Mujica. “A brightly colored miniature parasol caught Frida’s eye, and Alex bought it for her. ‘It’s for a doll,’ he told her, ‘and since you’re a little doll, I’ll buy it for you!’”

I’d just read this passage when my partner in the Frida-capades, Frida Rosarita, returned home from a whirlwind trip to Hangzhou, China. She’s quite the poetic photographer, as you can see, and look what she brought me - a charming parasol! When I told a friend how charming the blue and white parasol was she asked if it was a drink umbrella. Huh? Never mind, the point is there was no time between the desire inspired by the novel and the manifestation.

This one is even harder to ignore. Thursday, I went to bread night at the Axe & Fiddle with Chakra Girl. While enjoying the community gathering in Cottage Grove, a display of ceramics caught my eye. In that moment, I imagined how fun it would be to incorporate clay into my work, but then I realized I would need a kiln. I let the thought go, content with the feeling it evoked.

That was Thursday evening. A day an a half later, I received an email asking if I had any need for a “starter kiln.” What?! By Sunday it was delivered and positioned in my basement, including a professional grade extension cord. My heart does a little jig every time I see it.

As if that wasn’t enough for one week, after last Wednesday’s inspiration to “get me a new song,” the receptacle for the paper shredder needed emptying. As the cross-cut confetti spilled into the recycling, three random single words from oodles of paperwork survived the decimation. Ready? “Your. New. Story.” Ooooh, this makes me so happy.

Which was a change in mood from my pity party. I may not be the perfect hostess when it comes to dinner, just ask our latest guests (they didn’t like our salad dressing, we served the wrong wine, they had to ask for water and their coats at the end of the evening. Oops), but I excel at throwing lavish pity parties for myself. I never forget a detail, I attend to my every complaint and always serve the right whine.

What was the occasion for my latest episode? Oh, the usual victimization of unfairness. If everything is energy and if I don’t like the results, that is, the boomerang effect from my personal energy field, then I must be doing something wrong. Confession, I feel like I’m energetically disabled. I would have said retarded, but that word is a red hot trigger and we wouldn’t want to be offensive even if what I do feel is that constant low grade fever of frustration from the knowledge I should be able to understand something but my development is just so damn slow. What I need is feels beyond my grasp.

What is effortless for others requires tremendous exertion on my part, as if I have partial paralysis. Frida Kahlo, the artist, suffered this kind of pain in her legs to the point of amputation. Perhaps I feel the kinship in my energy body. Grasping, clutching, needy. Uh-oh, needy is creepy.

I mentioned earlier today that I’m keenly interested in discovering any indications that a transformation is taking place within me toward a higher level of consciousness. I view my life as a garden, the fruit proof that I’m doing it correctly. I have this metaphorical little plot of earth and I have consulted volumes of gardening books written by the experts and I’m trying to do everything according to wisdom, planting with the rhythms of the moon, nurturing the seedlings with love and attention, attacking every weed with a vengeance.

But my little plot of earth remains barren regardless of the multi-vitamined watering system, the perfect balance of sun to shade ratio and the enthusiastic affirmations I coo to the fertilized soil.

I was lamenting my failure as a gardener when my sister crashed my pity party. I offered her my tears in fine bone china teacups. She said they tasted bitter. She also had the audacity to tell me “expectation was the opposite of acceptance.” You can’t force things to be, you allow them to be. What?

“And besides,” she said, gearing up for a doozy, “you’re blocking the sun with your body all hunched over your little plot of ground like that. I bet you even dig up the fresh seeds just to see what they’re doing if they don’t grow after the first fifteen minutes you’ve planted them.”

Gasp! How did she know? Was that not the right thing to do?

“Stand up, take a look around. That small patch of land is not your life. This,” she said using grand sweeping gestures with her arms outstretched wide, “is your life. You want to live off everything you produce - one seed in, one vegetable out. Your work, your effort, your payoff. Woman, look around. It’s the delight of allowing and appreciating everything in your world that yields a crop. You have an all-season garden, even if it does not grow straight from this heap of dirt.”

She was getting wound up now. “You are completely ignoring the person who brought you a jar of preserves for the winter, or the wheelbarrow full of zucchini for baking bread.” She was running with my garden-is-life metaphor. “You think the only value comes from something you have directly planted yourself. If you’re nice to this person, then you expect (grrr, there’s that word again) them to be nice back to you in direct equal proportions. There, now your energy equation fits. You give them this, they give you that, a perfect reflection of this energy mirror you keep going on about. Yes, scripture says we reap what we sow, but it doesn’t say we get tit for tat. Ever hear of the idea of paying it forward?”

Her words snapped me out of my funk and similar to the special effects in a movie, my worldview rapidly elongated while I stood still. Trippy. In that instant I saw myself planting and nurturing a seed, but instead of it coming straight up from that square footage of soil I’ve been obsessed with, the roots have gone deep and sprouted up all around me. I’m blessed with towering shady trees, luscious fruit, and a variety of flowers blooming all year long. Hey, I’ve got an all season garden and I didn’t even know it.

I’m giving a shout-out to my sister who transformed my pity party into a bountiful harvest of gratitude. Today, January 28, is coincidentally, her birthday, so everyone join me in wishing her a Happy Birthday.

P.S. - On a gossipy note, she’s currently in Las Vegas celebrating her third wedding to her 2nd, 3rd and 4th husband. I’ve now decided to call her Mrs. Harris the III.

"When the Rubberband Starts to Jam"

I didn’t pay much attention to the first one. Nor the second, third or fourth because my early morning brain had only one thought – me want coffee. By the fifth time in a row, however, I did start to wonder… a single rubber band would be waiting for me on the kitchen counter. Each morning, I’d stare at the thing, shrug and stick it in a drawer. Pretty soon I had enough to make a rubber band ball.

It didn’t stop. Snapped to attention by their materialization on the kitchen counter, I noticed they began to multiply, appearing everywhere. I’d find rubber bands in the shower, on the nightstand table, in the bed, on the washing machine, hanging from a door handle, in the refrigerator! No one in the house claimed responsibility and pretty soon we all were discovering them in the funniest places. The rubber band ball was expanding.

We deduced a most logical explanation: We have a rubber band faerie. Fine, how would you explain it then? As soon as I confided this reasonable theory to a girlfriend, which seemed to make her happy, she also began discovering rubber bands in the unlikeliest places.

Happy Friend, eager to investigate our supernatural hypothesis, asked me what I’d been reading, learning, doing when all of these rubber bands started showing up? Well, come to think of it, I was studying energy, learning how to follow intuition and listening to my gut.

“What do rubber bands represent to you?” she asked. I felt like I should be reclining on a couch while she took notes. “Um, they’re stretchy?”

“What else?” she guided. Fearful I would flunk her mental Rorschach rubber band test and reveal some dark personal secret I didn’t even know I had, I hesitated.

“Prosperity,” she said matter of factly.

Rubber bands equal prosperity?? Uh-oh, I was glad I hadn’t said what I was thinking.

“Why did you say that?” Ah-ha, now it was my turn to ask the deep and probing questions.

“Because you keep finding so many of them.” Duh, didn’t see that one coming. Think woman, what do rubber bands mean symbolically? Hmmm, I already said they were stretchy. Oh, I got one!

“They’re elastic.” I felt smug.

“So you’ve got the image of prosperity and flexibility. Anything else?” Man, how many do I need? In spite of my squirming, an answer sprang to mind. Last June, during a teleconference about listening to Intuition, I took notes. Finding them, I quickly scanned the paper until I saw the words scribbled in the corner, “put a rubber band around your wrist, check in with yourself, snap it to retrain yourself, breathe.”

This discovery led me to reread all the notes from the teleconference and it was precisely the information of which I needed reminding. What I had learned earlier dovetailed with what I was studying now. Synchronicity.

I put a rubber band on my wrist and set the intention to breathe and to listen to my intuition. Not just listen, but follow where it was leading. “Rubber bands represent prosperity, flexibility, breathing and following intuition.” Got it.

The rubber band faerie was so happy.

Now that she had my attention, the sightings increased. Rubber bands continued to be everywhere. When I took a walk, many appeared on the ground. Wherever I went, rubber bands were sure to be. In addition to the frequency, I began to consider if their timing was important? On the alert, I discovered that finding a rubber band was consistently paired with an important statement. They are like exclamation points, italics, or bold font underscoring whatever point I’m meant to grasp.

(I’m going to whisper now.) It was like I was receiving messages. Dee de dee de -- here comes the implied crazy Twilight Zone music.

I casually mentioned this particular little insight to Happy Friend and instead of thinking I was riding the bullet train to Cuckoo Land, she displayed enthusiasm. “Yes, you are receiving messages. God - through the language of the Universe - is communicating with us 24/7 but most of us don’t notice.”

Hmmm, the language of the Universe. Uni-verse. One song. University, advanced place for learning. What is the language of the Universe? My friend had a ready answer. Energy. Life is a mirror, reflecting back to us what we’re putting out there. If we don’t like what we’re getting, change the channel, whistle a new tune.

This thought provoked a recent memory. While at a writer’s meeting, I had the opportunity to hear the author Shannon Applegate speak about inheriting a family cemetery and the book she wrote about the experience called, Living Among Headstones. Intrigued, I read it and found myself taking a trip to Yoncalla, Oregon to walk among those headstones in the Applegate Pioneer Cemetery.

While strolling under the old shady trees, I saw a tombstone simply marked, “Sing a new song unto the Lord.” In that instant, I got it. How tired God must get at times with our incessant complaining. Perhaps one circle of hell is getting stuck in an endless loop of a worn out story. Honestly, I just bore the ca-ca out of myself with my own witless droning. Maybe many of us are boring ourselves to death.

If we don't like what life is reflecting back to us what would happen if we released our stale, musty stories? Since I loathe the results, do I possess the courage to stop telling the constricting stories that “identify” me?

I heard a great quote from Sonia Choquette, “Hearing the music of Spirit is learning to dance with the Divine.”

Hey, I want to understand the music, the languageof Spirit. I want to dance with the Divine. We can replace our song with one that matches the Uni-verse. Eureka! That’s what it means to be “in harmony!” I’ve been walking around this planet out of tune, complaining how bad everybody else sounds.

I’ve gotta get me a new song.