Time to be Slow and Generous

“This is the time to be slow…”
~ John O’Donohue

Today the air has a biting chill to it even though the sun shines brightly here in the Bay Area. A day to tie one’s scarf around the neck and pull our jackets closed against the golden breeze. Winter is edging herself ever closer to us, here in the northern hemisphere. The winter solstice is only a day away. 

As I sit down to write today’s poem, I am searching for inspiration. I have many words swirling inside my psyche, like the ochre leaves twirling outside my window, carried upward upon the last of autumn’s gale, before they sail down to rest upon the damp earth. But where is this solstice poem that longs to be born? 

I turn to another poet for my “prompt”. I sometimes invoke this practice when I am by myself, or I introduce it as a start, when I facilitate a “process poetry” moment in a workshop. I think of it as a fertile “call and response”, an invitation of sorts, to stimulate a conversation with my Muse. 

Today I call upon Irish poet and philosopher John O’Donohue to speak with me, to inspire me. And he does not disappoint. In response to the call of his evocative poem, “This is the Time to be Slow”, I write my own poem, about winter, both personal and universal, and I offer both of them to you below as we welcome the winter solstice:

This is the Time to be Slow by John O'Donohue

“This is the time to be slow, 
Lie low to the wall, 
Until the bitter weather passes.

Try, as best you can, not to let 
The wire brush of doubt
Scrape from your heart 
All sense of yourself 
And your hesitant light.

If you remain generous, 
Time will come good;
And you will find your feet
Again on fresh pastures of promise, 
Where the air will be kind
And blushed with beginning.”

“My Response to John O'Donohue's Call to be Slow”

I gather the grey cloak of winter around me, 
nestle into the mantle of darkness, now draping my shoulders,
I stoke the faint embers of my own fire, nearly gone cold,
remembering vaguely how to poke and prod reluctant sparks, 
coax and convince my bashful flame to reignite,
from the sparse remnants of smoldering ash.

Autumn has laid me in the lap of hibernal embrace,
Time slows down, and I receive the grace of frost, the generosity of chill, 
and I accept the invitation to lie low to the wall, to get still, to be wholly lost.
In the quiet oscillation between shivery constriction and quivering expanse, 
I hibernate inside the cold wet earth of my being, 
undulate between self doubt and hesitant new light. 

The opposite of doubt is not certainty, rather it is trust, 
not allowing the wire brush of doubt to scrape away my sense of self,  
I apply the gentle shammy of trust, to the spiraled ribbons inside my heart,
and during this winter night of my soul, I polish each buried treasure,
trusting in life’s seasons, trusting the rhythm and cadence of her music,
to reveal the hesitant light, hidden just beneath the dust.

In the dormant months of slow, I vow to tend to my heart’s knowing,
and with utmost tenderness, protect the seed germinating in the womb of me, 
to nourish and fertilize the ground of my wholeness, resting in basic goodness,
encouraging my heart roots to sprout and earth themselves, deep and vibrant,
so when spring arrives, she shall find me inspired and powerfully rooted, 
my feet planted on the fresh ground of promise,
my face upturned to the sun, blushed with beginning...

~ Meris Specterman Walton

Tasting Life Twice

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”

~ Anais Nin

This blog aka “Muse Letter” is a perfect example of the mysterious meandering process of sitting down to write about one theme, only to have my Muse appear and lead me along a tangential path. Thankfully, I know better than to ignore or disobey my Muse when she shows up. She is the cherished voice of intuition, curiosity, and creativity. With her blessing and guidance, I follow the benevolent breadcrumbs of creative aliveness. I’ve learned to get out of my own way, trust in this process, listen attentively, and simply take dictation from her.

For example, a few weeks ago, when I was skimming the New York Times, there was a tiny notation, at the tail end of the cacophonous pre-election news, and after the grim pandemic reporting. A mere mention of the word “mouneh”. For the very first time in the history of “the Gray Lady”, the word “mouneh” appeared. I had never heard this word, and I didn’t know its meaning, but I loved the sound and the smooth texture of its music sliding around my mouth. I looked up its meaning, and not surprisingly, that discovery dovetailed with the poem I had already begun to write about autumn and my dad’s upcoming 90th birthday.

“Mouneh” is from the Arabic word “Mana”, meaning to preserve food. To provide sustenance in the dark days of winter, by preserving the autumn’s freshly harvested fruits and vegetables; perhaps through pickling, brining, canning, or preserving in one form or another. This luscious word, and that ancient practice, made their way into my poem, but that was not the end of it.

A few days later, a friend of mine told me how she'd been chasing the autumn sunlight and capturing it for winter. Intrigued, I asked her to say more. She described to me the Japanese culinary practice of “hoshigaki”, the traditional ancient process of drying and preserving autumn’s Asian persimmons. In this instance, the resplendent orange colored fruit are picked in their unripe stage, then hung on string indoors, like so many merry Christmas ornaments. For many months they are lovingly and laboriously massaged to persuade their sugary goodness inside, to effuse onto the skin. Once they have dried and transformed, they are unstrung, and savored throughout wintertime. Needless to say, this hoshigaki magic also made its way into my poem below:

Tasting Life Twice - a poem for my father Ivor, on his 90th birthday

I love the taste of language,
the spicy or pungent crunch of words as they curl off my tongue,
every alphabetical morsel bursting with its own unique flavor,
its singular savory sensation and piquant emotion,
each evoking familiar or remote memories,
flavors and fragrances from a storied past.

And I realize, not for the first time,
that poetry can be like archival recipes passed down through the ages,
whispered amongst families and friends,
traditions transmitted from ancient lineages,
arisen in villages never visited,
and perhaps now long gone…

Poetry like recipes, inspires us to taste life twice, and to create anew,
poems nourish and refresh us, sustain us as we take leave of our childhood homes,
step out into an unfamiliar new world,
standing upon the shoulders of our ancestors, envisioning our future selves.
Today I am thinking a lot about lineage and tradition,
family customs and celebrations, changing seasons, and sustenance.

On this autumn afternoon, I am reflecting upon the significant men in my life,
the gap between my grandchild’s second birthday in October,
and my father’s ninetieth birthday today on November 14th,
and how because of Covid-19, we won’t be celebrating him in person.
It’s too soon. Instead we gather remotely and celebrate in the Zoom temple.
In these unusual times, this is who we are, this is what we do...we Zoom.

Inside this autumn reverie, my thoughts also drift to the other men in my life,
born in the years between these two beloved bookends,
my three spectacular sons, prominent amongst them.
The measure of time is such a profound anomaly,
a concept we’ve all agreed to use, yet in truth, a feeble mathematical tool,
cobbled together, to measure the wholly immeasurable Mystery.

Because in matters of the heart, time bends and arcs,
shapeshifts and utterly refuses to obey linearity.
In the rarefied landscape of love and family, friendship and community,
in the realms of birth, life, and death, in this kaleidoscopic display,
the truest way to nourish and pray, is by way of poetry and food, music and dance,
the resonant, authentic, wholehearted expressions of love and resilience.

Today I’m on a bit of a tear, perhaps it’s the crystalline azure autumn air,
or the bouquet of sunshine, clustered together in my favorite cobalt blue glass vase,
arm in arm, leaves entangled, five jaunty sunflowers are embracing,
their bright open faces all pressed skyward in prayer,
yes, dear ones, I said prayer, because I do believe that flowers pray,
that flowers themselves are a miraculous implausible prayer.

They pray all the time, in plain sight of us, all year round,
throughout the seasons, throughout the planet,
in a multitude of congregations, indoors and outside,
side by side, sharing their inspired presence,
their incense and essence, with all of us, who care to pay attention,
to observe with reverence, because why on Earth wouldn’t they pray?

I’ve witnessed them, gathered together, two or more,
in orderly fashion, behind a fence, inside a farmer’s field,
and amassed in passionate disorderly fashion, out in the wilderness,
along unmarked trails, under old growth redwoods and beneath deciduous oaks,
scampering up and down hillsides like colorful apostles,
or like pilgrims making their way along interstate highways.

I’ve seen them peeking up through cracks in city sidewalks,
speaking out from crevices in rock hard gray Sierra granite,
boldly singing hymns as a choir of lichen and moss, tucked into naturally carved naves,
with stalagmites in caves, dripping devout stalactites, praying their mighty hearts out.
Feral vines bursting with blooms on cliffsides, night flowering jasmine under full moons,
shy new buds on naked pruned stalks, biding their time, declaring fidelity to springtime.

Speaking of seasons, celebrations, poetry, food, and prayer, I welcome this new moon,
and the unrelenting movement toward wintertime and her chilly dark nights.
Samhain, in Gaelic tradition, is the festival marking the end of the harvest and the start
of the darker half of the year, midway between autumn equinox and winter solstice.
In Arab countries like Lebanon, they call this time of year Mooneh or Moona, for Mana,
time for preserving sustenance, relying on cultural heirlooms, inherited from the elders.

And I am also thinking of “hoshigaki” from Japan,
the practice of capturing sunlight, through a treasured tradition of preservation,
a time honored labor of love, for winter nourishment and pleasure.
Passed down from reverent elders to the young ones coming up behind,
this process of picking unripe Asian persimmons, then stringing them up indoors,
lovingly massaging them for months, to release their sugary sunshine.

And now I am thinking about the many women in my life, those who are still living
and those who have already passed, my mother and grandmothers among them.
I recall what they gifted me, their recipes for life, wisdom preserved from the old country,
along with modern customs for savoring life’s goodness. My mom did not like to cook.
She loved to eat out. This bride of the fifties did what was expected of her in the kitchen.
And she passed down to me, the fine art of making reservations.

Above all, Mom loved Chinese food, and sharing these meals with her three grandsons.
And because this fondness for Cantonese cuisine skipped a generation,
my kids and my mom created their own intimate tradition of sustenance and celebration.
This was their private time to share food and to chat about the news of their lives,
independent of me, just as I’d created my own special time, with two doting grandmas,
nourishing my body and soul, by sharing their stories and precious culinary treasures.

My mom’s mom in Brooklyn taught me to make her chicken soup, aka “Jewish penicillin”
and on special occasions she prepared my personal favorite, “lokshen” noodle kugel.
While over in Queens, in her steamy cramped corner kitchen, my paternal grandma Anne
nursed a glass of scotch, as she lovingly prepared her badass buttery roasted potatoes,
as Uncle Ron conquered hills of dirty dishes, dripping cigar ashes into the soapy water,
while my aunty bossed both of them about, and little me stood in the corner, enthralled.

There are many moments in life to embrace, invitations to accept, times to participate in.
We long to celebrate the seasons with one another, to capture and preserve them.
After all, we belong to each other, to our families, to our communities, to the planet,
we long for connection, meaning, and presence. We hold hands on this walkabout,
say hello, and along the way we make music, we sing and dance, we cook and eat,
laugh and cry, sometimes pray, and too soon walk each other home, and say good-bye.

My prayer for the planet is that we love and forgive each other continuously,
we remember our shared humanity and preserve our basic goodness,
we savor life in the myriad ways that we do, we nourish and sustain one another
through food, poetry, and creative play. Let us share our unique recipes for living well,
answer the call of our ancestors, feast on the fruits of our efforts, and “taste life twice”.
Let’s embrace the “we”, release any delusion of separation, and remember who we are.

~ Meris Walton

The Fine Art of Failure

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

~ Samuel Beckett

Last week, when I began writing this blog, or what I prefer to call my monthly “Muse Letter”, I was contemplating the choreography of Failure. I was musing upon my own personal, “on again, off again” relationship with failures of all ilks in the dance of life. And I recalled one of my favorite quotes, from the Buddhist nun and teacher, Pema Chodron, who says: “Pain is not a punishment. Pleasure is not a reward”. 

Then I tripped over a related quote, from Harvard professor Sarah Lewis, who riffs on Pema’s words of inspiration, when she writes, “Pain is not a punishment. And pleasure is not a reward. You could argue that Failure is not punishment and Success is not reward. They're just failure and success. You can choose how you respond.” 

There it was. A premise and a promise that we have a choice, that I can choose how I perceive and respond to my failures. And that response will determine whether my failure builds resilience within me, or leaves me feeling paralyzed. 

Naturally, I set about writing a poem, dedicated to this inquiry, curious about this alchemical medicine, and the exciting opportunity to metabolize and transform my past failures into present day success and sovereignty. How thrilling to choose an orientation of self-compassion along with a heaping dose of humor. 

So imagine my delight, when I then discovered a marvelous synchronicity. October 13th is the relatively new and little known holiday called, “International Day for Failure”. Since its inception in Finland, in 2010, the Finns, and anyone else who dares and cares to participate, have set aside this autumn day to celebrate risk taking, and mistake making, in order to overcome one’s fear of failure, and the paralysis it can often evoke in us. 

Below are a few excerpts from the Finnish press releases about their provocative International Day For Failure:

“October 13 is the International Day For Failure, a day when people will be encouraged to throw away the shame associated with failing, whether the failure is personal or professional”.

“It is widely reported that, ‘Far from being embarrassed by efforts that did not work  out, a growing number of people are embracing, and even celebrating their failures’.  It can actually build resilience in us. Grow us stronger...and happier”. 

“James Mabbott, head of KPMG’s innovative series, said the language used to discuss failure has become more positive in recent years, and he credits the work cultures dominated by start-ups for this. He said this change in attitude reflected the fact that failure can be good and points to how children use it beneficially. ‘If you don’t take a risk, then you can’t learn and grow as a person. If you look at how children learn and grow, they try things all the time, and get it wrong, and then they try again. They have a great resilience.’”

As a recovering perfectionist myself, I know about the pitfalls that failure- avoidance can elicit. For me personally, fear of failure and its kissing cousin, self-judgement, first emerged in late childhood and loomed ever larger as I grew into my adult life. It has often prevented me from participating in courageous creative acts of self-expression, and stymied my forward movement. However, when I was a small child in summer camp, I was unabashedly thrilled to participate in the many plays and performances organized by our theatrical counselors. Back then, I was an utterly un-self-conscious Gretel in Hansel and Gretel, a feisty munchkin in the Wizard of Oz, and the lead Chocolate character in the Candyland play. How and when and why did I become imbued with profound “stagefright” later in life? A self-limiting hesitancy to take risks and to fail... 

But perhaps the relevant question is not how or why did that happen, but instead to ask what is the medicine I need now, to heal this inflammatory condition? One playful remedy I’ve recently been introduced to, has been to participate in local Improv classes in my town. There my beloved Improv teachers, Dixie and Clifford, implore us to resist the temptation and habit of saying, “I’m sorry”, or worse yet, “I’m so stupid” whenever we lose the thread of a scene on stage. Instead, they coax us to enthusiastically say, “I’m so sexy!” and then to immediately begin the scene anew. Now how cool is that!?!

Needless to say, I appreciate that in a country like Finland, where its citizens pride themselves on conformity and behaving “appropriately”, they have playfully conjured a day dedicated to invoking its opposite. Exploring, playing, and experimenting with the healing power of failing. As far as I know, I do not have any Finnish blood in me, but I am gleefully adopting this International Day for Failure as my new favorite holiday. Its sense of irony, humor, and play points the way to recovering a healthy sense of risk taking, and a willingness to accept failure as a passport to success. 

To quote once again from Pema Chodron, on the topic of failure, she says, “What do we do when life doesn't go the way we hoped? We say 'I'm a failure. But what if failing wasn't just "okay" but the most direct way to becoming a more complete, loving, and fulfilled human being? If there is one skill that is not stressed enough”, she elaborates, “it is the fine art of failing.  Because if we define success as, ‘It works out the way I want it to’, we don’t get a lot of preparation or support for when it doesn’t...”  

Here at Creative Resonance ~ Painting, Poetry & Play for the Soul we playfully engage in this healing alchemy of paradox. We focus on the process not the product, we celebrate our mistakes, and we allow our intuition to guide us. I welcome you to this montage of offerings, where we practice self-compassion and cultivate resilience in our everyday life.

And now I will share with you a new poem below, chronicling some of my own failures that have, astonishingly, built more resilience within me: 

The Fine Art of Failing

In the fine art of failing, that disquieting segue into the discomfort of disappointment,
of not getting what I thought I wanted, and perhaps getting what I did not, 
in this unbidden foray, I have had a lot of experience, I know something about this. 
I am well acquainted with failure, and the familiar flood of shame and dread that seeps into my cells,
at those times, when I’ve made mistakes, and taken unfortunate forks in the road,
passed by the more promising paths, other roads not taken, now dusty with rude awakenings, 
and I’ve felt the queasy sweat of regret, that uneasy clenched belly of remorse and defeat.

I know a goodly bit about this, I have a long history of failures, missteps, and mistakes,
in the classroom of life, one might say I have a phD, and an extensive list of honorary degrees,
in the course of failing, failing bigger, and failing better, and I now ask myself,
if perhaps our cultural norms have it backwards, upside down, inside out,
what if we were to perceive failing as a portal, or a threshold, a playful invitation,
what if this tumble is a healing inversion, a capacious, perspicacious shift in perception,
then a mistake would be a mistake only if we didn’t learn from it, 
and if we do learn, then it becomes a revelation, a celebration, a graduation.

In elementary school I failed to finish first grade, and by that I mean, I accelerated into second,
I moved upstairs because the higher ups, my teachers and principal, said I could, that I should,
that my reading aptitude and my well behaved timid attitude, aligned with their vision of me,
just when the golden autumn leaves were falling, and Halloween costumes prepared, 
they sent me up to the second floor of PS 194, and then my insomnia began, I was scared,
at night alone in my twin size bed, dread of the geometry workbook spun inside my head, 
my throat went dry, I was afraid I’d fail, that I would not keep up with the rest of my class, 
and I longed to fit in, I wanted to belong, so I did not protest, I acquiesced, did my best, adapted,
because I thought I had no choice, no voice in this decision, and in the end, I did make friends,
through music, math, even girl scouts, and was able to find my place in class and pass. 

At age seven, I dreamed of playing piano, when I first saw Anita’s baby grand in her living room.
Anita was my mother’s best friend since childhood, and when we visited, I sat close to her,
and she taught me how to play the right hand part of  “Heart and Soul”, and later on, the left, 
and each time we returned, I spent hours on that piece, immersed in the joy of tickling those keys.
One day I told Grandma about this wish of mine, to have my own piano and play, she listened well,
because the next day, a knock on the door of our apartment announced piano movers from Macy’s,
the department store where Grandma worked, and they were bringing an upright just for me, 
but my mother sent them away, declaring the gift way too extravagant for me, my eyes were stinging,
too stunned to speak, I watched those burly men retreat down the hallway, and for a long time, 
I believed I’d failed myself, until years later, at age thirty, I bought myself that upright and played. 

I went on to fail quite spectacularly in high school and college.The list is long and this poem too brief,
to accurately repeat, all my many moments of failure. One episode had to do with my abiding
affection for French, the culture and language, while hiding my aversion to math back then. 
I crafted a plan where I would swap Francais for calculus, and blithely enrolled simultaneously in
both Spanish and French, drafting this unintentional hybrid, by grafting the two together in an odd
iteration of “Franish or perhaps Spench”, then years later, in college summer school, regretting that
fanciful decision, when an eight week immersion class in Physics revealed my pathetic deficit in
mathematics, with the unfortunate sequela of me almost failing that class, begging for a passing C,
from an unsympathetic professor, while downing doxycycline, to treat a raging cystitis infection,
the sorry result of drowning my cells in coffee, while cramming for the final exam. Failed planning...

Did I mention that I was a failed anorexic? I had always been a thin child and a late bloomer, but
despite my lean shape, when my two best friends began on the dieting trail, I joined them, and even
took it to the next level. I tried my best not to eat, or to eat very little. I weighed myself and my food, I
counted calories, and I took up jogging. But try as I might, I could never get it right, never not eat.
And the more I tried not to eat, the more I binged. This left me a bit unhinged, a classic example,
where the more I tried to avoid something, the more alluring it became, and the more shame I felt in
its grasp, so I went onto fasting, I pretended it was for cleansing and healing, but I also failed fasting,
unable to quiet my hunger, because every fast just led to a resurgence of a ravenous desire,
because what I was actually hungering for was me. My true self. I was hungry for my essential self,
and that failure led me on a healing journey of self inquiry, true nourishment, and self-compassion.

I went on to fail at doing headstand in yoga class. I once had a yoga teacher who was persistent, 
insisting that I do a headstand in the middle of the studio, without a wall nearby to protect me if I fell.
This was something I was initially terrified to do, and the more he insisted, the more I resisted him,
until one Friday morning, he commanded me to come to the middle of the room, and do headstand
right then, right there. My fear loomed up inside of me, my heart pounded, my palms sticky, my lips
dry, but mercifully and remarkably, I felt a warm wash of love and support from my classmates.  I did
not feel humiliated, I felt held by them. And I heard myself say to the teacher, “No”. I refused to obey.
I knew my limitations and I’d reached my limit. And across town, there was a different teacher, who
taught me how to fall, he said the key to inversions is knowing how to fall. And it’s fine to use the wall
as a safety net. Support is key to failing and falling. These days I can merrily plant my feet in the sky. 

Certainly the biggest failure in my life, was the divorce from my husband of twenty five years, he is
the father of my three children, and despite our sincerest efforts at CPR and open- hearted surgery,
the marriage died, and some years passed, before there was a rekindling of our friendship, 
a restoration of connection, a kinship, a bond of family more resilient than our past grievances. 
Divorce was emotionally devastating and financially decimating, a failure of epic proportions, 
to grieve that loss was big medicine, the advanced course, the real deal, requiring me
to keep my heart open in hell, to sit in that fire of cremation, purification, for as long as necessary,
because nothing less would do, then to fully embrace that failure, and find my way through... 
The wisdom gained from that failed union is knowing wholeheartedly, that from our communion,
there came three beautiful sons, magnificent young men, wholehearted beings in our savory world.

I wish I could tell you that I have seen the last of my many failures, but it is not the case,
I fail all the time, some are little 2 pound, hand held failures, others are the heftier fifty pound variety, 
I have gone on to fail in other meaningful relationships, each one a profound grief all its own,
and I notice that with each one, I am more compassionate, gentle, and loving with myself and others,
I have more compassion for my own broken heart, and for others, and a resilient passion for life,
the inner judge speaks less harshly, the inner critic is mostly absent, and in the presence of love,
self-compassion, and a sense of humor, I grow myself more brave. And I appreciate what the poet
Rilke wrote, when he said,  “the purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things”.

 As the saying goes, the road to hell (aka failure) is paved with good intentions, and although
one does not intend to fail, we will fail, we must fail, if we are to attend true fulfillment. 
Failing is a rite of passage, not heralded like the glossier, glitzier, sexier race for success,
but it is the dirty little secret of heroes and giants, the precious sword in the stone,
the holy grail of freedom, the magic pass to deep resilience, to wisdom, to coming home,
and like all good paradoxes, it requires a sense of humor, and contains secret teachings,
reminiscent of the Tao Te Ching, where less is more, where failure begets success, 
and to fail, to fail again, to fail better, is the sure way to liberation and self-acceptance.

~ Meris Walton

Autumn Equinox, a Stillpoint

“What lies behind you and what lies in front of you, pales in comparison to what lies inside of you.”

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

The word “equinox” comes from the Latin aequus, meaning “equal,” and nox, meaning “night.” On the equinox, day and night are roughly equal in length. As the Sun crosses what is called the “celestial equator”—an imaginary extension of Earth’s equator line into space, it is precisely at the moment when the Sun’s center passes through this line, that we consider it to be the equinox. When the Sun crosses the equator from south to north this marks the spring equinox; and when it crosses from north to south, this marks the autumnal equinox…

Today in the northern hemisphere we observe the beginning of fall, we acknowledge the end of summer, and we celebrate the autumn equinox. During this celestial moment, when we might take time out from our day, to pause and reflect, I offer up a poem that I began to write last Friday evening, in anticipation of the equinox, and since then, the poem has transformed of its own accord, in response to the news of the past few days. Here it is:

A Poem For The Equinox, A Stillpoint…

Last Friday, as I gazed out my open windows into the glistening autumn afternoon,
dusty glass portals open once again to the clear California air and sunshine,
windows that had been sealed shut for days against smoke and ash and other,
now blessedly open to a garden space, whose leaves shimmered in gilded light,
feelings of deep gratitude emerged on this particular day of awe and brightness,  
this time of the Virgo new moon, a potent moment for new visions, dreams, attention,
a time for pausing and planting seeds of intention, for this next turn of the wheel.

Last Friday, at sunset, marked the start of the Jewish New Year,
Rosh Hashanah is the first day of the High Holy Days in the Jewish calendar, 
the beginning of the ten Days of Awe,as one year cycles to a close and another begins, 
and although I am not a religious, nor practicing Jew, I am aware of this time of year, 
particularly because of a deluge of emails from distant cousins, living far and near, 
most of whom I’ve never met and likely never will, cousins discovered via genealogy, 
these kin who send each other blessings and well wishes of “L'shana tova”... 

My grandmother Rose, who I called Gramme,(“Gram-me”) emigrated to New York City,
at the age of ten, in 1910, the youngest of ten siblings, the cherished baby of the brood, 
traveling to the other side of the world, a grueling sea voyage, with sisters and mother, 
following in the wake of their brothers and father, who had already left Belarus, 
gone ahead to seed a new life amongst other refugees, fleeing Russia and Poland,
escaping pogroms, recreating shetls on the lower east side of Manhattan or in Brooklyn,
my cousins who now email me on Jewish holidays, descendants of Gramme’s siblings,
we who have found one another, following the breadcrumbs of our shared genealogy.

Last Friday, on Rosh Hashanah, as I was anticipating the upcoming autumn equinox, 
a celestial equator moment, when day and night are relatively equal in length, 
and because the fall equinox falls on my own personal half birthday,
a synchronicity that feels like a curious invitation to my own honorary equinox, 
a stillpoint, when my own soul might pause for reflection, and deep listening within, 
and as Emerson aptly says,“What lies behind you and what lies in front of you,
pales in comparison to what lies inside of you.”  

But last Friday, on the eve of Rosh Hashanah, as the Days of Awe began in earnest,
my youngest son texted to say that Ruth Bader Ginsburg had just passed away,
shock and grief and awe at this news, just as Jews the world over began to worship, 
felt so personal, visceral, cellular, and also utterly and universally heartbreaking. 
This daughter of Brooklyn, this woman who attended the same high school as my mom,
whose ancestors, like my own, had also emigrated from the old country,
RBG, the first Jewish woman to sit on the Supreme Court, embodied grit and grace,
dignity and humanity, humour and integrity, a bright light who will be deeply missed. 

This time of year, the new moon, Rosh Hashanah, Days of Awe, Autumn Equinox,
are all invitations to reflect, to contemplate, and to repent if one chooses, 
renewing one’s self through a soul review, while envisioning a wholesome new horizon,
a potent time when we might release the past with forgiveness, 
and welcome the future, without any need to know precisely what lies ahead, 
and if “what lies behind us and what lies in front of us, pales in comparison,
to what lies inside”, then it is well that we each pause, get still, and breathe, 
backed and balanced by the ballast of the autumn equinox.

~ Meris Walton

Cocooning

"There is nothing in a caterpillar that tells you it's going to be a butterfly.” 

~ Buckminster Fuller          

For the past many months, I have been cocooning myself, tucked in, physically distancing, reviewing and rerooting my life. During this fertile time of contemplation, of creatively sourcing myself through painting, writing, meditation, and movement, I’ve become more aware than ever of the convergence between the personal and universal. The profound interconnection between each of our individual and global dances. Here on “Island Earth”, during this international pandemic, it seems especially relevant to understand and honor this connection. This time is a potent invitation for reflection, conversation, and transformation. We are invited to show up, pay attention, shift, and grow. I envision growing my roots deep and spreading my wings wide for the days ahead. Please join me! Below I would like to share with you my poem about this vision. 

Sacred Cocooning and Transformation

These past many months of collective global cocooning,
each of us marooning inside our homes, never entirely alone, 
managing to stay connected online or by phone,
sharing our creative expressions, distilling our unique impressions,
residing in a rarefied solitude, or perhaps with good company,
abiding in dynamic stillness while never utterly inert,
staying alert, and attentive, to this moment of potent transformation.

During this sacred planetary pause, 
we are adapting to a rare quietude, an unfamiliar homeostasis,
listening to the whispers inside our own solitary chrysalis, 
slowing down, or in some cases, coming to a halt, full stop,
observing in this stillness, how our breath still breathes itself,  
our heart still beats inside our chest, 
and our cells continue to renew and replenish.

In the meantime, our work, school, leisure, and family time have all shape-shifted,
spinning and tilting, spilling and blending, into wholly new rhythms and tempos,
Life is choreographing itself into a reimagined modern dance,
where we are asked to awaken from our collective trance,
and imagine a humane and inclusive planetary ecology, 
where personal sovereignty and meaningful connections are cherished,
a global paradigm that cultivates respect, social justice, and equality. 

As we tentatively begin to re-emerge and step out,
let’s ask ourselves how to show up and shed what no longer serves us, 
to question and release the old, stale, oppressive ways that have harmed us, 
fiercely willing to liquify, to heal from the inside out, 
summoning our trustworthy intuition to fertilize inspiration, 
creatively gestating, nesting, quickening to blossom and be born,
and in this mysterious, resplendent way, collectively midwife the imaginal into being.  

~ Meris Walton