The Bear Encounter

        The road into the home site was dusty and full of ruts as it wound through a meadow and down a steep hill into the valley and the moment I saw the little A-frame cabin nestled in a clearing among the Ponderosa pines I knew my spirit had come home.  I felt like I had lived there all my life.  China Bend was a sanctuary in the truest sense of the word and I immediately responded to its tranquility, a balm to my soul.  It was so still; no traffic noise, no chatter of people. The trees, the sky and the fresh clean air filled me with peace.  Life was profoundly simple and peaceful in this lovely spot and I was able to spend time in solitude, a luxury I had not experienced since my girlhood.  Years of being repressed and under the control of others had taken its toll and I was thirsty for respite. The quintessence of this land, this experience that first year has never left me.

         One of my favorite pastimes was taking long walks on the land every day, in the true communion with nature. There was a switchback, the back entry to the property which began near the back to the cabin and snaked its way up to the top where, for a time, our mailbox was located. I loved to walk up to get the mail. Each bend of the road held a special beauty and the view of the river near the top was breathtaking. During the summer, there was and a profusion of different wildflowers, Saskatoon berries, and two abandoned apple orchards along the way.

The orchards were only a short distance from each other and from the cabin; about fifteen minutes walk if I was alone. The first one to see was the lower orchard, which was the smaller of the two, and was located on the right at the bottom of the switchback.  There was a huge boulder near the edge along the road that was perfect for climbing on or resting against.  The ground was covered with bushes, wildflowers, weeds.  Several apple trees stood here and the orchard, perched on a cliff, slanted down towards a little valley to overlook Bear Meadow.

Late one beautiful Indian summer day, the sun low in the sky, I decided to take a walk before dinner to visit the lower orchard. The air was still and fragrant with ripening fruit and the pungency of the Ponderosa Pine.  I meandered for a while, just breathing in the peace and enjoying the scenery.  I sat for a while on the boulder and closed my eyes.  Suddenly I became aware that I wasn’t the only visitor and opened my eyes to see a bear in one of the trees several yards away. He wasn’t very big and looked about half grown. We stared at each other for several long minutes.  My heart was pounding. I knew enough not to panic and run but I did stand up very slowly and started to back out of the orchard. After a few steps I turned around and took a few more steps before I heard a crashing and the sound of branches breaking. Was he chasing me? I had to know so I looked over my shoulder. No bear in sight.  Apparently he was more afraid of me than I was of him and he had run off. I learned much later that it was in the late afternoons that the bears liked to visit the orchards. I was lucky that he was the only bear; as the story would have turned out much differently had I inadvertently come between him and his mother.

         This was my first honest to goodness close sighting. There were others, but not at such close range. The whole experience was probably no more than five minutes but it seemed much longer.  I was shaky, a bit afraid and in awe of the beauty and power of the wild creatures that roamed the countryside.  

Friendship

What is the measure of a friendship?  I imagine a ship; a luxury ocean liner, a freighter, or a fishing boat.  Neither the size nor the variety is of consequence, however, because the important thing is that a friendship is what we have in common as we travel on the voyage of life.  A friendship is special craft that will not sink because one of us will repair the leaks, nor will the ship get lost at sea because there will always be someone to read the compass and play whatever part is needed, be it the captain or the steward. On this ship with our friends we can express thoughts and emotions without fear of being judged or condemned. We can rely on others to give us honest and truthful reflections. I believe that best friends include others on the tour, and should there be a man overboard, someone will come to the rescue.  Needless to say there are also plenty of life jackets on board for one and all.

Aristotle said that friends are a single soul dwelling in two bodies. True friends perceive the person beneath the exterior and difference of culture, race, or sex.  I believe, also, that to maintain a strong and enduring friendship each person should be allowed and encouraged to pursue his own interests. We each have a uniqueness that is invaluable and can only enhance a good friendship.  

Friendship is a state of being in which there is complete honesty, trust, and a knowing that you desire the best for each other. Friends realize that happiness grows in the sharing of it.  A friend will not only celebrate with you your joys in life but will also help you through your darkest hours.

To me, the most important element in a good friendship is having confidence in each other, not only the ability to recognize and believe in the best qualities, but also to know that they are each other’s trusted confidants. As human beings we need each other to feel connected beyond the physical world. We need to nurture and be nurtured, to laugh and cry with one another and to share our deepest longings. A good friendship is, indeed, a blessing, a shelter from life’s tempests and a vessel on which we gladly embark

On the Subject of Domestic Violence

Below is a link to my daughter's article that she wrote.  It is worth reading again. I am thankful for her reflections and her understanding. A violent legacy is certainly not one I had planned on.


http://tekoahtheoneandonly.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-legacy-of-violence.html#gpluscomments

Acknowledging Negativity

“Rather than letting our negativity get the better of us, we could acknowledge that right now we feel like a piece of shit and not be squeamish about taking a good look.” 
~Pema Chodron~

Writing is my deliverance, my gift, and my responsibility. My dad in the later years of his life decided to set down his memoirs and to record some of the history of our family, as my grandfather, his father, did before him. It was a significant legacy, one that I don’t take for granted. We learn who we are from history, whether it be world history or our personal stories. I am compelled to continue to weave this thread of commonality of family and of life.

Too many times in daily life I struggle to maintain my center.  The inner landscape is sometimes bumpy and I long for a smooth, even road, especially at this point in my life. The challenge is to become an authentic being, to draw boundaries and recognize my weaknesses and strengths. What I crave most is connection, with my inner self and with others.

It takes courage to tell the story. Writing is my lifeline and it is also my biggest challenge.  The fear is that others will be offended or hurt if I am honest. I won’t get very far that way; certainly. I understand the reason for fiction and pen names, for a writer can cloak herself in a part; much like playing on stage.

            I suppose that objectivity is key, all the while delving into the subconscious and peeling back the layers of defense.  There have been times in the past couple of years or so that I’ve been feeling displaced and uncertain of my position, my purpose in life. Triggers from the past sent me spiraling downward into despair, frustration, anger and confusion. This being said I don’t blame others, or situations for my emotions.  I have made choices and decisions in my life and I am reaping both the benefits and the consequences.

            When I was a young mother I was battered by my then husband and separated from my two oldest children. This has haunted me for years.  My self esteem was battered along with my body, not to mention the damage that was done to the children.  This trauma has been my cross to bear, and also my salvation, because I was forced to become strong, to face the pain, to acknowledge my strength, to find the courage to heal myself for my own sake, and for others, because we are all connected.           

Negativity is what it is, simply. The point is not to wallow in it, to allow pessimism and doubts dominate my thoughts. This is not to say to ignore a painful emotion; I feel what I feel at any given moment. I believe a person should acknowledge what is and not deny or judge a feeling. An emotion is what it is.

            

The Mantis

I believe that Mother Nature offers gifts of the spirit.  One September afternoon while watering the garden I discovered a praying mantis perched on the row cover on the broccoli.

She (I assume it was a she), aware of my presence, turned her head to look at me and in that moment I had the oddest sensation that she was reading my mind.  For a few brief moments we regarded each other.

The word Mantis comes from the Greeks and means "prophet" or "seer. To "follow Mantis" means to put the foundation of your spirit at the helm and let it direct your life. According to one source the mantis comes to us when we need peace in our lives. In most cultures the mantis is a symbol of stillness and patience.

Another source stated that mantis medicine represents the process of creative becoming and being aware of personal kinship with everyone and everything and to be mindful of the choices you make.

To be mindful, to be still, to be patient, this then is the gift and the reminder from one of Mother Nature’s smallest creatures. 

http://www.souledout.org/earthday/mantis/pm.html

http://wisdom-magazine.com/Article.aspx/1659/



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Mary Magdalene/The Return of the Sacred Feminine

https://soundcloud.com/ajones4554/mary-magdalene-the-great-goddess-the-return-of-the-sacred-feminine-june-11-2104-with-ana-phillip-jones

A Question of Profession: Splitting Hairs

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I am awake in the wee hours of the morning with a persistent voice in my head that shouts, “You’re no writer!”

I try to ignore this voice which tries to convince me being an amateur is less than being a professional. Writing is an art not measured by fame or fortune, or so I tell myself.

Certainly I would love to be recognized on a large scale, thrilled to have a best seller on the market but I cannot write with such thoughts in mind. I must write directly from my heart.

A quote I read recently comes to mind:

“Being an amateur author isn’t easy. It requires stamina, determination, and imperviousness to ridicule. Unwept, unhonored, unsung.”
- Leonard L. Knott

My curiosity is piqued. What do the terms professional and amateur really mean? I have a general idea but being the etymologist that I am (also amateur), I decide to delve into the finer points.

This is what I discovered: A professional is defined someone who is trained or skilled at something and performs this as a paying job.

The word amateur is Latin derived from French. (ametor, lover) and also means one who pursues an activity as a hobby or pastime or one lacking the skill of a professional.

It is clear to me that in these contexts I am an amateur.There is no glamour surrounding my writing and it is not my profession as it does not earn an income.

I don’t write for a newspaper nor am I a copywriter for an advertising firm. Screenplays are not my forte and neither are short stories. I am not the editor of a glossy magazine or a war correspondent. I haven’t written a book.

My creativity lives within my journals that include both essays and poetry. An amateur writer seems to lack the esteem and honor of his professional counterpart so I suppose in that sense I am unsung, unwept and unknown; certainly my name has been seldom in print.

I have been paid once in all my years of writing - a check for $25 for a short prose piece I submitted to a literary magazine. I was exhilarated, admittedly, and felt validated as a writer.

Since childhood my life and my writing have been intertwined. I attribute my love of language to the nurturing of my parents and to one particular English teacher.

I am continually absorbed in the whimsy of language and play with words even when I fear that the muse will not grant me inspiration. I am not college educated, having decided to be a full time wife and mother. In retrospect I realize that life experience has been the best teacher.

Being an amateur can be difficult, as Mr. Knott suggests. Derision plays its part, whether blatant or subtle, whether from external influences or self-induced. I am not impervious but in either case, ridicule be damned.

My efforts are not futile. My journals, essays and poetry are not pointless. What I feel or think is important to me and my stream-of-consciousness journals tap a creative source that is surprisingly deep, universal and something that my ego cannot take credit for.

Writing is my mission. My muse doesn’t seem to mind that I am unprofessional. She still comes calling, usually when I am clear and open to the creative process.

Richard Bach wrote, "A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit."

Perhaps I will redefine my status to that of “professional amateur” or term myself a “proficient unprofessional.” This might be appropriate and should quiet the voice inside my head. Now I can get some sleep.