Over the past few days we’ve moved from the Denver Metro area in Colorado to a more remote venue; from a place where millions of people live, move and have their being to a place where only a few thousand people inhabit the country. We’re living in a village where the snow started falling last night and will be falling throughout the day and into tomorrow. Winter’s promise is a slow down, a respite from the hustle of life, an opportunity for contemplative artistry, presence, surprise and delight.
Early this morning all is calm, all is night, all is filled with beauty, no fight or flight. All is quiet, all is resting, all is safe while we are nesting. All and everything is at peace, in harmony with moments meant for rest. The fire’s warmth wraps its gracious arms around us as if to say: “Welcome, all is well on the western slope; all is in alignment here for you, all is present to see you through.” My response is a silent nod of gratitude for delivering us here, an acknowledgement of the grace of this promised embrace. . . .
This place, this space takes me back in time to another winter of grace, another promise of calming, centering, healing and wholeness. It awakens me to the moments where inner and outer realities converge thus creating a wonderland, a wisdom that wants to transcend all the difficulties and disappointments of this finite life. I hear the sounds of our grandson singing unknown melodies for the joy he’s experiencing with no cares or woes, no concerns for what he knows and doesn’t know: Abundant life, joyful aliveness!
Tonight people around the globe will be celebrating another passage in time that comes and goes like the wind. It’s a celebration of life that has been and wants to be a time to reflect, ponder and process. What does this moment ask of me? Why am I here in this place and space? What gifts do I have that I can give to the world to make it a better place? Why am I dancing to a tune I don’t like? Where do I want to put myself this year? Who do I want to travel with? How do I discover the path? When do I start?
The morning brings the answers one at a time. This moment is now the next morning. It’s still snowing and the calendar now reads January. What does this mean? Ahh yes, a new project, a new series of opportunities, new associates, changing environments, different ways of being and doing as the days run into each other. There are more choices to be made, new resolutions to live into, alternate possibilities of being and doing daily as I, we live into different potentialities with more conscious awareness! ! !
Winter’s Promise returns in the blessing of a song written by Donovan: “If you want to live life free, take your time go slowly. Do few things and do them well, simple things are holy. Day by day, you’ll grow too, you’ll know heaven’s glory. If you want your dream to be, build it slow and surely.” Time stops as I look through the window of my soul to again see the snow gently drifting down from above. The moment speaks clearly of the path to walk in this winter season of soul.“Take your time. Go slowly.”
- To go slowly is simply to be present in the moment with no judgements, no preconceived notions and no calculations as to how anything ‘should’ be. It’s allowing what is to be and if necessary, asking for guidance from the depths of your Being. Stop and simply sit quietly. When thoughts come, breathe them out. Grow slowly.
- Give yourself the gift of your True Nature. Get outdoors and be present with the elements. Allow yourself to become a part of creation rather than apart from it.
- When you find yourself complaining about anything, give thanks for you’re awareness, flip it over and see how it’s about your disposition, your perspective, your prejudice. Allow yourself the gift of serenity by releasing the negatively charged energy and returning to the open positive energy of consciously calming, stilling and slowing.
- Remember to remember Winter’s Promise of presence, serenity and delight. Allow yourself the gift of living into it daily. . .Notice how it changes your Life. . .Ahhh. . . . .