I have delayed on bringing my book forward. I'm not sure why. There is a tenderness to it, and perhaps that is true of any book that comes from the heart. My friend Elaine has been up with the redwoods and sends pictures, and there is one that is close to my heart. We see through the redwood at the base. It has been burned through in the shape of the Buddha perhaps, and we look through to ferns and other redwoods.
She sends me words of Rumi that remind her of the book. Yes, some have read it and encourage a wider sharing and emergence.
The Rumi poem is Soul Message, and begins with this: We are the mirror as well as the face in it. We are tasting the taste of eternity this minute. We are pain and what cures pain. We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.
And on it goes, but that is enough for this moment. A friend emails how young she feels. I feel the same. Do we always carry all the years? When I was young, I felt mature. Now, I feel like a child.
It is a new day, a new beginning. My son Jeff was born 39 years ago on Thursday. I feel tender this time of year, remembering such grace. I suppose for a mother there is nothing to equal the birth of their child, and their child is always someone they hold in their womb, and their arms, even as they look up at them, as at the trees.
We wish upon stars and give thanks.