Musings From My Bed
My bedroom has a wall of windows overlooking my patio garden. It is the Holiday Season, and most of the red geraniums that usually fill the garden have been replaced with red poinsettias. The hummingbirds love the red and are a gift throughout the year. There are several species of green plants, and I am reminded of the red and green of the Holly tree with its glossy green leaves and red berries, so much a part of my childhood when we kids would collect holly branches for the making of wreaths for the front door and the windows.
As I look out at the garden, I see my second favorite place to be: my hammock. In my hammock, I become part of the garden to be observed. The serenity is breathtaking, but more about that in “Musings From My Hammock,” a future post.
If my bedroom door is open, I look out at Buddha serenely sitting, holding crystals, feathers, and sea glass collected with my granddaughters. He sits among the strikingly beautiful red flamingo lilies that liven up the Atrium where I do yoga, tai chi, or qigong when the sun beams through the ceiling.
During the early morning cold of winter, I often lie under the warmth of my down comforter and visualize the routines I will do later when the sun’s warmth has warmed the house.
From my bed, I can also glimpse the tops of the trees and flowering plants that are in the greater garden beyond my patio garden wall and outside my front door. What a blessing to be surrounded by such lushness year-round. I am grateful.
My bedroom, with stone walls, is relatively small but has a large half-moon mirror recessed into the wall on the far side as you walk in and a mirrored wall over the bed the length of the room that gives the illusion of more space. There are brick shelves built as part of the mirrored walls. There is also a built-in closet, a large armoire wardrobe, and three small matching chests that I had made. A tall wooden hat rack holds my many hats. My bed takes up most of the room and is unquestionably my favorite place to be when I am home.
I love propping myself up against a bevy of pillows, sitting in my lotus position, surrounded by things that make me happy. There is a photo of my mother and many of my grandchildren at various stages of their development. My Spirit Horse in a prancing stance is a reminder of the power of the Spirit. I placed a graphite sculpture of a woman who reminds me of my maternal grandmother on the shelf at the head of my bed, along with my Book of Runes, the Tao, and personal growth journals.
I often refer to my bed as my office. It is where I do most of my writing.
It is a quiet and peaceful space, away from street traffic noise. Occasionally, in the wee hours of the morning, I can hear the distant sound of a freight train passing through the outskirts of the city. The haunting, forlorn sound of the train’s whistle reminds me that someone out there is living a life very different from my own at 5 a.m. in the morning. Yet, that life affects my own by virtue of its emotional impact.
These thoughts brought back childhood memories of highly anticipating the arrival of cousins from Baltimore, Maryland, who always arrived on that big black locomotive roaring down the tracks as we stretched our necks to see who would step off the train first when that huge beast finally came to a screeching halt. The luggage, large hat boxes, the hugs and kisses. Lots of fanfare. These were city folks to us country bumpkins and, indeed, almost like celebrities. Yes, they, too, lived a life very different from my own, but like that distant freight train I hear in the early morning hours, the intersecting and connecting of lives is real and impactful no matter how different or remote.
One of the most exciting things to see from my bed is early morning Hot Air Balloons drifting by. I am always awed by the colorful sight of balloons, and on my birthday last year, I decided to be the one gliding over the city rather than the observer from my bed. This was a thrilling adventure, second only to me jumping out of an airplane on my 70th birthday! Something about birthdays and the passing of years prompts one to think, “Why not?”
And so, my bed invites me in, and from it, I receive invitations galore. Nature beckons, ideas come, moods change, birds sing, the poet speaks, and the flute invites me to pick it up and create lovely sounds.
Ho’oponopono prayers become a mantra, gratitude prayers a constant and I write. At times, the words are like cascading waterfalls, flowing like a river, and at other times, there is no inspiration; my thoughts are as fragmented as my dreams. I take it as it comes to me. I tend not to force what is not happening naturally, spontaneously, and organically.
When I am not writing, I am reading. I try to keep up with what is happening in the world, but I find the news and politics disheartening, so I don’t linger. Nothing too much changes daily so that one can skip several days or longer and still not miss much.
Besides, there is a lot of regurgitation of selected editorialized brainwashing information being spread like sound waves. We need to be discerning consumers, not passive receptacles. Politicians are, after all, who they show themselves to be, and for many, reality and truth are foreign concepts.
From my bed, I often wonder what happened along the way to adulthood for some of these people. Weren’t they once innocent babies?
I used to watch Brittney Vaughn’s True Crimes and Makeup, fascinated both by her creative presentation of human frailty, especially of moral character, and by the roads taken or not taken, which created some of the worst of humankind: dark souls, twisted minds, and a lack of empathy.
It’s not so different when I tune into the news. It is a travesty that so many who purport to be leaders are not-so-cleverly-disguised wolves in sheep’s clothing, ready to devour the weak with lies and projections and a justice system unable or unwilling to hold everyone to the same standards of accountability.
Have you or anyone else tried to trace back to when the switch was flipped? When did reason vanish for so many? When did civility take a walk on the wild side? When did lies, violence, and fear become weapons of choice to corrupt, brainwash, and control the weak-minded? Has it always been this way, and we weren’t paying attention?
Wouldn’t it be refreshing if we could all wear protective shields against the tyranny of the oppressors? Or we could carry crosses and ward off the vampires that would suck our blood and drain our energy.
Ah, the mind does wander and takes us down unlit, bumpy roads. Pulling back from the abyss requires mindfulness and willful determination.
But here I am, back in the present moment of Christmas Eve. I remember that Christmas Eve for me and my siblings was a big deal as a young girl. It was the night Santa was coming! We had waited a whole year, writing letters to Santa all summer and into fall, telling him what we wanted, things we’d seen in picture books or the Sears Roebuck catalog. Unlike kids today who get toys or whatever they want throughout the year, we only got gifts at Christmas. We were farmers and sharecroppers in rural Virginia, and there was very little discretionary income until fall harvests were in and settled.
As young children, we totally and completely believed in Santa, but obviously didn’t make the connection between what the Magical Santa could bring and the amount of money the family had to spend on toys! In fact, I was ten years old when my cousin Mary Elizabeth said to me, “Silly, there is no Santa Claus! Your daddy bought that bike!” I was horrified. It was like the end of my childhood!
No Santa Clause? Who was Mom putting that slice of fruitcake and that glass of milk under the Christmas tree for all those years? We were told it was for Santa! I was the oldest and decided not to tell my sisters and brothers what Mary Elizabeth had said in case they didn’t know yet. It made me feel more grown up to know something adults knew but other little kids did not. Anyway, I wasn’t sure Mary Elizabeth knew what she was talking about.
My Mom had a wonderful poem she would recite every Christmas Eve called “Santa’s Accident.” This poem explained why we might not get exactly what we’d asked for in our many letters to Santa. The poem was a letter from Santa to all the children worldwide.
It began, “I write in great haste to say I met with an accident coming your way…” It went on to explain experiencing turbulence in the air while crossing the great open sea, during which time some presents fell over the side of the sleigh into the sea and sank to the bottom. What you had requested might have been one of those presents. It was a very long story, as long as The Night Before Christmas, and we sat mesmerized by both of these Christmas poems. My Mom’s poem also served to pacify us when we got something different from what we expected.
I just draped my mother’s shawl around my shoulders. It is unusually cool here in San Miguel, and although a light shawl, it is exactly what I need. No matter the weather, I like having the windows open. Fresh air connects one to perhaps the most important of Nature’s elements. It is the breath of air that sustains life.
Born October 13, my element is Air. Astrologically, the air element signifies “a personality marked by intellect, versatility, and a strong penchant for communication and mental pursuits.” I see myself as feathery light, soaring like a bird, flitting like a butterfly, riding the currents of the wind.
I can go with the way the wind is blowing, easily adapting to what is. Being flexible is key to living stress-free. Yet I know that logic and reason sometimes don’t allow for depth of emotion. Is it possible to be truly caring but appear emotionally detached at the same time?
I shall carry such ruminations into the New Year. For now, I silence my fingers and bow my head in thanks and gratitude to be celebrating having survived another year.
