inspiration – Page 17

Gratitude

Greetings all,

Today, in the United States, many of us celebrate Thanksgiving. For our family, it is not about celebrating the traditional story told of coming to America, conquering the land and its people, then sitting down for a shared meal.

For us, it is a day to come together with family and friends, express gratitude, eat not only turkey and the favorite childhood dishes but also lentil balls, vegan gravy and mashed potatoes, and of course pie. Always, pie.

Some years it might be more challenging to open our hearts to gratitude as we experience our losses and challenges in life, but there are invariably people and things that we find we can lift up. Today, I acknowledge and thank you, the reader. Thank you for taking the time to read, comment, and like, however it is you interact with me, throughout the year and years that I have been offering my thoughts and reflections. It truly becomes a shared journey between us.

Good wishes to you in this day, wherever you are, whatever you find in your gratitude list, whomever you find in your day who offers you kindness and compassion.

I offer you a poem, a bit of my expressed gratitude. As I have been absorbed in the writing of my El Camino journey with my sister, a little poem floated in one day while I was waiting for my client to appear on Zoom. I hurriedly wrote it out and laughed out loud when I came to the last line.

One Marvelous Big Toe


Little self learns to walk following
her sister’s lead. Up on two legs,
one foot, one foot, plop.

It looks so easy, now up, fall,
up, fall. Then, one day, she
pulls herself up with strength
and determination. 

She does it! with pride, a smile,
looking around for approval,
seeing clapping hands, laughter,
and happy delight. 

What a fun trick. She can do this
and make others happy—until,
one day she will recognize 
making herself happy with:
run, skip, walk, bike, and kick.

Sometimes a kick in anger.
Sometimes a dance with joy.
Sometimes a run with fear.
And sometimes, a bike ride with abandon.

There is so much to express
with legs and feet making her
own vehicle of transportation.

For now, little self plops down on the floor
rocking onto her back, feet flying in the air, with
her foot coming to her mouth.

She finds comfort and peace
in a sloppy, happy kiss to her 
one marvelous big toe.

@Janis Dehler

On Empty Feeling Full

Words are the most powerful thing in the universe… Words are containers. They contain faith, or fear, and they produce after their kind.”
—Charles Capps

I sit and stare at a blank screen trying to conjure up words, craft a sentence, develop a theme. I find nothing new arises, except the awareness that I have used so very many words in my writing over these past days.

Early in the week, my words wove into a tribute to my mother on the 100th anniversary of her birth, followed by my El Camino memories crafting into a broader memoir, then continuing the arduous task of writing my life and complicated ancestry into a more developed timeline in story form for my kids and grandkids.

I realize that within this feeling of empty there resides a deep satisfaction in the artistry of words, flowing like a rhythmic dance, whether they mean anything to anyone else does not intrude. It is the feeling when I am lost in painting and it all connects, when the spices are just right in the dish crafted for dinner, or the tree, the sun, and the shadow align in perfect symmetry for the photo I snap.

Then, there is a moment of empty, a day of rest, or possibly the eternity hidden within the pause between each breath—a long moment to take it in, deep within, and ready myself for the next flash of inspiration. We can’t consume so fully every day. We need rest, contemplation, review, as a time to pull it all together and see the whole.

The truth of this comes to me as it has been a span of four years since I walked El Camino and the full review of my blogs, journal, and post trip review, reveal to me what I could not see then. They point to where I am today. They beg me to go deeper into an event revealing something in me or other that I could not see before. The pause has deepened my experience. The space of time has opened my heart.

Today, empty is a feeling of full.

Where There is Despair, Hope.

All Hallows Eve is upon us. The veil between the physical realm and the spirit realm is thin, as I experienced it upon my mother’s death. A sacred and holy time when we feel the presence of all that is beyond our finite sense of reality. It is the eve before the day of the saints; those who have now become the ancestors; those who we look to for their inspiration and guidance; those who we will become as we in turn decay into food for the soil in a mutual exchange from walking this earth feasting on its abundance. The children dress as goblins and ghouls as they stand up to the dread and anxiety held for this final transformation. We bring laughter to this day as we allow the child within to face her fear.

In this covid time, dying feels closer as we witness the illness, the deaths, the fires burning across the world. Where do we find hope? Where do we find peace for our tender hearts? What do we bring to the alchemy we conjure in turning fear and divisiveness into kindness and caring?

Like the seed that sprouts in the crevasse of rock, the green of will and desire rises and flows, weaving and connecting, bringing the persistence of the living to this momentous time. Let us not shy away from remembering, acknowledging, and honoring all that dies while deciding carefully what we wish to carry forward. It is choice at its finest. Not through the idle movement of habit but through conscious awareness of all that we are and wish to become. Not against something but with, not away from but towards. Knowing that each moment of life is a moment of death as everything changes, cells die off, and memories fade. Forgiveness transforms resentment, love envelopes hate, kindness covers cynicism. Growth and beauty strive forward from the depth of darkness to the brilliance of a new dawn.

And so it is.

The Colors of Autumn

“Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love—that makes life and nature harmonize.”
George Elliot

On Tuesday the sun shone brightly, the shadows creating a sharp contrast to the bright yellows, reds, and oranges of the maples I passed along my walk. I stopped to photograph a tree and thought of a painting this might inspire. The smile arising on my face was delight and on I went to the next beauty.

On Wednesday, the sky was gray and overcast the entire day moving into rain in the afternoon. On my return from an errand, I turned down Central Avenue and noticed the stately red maple to my left as it stood out in size and color among many. The size of the tree spoke of longevity while the depth of color drew me into my heart. As I looked further down the hill the deep rusts, golds, and reds almost into purple did not thrill me as on a sunny day but brought me to a moment of peace. I began to notice that in this light on this day the colors took on more depth as if I could enter them and rest in them, be held in them for this moment. These colors did not tantalize but beckoned, did not scream but whispered.

As the day moved on in my chores my eyes would alight on the mums in display at my front door that on a sunny day would draw my attention with their stunning color. Today, I experienced the color in my body as warm, solid, and enduring.

At the end of the day along towards sunset, I gazed out our windows to the river. I chuckled to see the wild turkeys running through the yard after stopping to graze on the seeds dropped from the bird feeder. As I sat at the dinner table my vision moved along the rust colored table cloth to the greens, golds, oranges and reds of the mums in the centerpiece, out the sliding doors to the red/purples of the Amur Maple toward the river. The sky was soft and darkening and I felt the desire to pause, to weep, to enter a place that draws us into the soul.

In the season of autumn we are moved into our natural rhythm, from spirited sun dappled joy to the soul depth color of being, allowing the need to open to as we move from bright lights to inner darkness. In quiet, deep, listening and inquiry, we draw life from the stillness. In this place, grief is attended to, sorrow is transformed, compassion soothes our pain. We become one with rather than the one stepping out of the moment to photograph.

We do not stay long in these depths. It is a journey we flow in and out of in a moment, an hour, or a day. Today the sun shines brightly again and I long to walk amongst the color.

“Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

Tears From The Heart

The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea. Karen Blixen

A friend recently asked if it is okay not to cry as others do. I have encountered this question in the past from clients and at times from myself. Tears are curious things. They can come unexpectedly, unwanted, in torrents, or gently and softly, and not at all. And then we wonder, why?

Tears might come as a simple moistening in the eyes, or gently fall while experiencing another’s pain. They might come quite suddenly in a joyful moment, and we feel our heart burst open. We can feel cleansed after a deep cry. Our body relaxes, softens, and as we breathe and quiet, we might become aware of a larger space within. There are tears after a profound loss that can feel as if we will drown. There are also the tears after humiliation, betrayal, standing up for yourself when all you want is to be angry and confront, and then out pour the tears. Then that feels humiliating. Sometimes tears come after prolonged laugher, the kissin’ cousin of tears, with at times moving into the weeping of deep pain that had been buried or ignored. It can feel as if we have no control, and we don’t. Not really. We can make ourselves cry but that takes some practice and may be a surface experience only. We can at times hold our tears back, bite them back, but then everything else gets all scrunched up and we tighten around the tears or the loss. We can feel like we have not cried at the appropriate time, like at a funeral. Then, a few weeks later, we are watching a Hallmark commercial or a movie or listening to a song and the tears flow, sometimes gently and at times into a sob. We may not find tears at all in a loss experience as our primary feeling might be gratitude or relief.

The tears after profound loss don’t necessarily flow freely. Not for me anyway. After I learned that my baby had birth defects and would not live, I was in shock and numb. I was brought to her in the NICU and on the way there had a panic attack. I could not breathe. Then I saw her in all the wires and machines, and she was beautiful. It was only later, back in my room, away from it all, during our priest’s prayer and blessing, as he placed his hand on my head, that the tears arrived. Even then they were painful but gentle. This loss contained a well of tears that took many tear sessions over a length of time to get to the depth of the well.

After my dad’s death, I went into action. There was funeral planning, a eulogy to write, family arrangements, making sure mom was attended to. It took a few weeks, and seeing I was starting to snap at my husband, for me to realize and own that the pain was being held in too long and I needed to take the time to go to the well. It was the same after my mom’s death except the first tears came in torrents soon after her critical stroke when I knew to my core where this was headed with the difficult decisions needing to be made.

Not having tears does not have to mean one is numb. It does not necessarily mean the heart is closed. The mantra from my childhood goes, “If you are going to cry, go to your room.” It has been hard for me to fully cry in another’s presence. I have had to learn to trust that experience as it does not come naturally. My daughter is my teacher. I marveled since she was young how tears could flow naturally and freely in pain or joy. I treasured her free open expression and realized how the witnessing of her tears opened my heart. Some cultures encourage and live out a very natural robust expression. For others it is stoic. We are a melting pot of an array of expressions, and we cannot judge one against the other. And certainly, we cannot judge ourselves in our experience. At best we bring compassion and curiosity.

My response to my friend’s question? It is all okay. Tears are not required. Rather than, why am I not crying, I might ask; Is there something I am not expressing? What do I wish to express? In what way now do I want to express myself? Create? Build? Write? Sing? Laugh? In what way do I best express myself? Then, after the question, return to the heart and listen.

Tears are healing because they flow from the heart and there is a myriad of ways to express from the heart. When we do allow expression, we feel not only a deeper connection to self but to the greening world around us, to the collective whole, to sacred Oneness. In our honest open expression, we come to an inner silence, the doorway to the Divine.

On This Late Summer Morn

A new work of art and a poem. Blessings on your day.

On This Late Summer Morn

On this late summer morn,
She sits where mind rests, prayers flow.
Wonder at the world of blame
Brings her head to bow.

On this late summer morn,
The sky dark from falling ash,
Our lungs fill, the sun remains
Hidden. Even he fears the heat.

On this late summer morn,
Thousands fleeing a war-torn country, 
Our hearts fill, the moon remains 
Hidden. Even she cries with the knowledge.

On this late summer morn,
Delta dead are piled into trucks,
Our minds fill, the stars remain
Hidden. Even they wonder at the folly of it all.

On this late summer morn,
She recognizes all that is sacred, 
Sees the beauty in all creatures, all life,
Her heart opens with the embracing of it all.

@Janis Dehler

Wild in Kauai

In late July, on the North Shore of Lake Superior, a professional photographer friend, Rolf, showed me his prints of chickens he had been hired to photograph. They were enchanting in various poses, with attitude and humor. With names like Walnut, Hi Tops, Peppercorn, Darth, and Cruella de Vil, they made me smile, laugh, and feel inspired to do what I have wanted to do for some time, paint a chicken.

I have been working on a series of paintings since early 2020 under the title “One World”. They bring me into the world with a broader lens of seeing what makes us one, interconnects us, and seeks that which is similar in our lives rather than opposing. It is inner work for me that seeks to find expression on canvas. Painting a chicken, however, is pure play and delight, loosing myself in a different way with a variety of connections.

The chicken I painted was one we met on the Island of Kauai. Many hens and roosters run wild there and on the Big Island of Hawaii. Then, I thought of the chicken I met in Waikoloa on the Big Island as I sat at a favorite outdoor café eating my breakfast and listening to an elderly native Hawaiian playing his guitar and singing Hawaiian songs. I was transported in those moments feeling the rhythm of the music and allowing the words to float through me, all with a smile as I watched a golden-brown chicken roaming nearby.

While painting, I thought of my grandma Regina who with her husband Adolph and 6 children bought and moved to a farm in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. After the sudden death of Adolph to heart attack, Regina and the six children needed to survive. Grandma had her chickens. It had been a barely break-even farm except for the chickens. The three oldest went off to War sending grandma money to help support her and the three youngest but it was the chickens that kept them going for many years until the youngest left and she moved into town. She loved her chickens, and they were an integral part of her life.

I recently learned of and visited a fundraiser for the farm of a young family who have dedicated themselves to the rescue and healing of abandoned roosters. They along with many other of that generation are dedicated to all animals and their humane treatment. They represent our future of treating all in this world with respect and care. As foreign as the concept of a rescue for roosters, I could not help admiring their dedication and finding their way of bringing healing into the world.

A neighbor about a half mile down our road decided to raise chickens in his yard. I would chuckle on my morning walk as I passed his house with the rooster cock a doodle doo-ing and the owner coming out for work shushing and scolding them for making so much noise and admonishing them to stay in their fenced area and be good.

Yesterday, as I sat in my stylist’s chair, she told me her mother decided to buy 50 chickens and a few turkeys. My stylist has been the main caretaker for this brood. She offered that she was very attached to the roosters. One of the roosters found where she lives on the larger property and comes every morning to her door with a wakeup call. She had heard that turkeys could be a bit mean so she raised them by sitting with them, talking to them, holding, and petting them. They are now attached to her.

We get our eggs from an Amish family who live north of us and who deliver them to our local coop. We support them in our purchase and hope they can continue in their humane care of their chickens and the sharing of the brown eggs with a rich golden yoke

For some the chicken has meant survival, others health, and for another healing. For some the chicken represents our inhumane treatment of all animals as we eat them and their eggs. But within our differences, in these days of world turmoil, the chicken brings us back to this moment, the earth, the place where we connect and ground ourselves. For Regina, taking to her bed for three days after the loss of Adolph, the care of her kids and her chickens woke her up to this moment and the chickens kept her going, one moment after one moment. As I continue to explore “one world”, I find that the chicken is never outside of that circle. I think there are a few more chicken paintings in my future.

Remembering Hellmut

One hundred of us stand or sit.
Tables with water, breezes bringing
Coolness to our sweat drained bodies.

Our attention focuses as one man’s life 
captures our imagination. Memories
of kindness, cello, trees, choir, painting.

Our hearts hear the message, feel the 
pull to not leave this earth without living.
Create while we birth, work, love.

Long time friends, spouse, children, family
saying goodbye to one who has left 
his mark in all who stand at his earthen home.

My gaze moves to all that surrounds me,
cool, calm water, lilies, phlox
blooming in this late July heat. 

Soil dried from lack of rain; flowers laced
when placed at his side; ashes leaning toward earth. 
A haze of smoke from distant wildfires fills our nostrils. 

We laugh, we celebrate, we feel gratitude
in our current moment of living. We ponder
death and share from this truth. 

In loss we feel love. In dryness we experience moisture.
In memory we experience renewed spirit. 
In death we are pulled to the living.

Bowl of Beauty

In my part of the world, we have been operating in relentless heat, mid-July steaminess which has shown itself in early June. Purple Iris stood tall and opened all in one day. A week later pink Peonies, the ones with the soft yellow center, stood tightly budded and then unfurled themselves in a day as if they were emerging from a long Covid winter ready to party. The next day they were spent, exhausted, and drooped in their last breath.

A friend and I escaped by driving an hour and a half north to the shores of Lake Superior to celebrate our birthdays. It felt like stretching our long unused wings with walks along the shore, watching a freighter from New York enter the harbor to unload their wares, dining in restaurants, sitting on the balcony and listening to the waves, and visiting shops opening to customers ready to see a new shiny object, piece of art, a new frock.

With too much isolation, too much heat, a plethora of bad news, the greater world still amid this pandemic, and continuing to be cautious even with vaccine on board, we run outside to laugh, scream, hug, and let ourselves breathe fully.

I recently joined a four-hour workshop to get my artist gears oiled and ready to paint the world again. I had felt rusty and lacking in confidence as Covid time had swept me into house projects, writing projects, and generally out of my normal routine. My vision has now shifted once again and I am looking at the world wondering, how do I capture that green, the lighthouse in the harbor, the softness of the clouds? It is joy to my heart.

We do not know what lies ahead. Each generation has endured times when we rely on hope in our uncertainty, grit to move through what we must, and determination to make it to a more forgiving tomorrow. As in any grief story, we cannot stay too long in the depths of the story. We need to take moments of joy as they come, laugh in the face of what seems absurd, run around the block when we have sat too long, and bring kindness into a cynical world.

The pink peonies, named Bowl of Beauty, were pushed to burst forth in the moment they were offered. I thank them for their fleeting wonder, now a memory that I draw forth at will with color and perfume fully alive within me.

Adding Moisture

This morning, after the days of rain, I look out over the world of green. All has awakened and come alive with this moisture, this juice of life that calls all things forth in their innate beauty. Today that beauty is green.

How effortless it all seems. How every plant, tree, and shrub pop up, declare themselves, stand erect, and announce, “I am here”. None are shy, none are judging their neighbor while wondering why their leaves are bigger or shinier. None are fearful, angry, or holding resentment. All are simply being. Doing what they are here to do, offering shade, oxygen, digging roots deep into the earth to stabilize soil, flashing a spark of color, growing to be a table or a chair, each act an offering of self. An entire existence of giving.

Watering the earth with hose water barely keeps the green alive while rainwater brings life forth in a burst of growth, a spark of truth, a shout of joy, seeming to touch the very roots of existence. What brings me to this place of growth? What fills me enough so that I allow my own growth in seeming effortlessness? Is it watching a sunset, listening to music, or making music, drawing, or painting, being near water, looking in a lover’s eyes, writing a poem, digging in the garden, reading scripture, or sitting in silence and letting the inner voice speak? There are many ways to feel watered and nourished in life but what is the one true source for letting go of worry, judgement, and fear, while offering self to the world. The lesson appears so simple as I look at the green that surrounds me and yet, to embody this awareness requires something, a letting go. We want to ask, “How?”, and yet there is no “how” the trees tell us, it is simply, “is”.